I would do it all over again….

After returning home from Brazil, I must say I am experiencing culture shock. I went from being surrounded by people sharing every meal with someone, to doing things on my own. I still value my personal time, but I found that the people around me are an extension of myself when my life functioned around the presence of others in the home. Mealtimes were my times to practice Portuguese and learn about the habits of my hosts, and integral time in the day for building relationships. As a result of visiting Brazil, the importance of sharing meals has heightened for me. Some people would get a little offended or hurt if I did not share my meal with them, which leads me to believe that meal time was not only a time to find nourishment, but to spend precious time with people. Skipping mealtime was like skipping a carefully planned party made in your honor, or rejecting a gift. The importance placed on the midday meal sparked me to place an equal importance on meals here in the U.S. Now with our culture and my lifestyle I will still have most of my meals alone, but I will cook and invite people over more often than I did before living in Maceió.

In the Divinity School, there are some who talk about and live out intentional communities, a group of people who choose to live together to be more sustainable and learn and live a life together. The point of the communities is to learn how not to be wasteful, how to live with just enough and encouraging others to do so, and learn how to share space. Upon learning about these communities, I was immediately against them, because I value my own space. I prefer to be able to be left alone as I wish. But after living in the cafofo, it struck me that what happens organically in Northeast Brazil, some communities in the United States have to create. This may be a mark of our individualistic culture, in order to find community, we must create it, but in Brazil community is essential to their lives and culture. Needless to say, in spite of my rejection of this community, I grew accustomed to being in the presence of others constantly, and found that I really enjoy it.

My experience helped me to rethink my way of life in the U.S. As my space is valued highly in the United States, it became a magnifed issued in Brazil. There was someone always in my space in Brazil. People walked in and out of the bedroom while I relaxed, people sat right next to me on the couch, and even in church people refused to move over a little so I can have breathing space. While I felt this, I had to continuously remind myself that I was not at home, the bedroom you are sleeping in actually belongs to the family, the couch is not yours, this church is not yours. I had no monopoly on the space, because I was in a land that was not my own. But who is to say that the space I valued at home was my own? Am I entitled to my own room, my own seating area, and my own 3 feet of personal space that was so often violated in Brazil? Who am I to claim a space as my own and then disallow people to enter it? As a result, I recognize how isolated we make ourselves by designating certain spaces as our own and discouraging others from sharing it.

And, I learned Portuguese! Bilingualism is always a plus.

Me praying at church.

Holding up jambo!

The inside of jambo.

Picking from the tree.

Going away party!

Feijoada!

 

Palestina

During our Brazil Field Education we had the chance to visit another rural area called Palestina, about 4 hours from Maceió. Before we went, Tiffany’s host mom warned her that there was no food in Palestina. We didn’t believe her, thinking she meant there was no good food in Palestina or we wouldn’t have much of a selection in Palestina, but as we arrived at about 7 in the evening and needing dinner, we quickly discovered that she was right, the was NO food in Palestina. We went to the little market and there was a wide array of cookies and other snacks, but nothing we could eat for dinner. We got a few eggs and bread. On the walk back to the house we stopped at the snack counter for French fries or maybe a sandwich, and those things were not available.

The Baptist missionary connected to our church in the city was Cleide, a really sweet woman who concentrated on justice and equality in her community. In the morning our task was to visit a poorer area where a Baptist church once stood, but the community didn’t have money or transportation to support it. We then visited a neighborhood called Paus Pretos. The called the community a quilombola, a historical ex-slave settlement which escaped enslaved persons found. However, this community is not exactly that. The people who live there do not descend from escaped slaves, but from slaves who were sent here in an attempt to segregate or make the Blacks leave the community of Whites. The community did not have running water, jobs, reliable education, nothing. An actual quilombo in the state of Alagoas, Zumbi dos Palmares, attempts to send money to Paus Pretos, but the government interferes and takes the money. They never receive it. They told us that a lot of people from Paus Pretos move to the cities, Maceió, São Paulo, for domestic labor opportunities, and they send some money home to the families. They told us that many people are ashamed of their skin color because of the color, people discriminate against them, traps them in poverty, and give them no self-confidence to achieve the things they want.

