Reality is indeed stranger than fiction, the 9 year old girl I love grew up to save the world.
| I’m easy to spot; I am the writer- director who didn't care about the frame, the camera, or anything else when she was around. Karla is the one glowing. |
(A Tribute to All Medical Personnel and Staff)
PART ONE
When I left Afonso Arinos, Brazil, I was 11 years old. I kissed my grandmother goodbye, never to return until almost 30 years later. I’m an orphan, and being an orphan gives you solidarity with all minorities, all condemned to the same fate of having no unit to define themselves by and having to forge themselves with the materials left behind by other people. I don’t know that to be a fact, but I always thought that orphans around the world enjoy traveling to all destinations: to meet new people, to experience new cultures, to speak new languages. To hide the fact that we don’t belong anywhere.
I left behind my grandmother, a river and its scintillating brown waters, the mango trees, jabuticabeiras, my elementary school and Karla Maria, the only girl I truly loved.
You, Karla Maria, were and still are a secret I have kept in my heart throughout all my life. A pure love that resides in me, always like pure oxygen, reserved for emergency situations. The memories of the love I felt for you, another human being, in a time when innocence prevailed, is the closest thing an atheist has to divinity. There were times when the memory of you at 9 years old was the only thing that kept me grounded and sane. I know how much of an annoyance I was to you: writing love letters, staring at you during class, jealous of any other boy that talked to you; ( yes Frederico, I have not forgotten you either. I hope you are safe and well. )
I couldn’t help myself from loving you, I looked up one day and there you were, and there was nothing else. I can’t quite explain the beginning of love. The beginning of love is not like the beginning of the universe, it is not a creation, it is a force that already exists somewhere, and it is more powerful than anything around. God created the world in a spectacular display of power and mathematics; love was his encore. When Newton, a fervid believer, was trying to explain gravity, he mentioned an ether, and he was describing love; he just didn’t know it. It binds, revolts, in the best sense of the word. One day, you are fine, going with the flow, and then you feel it, and it consumes every single moment of your day and night; you become a celestial body traveling around its orbit.
My last memory of you, Karla, is inside a bus when we were 17. I remembered walking to the back of the bus to say hi to you and your mother, but for some reason now, I doubt whether I talked to you that day. I had written my third play and was on my way to watch it being performed, and I recall talking to you about it, but I question that memory, too, because I can’t remember your face. Somehow, my brain deleted all images of you except for when we were 9 years of age. Your face is sculpted in my memory, in my heart, and I visit our classroom every time life gets a bit unbearable. It’s my superpower.
I always respected the memory of you, so I confess not having heard of you or thought of you as an adult until the dying began in Italy. The country of my ancestors, my grandfather, Dante, and his Beatriz. I doubt he loved his muse as much as I love you; he was better at expressing it. I smile at the simplicity and innocence of that statement. Dante is my favorite writer, and Divine Comedy is my favorite book, and also a place I find refuge from time to time; it is equaled only by Don Quixote, another masterwork about a man torn by love and destined to aimless wanderings. I relate more to Quixote, which is a better company. If you are going through hell, your traveling companion ought to be kind, funny, and an enabler. A bit of insanity is also helpful.
When the bodies began piling up around the world, I sat in contemplation of the lives lost, and for the first time ever since I was 11 years old, after making sure my kids were safe in my home, I thought of you. I craved to know that you were fine and safe. I must confess to you that it was only then that I searched for you, the adult version of you. I don’t enjoy social media one bit, there is nothing social about it, but it was useful in finding you, and I was in for a surprise.
The 9-year-old girl I love grew up and was on the front lines facing an invisible enemy that kills all in its path; I was happy to find out that you are exactly what I thought you would be at 9 years old.
The 9-year-old girl I love grew up and was on the front lines facing an invisible enemy that kills all in its path; I was happy to find out that you are exactly what I thought you would be at 9 years old.
I rejoiced in learning how you are living your life. You have found what most people in Hollywood and worldwide search for and can't find: true love. You met your husband, went to medical school, married, and had three beautiful daughters. The many love letters I wrote to you as a kid pale compared to the beautiful love messages Dr. Fernando, your husband, writes to you throughout his social media profile. You both have managed to find what the rest of us hope for, a soulmate and little did you know that all the sacrifices you made would come to be imperative to your neighbors' lives. You are living a beautiful love story, and your children are lucky to have you as parents; your city is blessed for having you both as resident doctors.
On my end, I sit at home, safe and sound, while the medical community is out there saving people’s lives. In the middle of the most dangerous virus outbreak in our lifetime, both of you risk the lives you built to save others. Watching the world burn is a common theme in cinema, and from the moment this pandemic started I knew that we needed to brace ourselves for a major situation. I read a lot. I’ve amassed a personal library of close to 3,000 books, and I have read a few of them. I have also read some books on the 1918 pandemic and know how dangerous this situation is.