They took us on a walk around the community to show us all their crops, which they were very proud of. In spite of the hope we found with the crops they use to feed the community, I could not help to look around and examine the things they lacked. Sanitation services. A reliable education system. Jobs. Running water. I was in the midst of the people feeling like I have developed a relationship with them and I wanted to take part of their live, but I just did not know how. Knowing that I will leave them returning to adequate housing, education, and resources added to my helplessness. I left the community feeling quite weary of the poverty I had just witnessed. Knowing that the poverty was the direct result of racism beleaguered me even more so.

While my unsettled feelings about poverty and helplessness have yet to be resolved, I was extremely grateful for meeting the people we met in Palestina. Cleide further taught us what it meant to walk with the people, as her home was kept open for everyone who needed conversation. Although I had no answers to the problems for the people in Paus Pretos, my presence confirmed my solidarity with them.

Cleide…on the small truck we rode to Pão de Açucar.

On the São Francisco.

This is a Catholic mass. It was live!

Preach Tiffany!

 

Cafofo

One morning, my host sister Genilva tried to explained what type of community we lived in. A cafofo. You know what a cafofo is? No, I told her, as a ran to get my dictionary. She stopped me and said,  “It doesn´t exist in any dictionary. A cafofo is a community in which if you lack something, you can get it from your neighbors. That´s how we live.” For the past week and a half I stayed in a cafofo, which here is just a regular apartment complex. The only difference is that everyone leaves their doors open. People stream in and out all day, children play in the hallways, and everyone speaks loudly. Neighbors have lunch with each other all the time. For example, Genilva cooked shrimp for lunch the other day. Her six year old daughter Leticia does not like shrimp, so she defered lunch with her family for something more pleasing to her palate. She simply walked upstairs and had lunch with Nevis, Tiffany´s host mom.

Now of course, the advantages to the cafofo is the same as the disadvantages. You are never alone. There is always someone to talk with or laugh with, watch a movie or play a game. Living with the doors open is enlightening because we have opened ourselves up for friendship. However, there comes a time for me at least when I do not want to talk, and here sometimes it is difficult to retreat. I am sharing a bedroom with two girls age six and eleven, so alone time is minimal.

However, living here as helped me to rethink how I live. In my subdivision in Durham, I do not know my neighbors at all. I barely even see them. I would never walk up to their front door and enter only to hang out. It would have to be a dire emergency before I ring anyone´s doorbell. But, have I made the effort to know someone in my vicinity? No, I haven´t, because most of the time, I am just too shy. Cafofo life breaks down whatever wall I have around myself; my shyness is a not a factor because people encourage me to enter their space no matter how I am feeling.  Perhaps now as a result of living here, I will invite more people into my space.

Pool Party for my birthday!

 

Você têm vaidade?

I am in my sixth week here in Brazil and I must say that I still find it quite strange to be in a place where usually I do not know what is going on because I don’t understand the language. In preparation for my field education, I studied Portuguese at both Duke Univerisity and Durham Tech, which I am grateful for because I know how to conjugate a verb, but hearing a language as it is commonly spoken means something different from learning in the classroom when the teacher intentionally speaks slower so her students can understand. Usually I am in the room and people are speaking rapidly and my eyes wander from mouth to mouth in a desparate attempt to understand what they are saying. I can pick up every other word, but when they ask me a question, I usually answer wrong because I didn´t understand what exactly they are saying. Yesterday after morning worship I attended the teenagers Bible School. Upon entering the class, the leader asked the students did they have “vaidade”. I did not know that word, so I asked the girl next to me to describe it for me. She said “vaidade” and started making movements that made the word sound like “beauty”. So the leader asked me, did I have a lot of “vaidade”? I´m thinking the word means beauty, so I say yes, I have a lot. Then I look up the word in my dictionary, and it means vanity. Granted, my response tells me that I do have a lot of vanity, but nonetheless, I should have looked the word up before I responded.

This is usually how my days go, picking bits and pieces of conversation, answering incorrectly, giving blank stares, or, more often than not, pretending like I understand so we can move on to the next subject. Since my colleagues did not join me in youth Bible study, I was the only non-Portuguese speaking person in the room. Now, over the course of the past six weeks I have sat in several rooms where everyone was speaking rapidly, but usually Tiffany or Kyndra was nearby and I could chat with them a little. But in this class, I felt like a complete outsider. Although my comprehension has improved since arriving in Brazil, I had to ask people to repeat what they had just said more slowly and I felt like I was stunting their conversation with the rest of the class. I did not know how much I leaned on my colleagues for relational support until sitting in the class alone. When I didn’t understand something, they usually would laugh with me as I fumbled through the Portuguese. Or, to rebel against the inability to join into conversation, we would have a personal conversation with the satisfaction that no one knows what we are saying.  With my colleagues, I was at least a part some shared culture and language, but in this classroom, I was completely al0ne.

The experience was not all uncomfortable of course, and I walked out with new vocabulary and I connected with a few youth at the church. However, in the U.S. I never appreciated the power of language. Whereas I am usually able to articulate myself, in the class I felt younger than everyone else in the room when I was actually the oldest person in there with the exception of the teacher. I was not able to add my own insights on the subject of vanity because I simply did not have the vocabulary. I could only sit back and listen. I did not agree with what some people were saying, and I really wanted to push my group to think further about vanity, but once again, limited vocabulary. It was humbling for someone who spends most of her time articulating theological ideas for the purpose of pedagogy in for example a youth Bible study because I wanted to talk. I wanted to contribute. Since I could  not speak, I could not impose my ideas on anyone, giving me the chance to just simply listen.

 

Brazilian Music

The month of June in Northeastern Brazil commemorates three saints, Saint Anthony, Saint John, and Saint Peter with parties and celebrations. Because the festas celebrate Catholic saints, we see that Catholicism is it is not only a religion people practice, but ingrained in Brazilian culture. Igreja Batista do Pinheiro is of course a Baptist church, but last month, they sponsored to at least four forro parties, a traditional dance and music to celebrate Saint John. At these parties, people dress up in colorful dresses and shirts and straw hats, and join together with a live band and dance the night away. The movement reminded me of a two-step, but you have to put your hips into it to get the full effect. Forro music is very lively, with drums, a guitar, and a accordion. The music originated in Northeast Brazil, some believe that it began when the US military was based in Brazil, and they had a celebration that was “for all”.  We spent the month mastering our forro skills at all the festas and learning how to celebrate with the Brazilians.

After a full month of forro, we were eager to learn more about Brazilian music. So the girls we are living with took us to a bar and we heard pagode. Pagode is also lively with a lot more drums and a lot less accordion. We also went to a concert on the beach where a group were dancing ritmo, a dance involving fast footwork. In fact, to go to the concert at the beach, we skipped evening worship service to attend, to which our supervisor said, “No problem!” Hey, we were learning Brazilian culture.

It is rare in the United States to find a church that would sponsor a celebration as such; at church when we threw parties there was just some nice piano in the background and people standing around eating cookies and punch. No one danced. I grew up AME, and during our annual conference some of the adults wanted to have a party for the youth, which they did, but some others disagreed with a church sponsored party. To appease their guilt, they simple held the party off the church grounds. In contrast, the forro parties in Maceió were held right on the church grounds. From this, I learn that Brazilians have a different understanding of celebration. There is no guilt in wanting to celebrate together with dance or music other than Christian; you simply celebrate because you enjoying being together and sharing in the joy that God has given us.

Woman preparing for performance.

 

Cha Preta Part 3: Acceptance

By Saturday, our third day in Cha Preta, the children began to interact with us. Whereas on the first day they stood outside the church afraid to enter, by Saturday they had entered the church and talked to us. We in turn exited the church walls to play games, sing, dance, and learn handshakes with them. It just simply took some adjustment for us in addition to the children of Cha Preta. We taught each other our respective cultures; we enjoyed learning Portuguese with them and they were excited about learning out where we lived in the United States and our culture. Tiffany taught the boys how to place American football, and they reported to us later saying, “we´ve been playing all day!”

I am glad things turned around for us in Cha Preta, because it would have been quite uncomfortable to be looked for the entire visit without at least some contact. I learned that in small communities in Cha Preta, an American who visits is an anomaly and will be treated as such during the adjustment period. Not only did we learn about small poor communities in Brazil, they were able to learn that not all Americans look and act the same; we are not a monolith.

 

Chá Preta Part II: Spectators

Sleeping and grooming in Chá Preta proved to be a difficult experience for me. As mentioned before, the rooms in most of the homes, including the church, were very damp. It was a mosquito breeding area. Our bedclothes were damp. I got almost no sleep the first night because I was sleeping very close to two other people and I woke up every time one of them rolled over. I was also on mosquito watch because they kept buzzing above our heads threatening to bite us. We slept with the blankets covering our entire bodies head to toe to protect against mosquito bites. However, our attempts to block the irritating insects failed; Tiffany and I woke up with several mosquito bites. The next night was worse, somehow a mosquito entered the blanket Tiffany and I were sharing; she awoke with 30 bites on her legs and I had about 15 on my arms. For some strange reason Kyndra did not get bit as bad as we did. The bites reacted with our skin, causing them to swell abnormally. My arm looked like a mountain range. We spent the day scratching.

The next day was a lot like the first, visiting homes and being spectacles. We walked through the town and people stared. We entered the restaurant and people stared. They watched from their windows, their motorcycles, and from street corners. I wondered if it was going to end. However, it wasn’t long before we ourselves became spectators.

Friday we entered a community called a perferia, much like what a favela is in the cities. Chá Preta had three. The boundaries between town and the perferia were stark: the cobblestone street ended and the dirt roads began. The paths were even more difficult to navigate, climbing down steep hills, dodging horse and dog poop and large mud puddles, careful not to run over a scrambling child. We entered the communities and watched the small children carry large pieces of firewood and buckets of water, we watched the women and girls wash their clothes in the community’s only water source, and we watched the people sitting on their porch as they stared back at us. The homes in the perferia were even more small and damp than the other homes. The people sat on dirt floors, and the house was upheld with dirt walls, covered by a tin roof. Many people in the community had health problems; still many others had mental health issues. In one home we entered, a young man burst from a back room excited to see that he had visitors. The young man had a severely cleft lip; it was as if he had almost no lips at all. Adriano told us that he liked to sing, so he sat and sang us several songs while we clapped along.

The health problems in this town were stark, and there are several reasons. Clean running water is limited; for example the running water stopped on Saturday and we were there until Monday afternoon. When we left, there was still no running water. We watched as our surroundings got dirtier and dirtier. People collected water in buckets from a reserve, but bucketed water runs out quickly. Without running water to wash hands and clean surfaces properly, bacteria and viruses are easily spread. Secondly, the mental illness are caused by incest, as our host sister Janile informed us after we returned from the trip. Janile also told us that having sex with children was not made a crime in Brazil until 2007. We continued to be amazed at the conditions in the community, and their effect on the inhabitants.

During our visits to the perferia, I knew I was being ignorant when I thought, “why don’t they just build more structurally sound walls to prevent mold and mildew?” “Why don’t they just get running water?” Why don’t they build better roads?” It was hard not to think these things while witnessing extreme poverty, although I was well aware that they did not choose to live in such conditions. So I just stared, unable to fix it, and unsure what to do. All I could do was shake hands and accept hugs and kisses. I in general am not used to being so close to people I do not know, and everyone grabbed my face to kiss my head or cheeks that took some getting used to. (At times when people grabbed the sides of my head they clutched my recently pierced ear, causing me to wince in pain. I thought if we could just shake hands, my ear would not be throbbing right now.)

In our visiting, I reflected on the purpose of my presence in Chá Preta. Was I there to simply look at how some people live so I can be aware? Was I there so the people can know Americans? Then I remembered my purpose here for Field Education: relacionar-se, be with the people. Chá Preta was another opportunity to be with the people. And boy, were we with them. There were people around every moment of the day. During our visit, I desperately wanted our supervisors to give us an assignment: plan a worship service, a children’s activity, and outing, something, so I had the opportunity to enter an office alone and plan without people around. But, our assignment was relacionar-se.

Trying out the fruit.

It was squishy. I have texture issues.

Washing clothes

The smallest kids carried the largest pieces of firewood.

They LOVED the camera.

I’ll figure out what it says in English.

Holding up a self constructed weird doll.

Holding up the nasty fruit I comsumed earlier.

 

Chá Preta Part I: Spectacle

I left the seaside. Last Thursday, we left for a small town called Chá Preta to what my supervisor called a missionary camp. It was about a two-hour bumpy ride on the countryside, where my two colleagues, Kyndra and Tiffany and I enjoyed the view. We saw mountains and grass for miles, as well as horses and cows grazing on carpets of green. When we arrived, it was not at all what I imagined a missionary camp to me. I imagined a home with about seven missionaries in three bedrooms, with bunk beds, a prayer/worship room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. What we found was a six-room home that also served as a church, complete with a single male pastor and some male teenagers he took in. We entered the home/church, and put our bags in the room where we would sleep. The three of us will sleep on two dirty twin sized mattress on the floor. After we left our bags in the room, the pastor sat us down and explained what we would be doing this weekend. He told us about how he opened the doors of the church for the boys, and there was another home nearby that served as a home for children called an apoio. Visiting the homes in the town and meeting the families would be the extent of our weekend.

The pastor, Adriano, only spoke Portuguese, as well as everyone in the town. It was longest we had gone with people that spoke no English, as our hosts spoke English and we were only with our supervisors for hours at a time. Knowing this, my brain became more alert to really pay attention to what he was saying and recognize vocabulary words I did not know. Before coming to Chá Preta, I was pretty lazy with my Portuguese because either someone was around that spoke English, or, many people were around that spoke Portuguese and they just spoke to each other while Tiffany, Kyndra, and I spoke amongst ourselves. After Adriano explained the weekend, we left to walk around the town.

The town had small, narrow, bumpy cobblestone roads where mud crept up everywhere. Thursday, it rained all day, so we spent the time sliding on the roads. Being at a higher altitude than in Maceió, it was colder, wetter, and steeper, making it a little uncomfortable to walk. When we entered the first home, we noticed that it was cramped with cement floors and walls, with poor roof and foundation structures which allowed water to seep in. The home smelled damp. The family welcomed us into their house, inviting us to sit knowing that we were only passing through and would not stay very long. The hugged us and gave us the traditional two kisses on both cheeks. Adriano introduced us as Americans to see and learn about Chá Preta. We took a few photos, and moved on to the next home.

After about the fifth visit, we walked along the road and turn the corner and noticed many children standing outside what appeared to be a school. Upon seeing us, the ran after our group and began making loud hooting sounds towards us. We assumed they were imitating what were supposed to be African tribal sounds. Since arriving in Brazil, many people either thought we were from Salvador, Bahia (calling us bainas) or from Africa. No one could believe that all three of us were from the United States. On one of our beach days, a beggars immediately called us bainas, and we said, no, Estados Unidos, and he repeated back incredulously “Estados Unidos?!”. Upon hearing the tribal sounds, however, we were shocked of how first of all their view of Africa was slanted to believe that all Africans were uncivilized and secondly of how their view of the United States included the belief that all Americans were white. This interaction with the children set the tone for the weekend…making us a spectacle in Chá Preta.

The days that followed included visiting more homes, farms, and witnessing the people of Chá Preta stare at us like we aliens. As we walked through the town, people came to their windows and doors to ogle. Our first night, we sat in the sanctuary of the church. Now, the buildings in Chá Preta are situated right on the street, unlike in Maceió where the homes are separated from the street by a gate and in the U.S. where the homes are separated from the street by a lawn. Sitting in the church was almost like sitting on a curb in a neighborhood in the United States. Many people stood at the door and just watched us interact with the people who were brave enough to enter and talk with us. When we invited them to enter, they refused, preferring to stare from the doorway. It was quite uncomfortable to be made into a spectacle. I wanted to get up and shut all the windows, sit in the back room, and rise and scream at the people to mind their own business, but I chose to continue with my conversations. At this point, it was adults and children alike ogling from the door, afraid to speak to us. Before, I wondered why the adults did not tell the children to stop chanting and staring, but when adults appeared at the door, I realized they did not say anything because they felt the same way. It appeared that Adriano was also complicit in making us a spectacle because he paraded us around town introducing us as his beautiful American friends and told no one to either enter the church and speak or leave the doorway.

One of the families we visited.

Me running away from a goat.

The chickens ran the town.

A road in Chá Preta

The kids that were following us.

People staring at us.

One of the people that actually came in.

 

B.A.P.S. (Black American Princesses)

This past week we have been living quite well here in Maceió. We have stayed in an large apartment which was a five minute walk from the beach. On Saturday, we visited the beach 3 times, once, to go jogging (walking), secondly, to lounge in our bathing suits, took a break for lunch, and returned again. We were living quite the tourist life. Both homes we stayed in this week had housekeepers. My first couple of days here, I was a little annoyed that everytime I left something out, it was somewhere else when I return to the house. Having someone do my chores took some getting used to. However, one day, I walked in and all my clothes were clean, and I was so happy that all I had to do was choose what I wanted to wear. Especially since at home I do my laundry so sparingly.

So far we have stayed in two homes near the beach, relaxing, eating good food, and enjoying the benefits of privilege. While I was having the best time, I began to wonder, when is Field Education going to begin? Will this be my summer? But then I thought, this is ministry. The woman that invited us to her apartment attended Igreja Batista do Pinheiro and wanted to spend time with the guests here in Brazil. We were simply accepting her hospitality. To be quite honest, when our supervisors told us that we will spend the weekend with a stranger, our first response was to refuse. We had just gotten adjusted to our host family and we had no desire to spend time with another new person. But accepting hospitality is a spiritual practice, because it requires you to spend time with people you do not know, become adjusted to their way of life, allow them to enter into yours, and accept their service. Despite our hesitation, we had a great weekend, and made new friends from the church.

Many people believe to be a missionary you must live with only the poor. But this is why I do not like to be called a missionary, because it has a certain connotation that does not describe our experience. Spending time with the people means to be with all the people, rich or poor, city or country, old and young. We have the opportunity to spend time with working class people, but I do not want to think that ministry begins the moment I leave the seaside for the countryside. It has already begun.

Babes!

Bolo! (Cake)

A typical spread.

The view of the beach from the apartment.

A view of the apartment.

A seaside view.

 

Um cheiro

Hello from Maceió, Brazil! I have arrived safely and am having a great time.

I have titled this blog relacionar-se, which means to be with the people. I hope to immerse myself in Northeastern Brazilian culture, and be with the people.

The title of this post is a common farewell in the Northeast. It literally means “a smell”. So, it serves two purposes as the title, to give you an inside to Northeastern culture, and to describe what I notice about Brazil. The smell. It was the first thing I noticed, and it will allow me to transform a place that is not my own into something completely familiar. My hosts are making me feel like I am at home, and it won’t be long until Maceió will become familiar to me.

The church services at Igreja Batista do Pinheiro are lively and full of God’s presence. While in the service, however, I found it hard to pay attention to the front because I kept looking around at all the people in the place. I felt like a small child in a new place. I noticed some young people standing at the door as ushers with their faces painted one half red, the other half white I wondered if something special was going on today, and soon found out. The youth performed a drama during the service. I will have to ask someone the significance of the paint. We also took the Lord’s Supper at this service. The servers passed little cups of grape juice and small pieces of bread to everyone in their seats. After the pastor read the Lord’s Supper from 1 Corinthians 11, we traded grape juice cups with our neighbors, then took the bread and juice together.

Language learning…it’s been going well…slow, but that is to be expected. My hosts, Janile and Janio, both speak English, so they have been helping me with my pronunciation. We have been spending a lot of time with their parents, who do not speak any English. Janile’s dad is very funny, and has also been helping me with my Portuguese. So, the water ran out at Janile’s and Janio’s house, and their parent’s allowed me to spend the night with them. So, right now, I am spending time with Janile’s mom, practicing every bit of Portuguese I know. I just successfully understood her telling me that after lunch I will go to the beach with Pastor Wellington and Tiffany. Also, Last night at church, one member really wanted to tell me about the research he’s done about American missionaries after the Civil War who came to Brazil. He wanted to talk about slavery both in Brazil and in the United States, but was worried about the language barrier. I told him to go ahead and speak to me in Portuguese, Janile helped a bit. And I understood most of it! I have two favorite phrases: Fale mais devagar, por favor…speak more slowly, please; and não entendo…I don’t understand. Hopefully, it won’t be long before I won’t need those phrases anymore.

I am really looking forward to the many adventures I will have here in Brazil!