It infuriates me to watch politicians playing their silly games while guaranteeing a proliferation of the virus and multiplying the people your community will have to treat. It is that sacrifice that propelled me to write you this thank you letter disguised as a love letter, or maybe it is the other way around. I don't know. It’s late. 3:20am now. I keep the artist’s hours.
I am an artist by temperament and profession, and my grandmother knew that: I would be sitting there, thinking of you, and she would walk up to me, call my name, and hit me, on the top of my head, a couple times; I’d look up at her in time to see her shake her head, kiss me and walk away again. It was her way of saying to me, “ whatever it is you are thinking of doing, don’t.” I should have listened to her. But I don’t listen well, not even to my own voices who told me not to write this. There was a debate; I won. My inner critic pointed out to me the naysayers, the cynic people, and argued that they would take this the wrong way, but I responded that you and your fellow doctors are out there on the most dangerous battlefield imaginable, fighting an enemy you don’t even see. Writing you a thank you letter is the least I can do.
The everlasting inner voices suggested that it would be a bit inappropriate to write a love letter to a person with a family, but I wasn’t having it. This is a love letter to a time that has passed, a love letter from my inner child to your inner child who knew me well and wouldn’t be surprised at all at my shenanigans. I recalled Angelina Jolie winning an Oscar and being so happy that she told the entire world of the love she carried in her heart for her brother, yes, her brother. The very next day, some very demented, a.k.a. hateful people were out there suggesting that she was having an inappropriate sexual relationship with her sibling.
As I sit here thinking about the eternity of love, fragility of life, Tom Cruise came into my mind, he too went to the Oprah show and jumped on a couch to announce to the world that he loved another human being; and was chastised too. I never understood that, either. I heard someone say, and I quote Mr. Nothingness, “ he is out of control.” I remember thinking, “well, of course he’s out of control, he’s in love. I don’t think he is jumping high enough.”
Perhaps, Karla, after watching such a display of courage coming from your community, we will band together around the world and exterminate this other virus because it is choking our free spirit, the part of us that wants to live fully and make mistakes. Humans should rally against all sorts of death sentences; be that physical or spiritual. For the hateful crowd, this letter will be what it will be, although I hope that sitting at home helpless will teach these people some empathy and humility. Be small, but not hateful. The Terminator himself, Arnold, will teach you that in part two. Yes, there’s a sequel.
I lack the pragmatism to be a doctor, Karla, but my imagination allows me to go back to our classroom and see you again, time after time, looking back at me, annoyed at my love letters, embarrassed by the gifts I gave to you, all of them, as you know, things I "liberated" from my grandmother. In my defense, I only gave you the things she loved most. In my darkest moments, when there is no love around me and handicapped by my atheism, I travel back in time in meditation to see you. A funny thought just occurred to me for the first time ever; when I go back to see you, I only go to the classroom on the second floor, the last one to the right, next to the bathroom where the ghost of the woman with the cotton inside her nose stayed; God only knows why she hung out in there. Come to think of it, that ghost travels a lot because I read somewhere that she was spooking kids in New Jersey, of all places. Poor ghost! New Jersey?
I just realized that I chose to visit the classroom upstairs because there was no Frederico yet; he came later. How ridiculous was I? Perhaps still am. I just made that connection. The largest classroom, as you know, is the one in front of the school, the windows right behind me in the photo; I never stepped foot in there. It's haunted by Frederico.
Pablo Picasso, a man who knew nothing about love, only frivolous conquests, once said that an artist must allow his inner child to take over, so I do. I sit in the classroom upstairs, watching Tia Zelia writing “Interpretação de Textos” on the blackboard; I look around the room and feel all your love filling my soul. I miss Tia Zelia; she was my enabler. I love how she looked at me and shook her head, smiling whenever I handed you a poem or one of my grandmother's things. Whenever Tia Zelia came over to my house to return your gifts, I would run to my front window and look at the church overlooking the city, the elementary school, and the house beside it where you lived. I imagined you in there: annoyed and giftless. The loving flashback loop I go back to is always the same: I look around the room, stare at you, you get irritated and look away, or you gesture to me to look back at the blackboard.
The other day, Karla, I saw an interview with the Governor of Florida, a man who refused to instruct people to stay home, and months after 900 people a day were dying in Italy, dared to say that no one knew this virus was so powerful and that asymptomatic people could transmit it. Now, because of his political maneuvers and personal stupidity, medical personnel throughout Florida will have some horrific months ahead. I would like to see footage of the Governor of Florida burying some of the bodies so that he fully understands the death sentence he dispersed against the people who voted for him and the torture he imposed on the medical personnel on the front line. These Karla, are the thoughts that bring me into meditation. These thoughts bring me to you and the love you provide.
Last night, after 1,700 people died in the U.S. in one day, I traveled back in time and sat there watching Tia Zelia and you. This time around, when you looked at me, I almost told you the truth: “Karla, I came in the year 2020, I still love you the same way, but you will meet the love of your life, a boy named Fernando, the two of you will go to medical school together and become doctors. You will care for kids, and your husband will be a surgeon, and together, you will raise three beautiful, amazing daughters. Your husband is also a politician, but I will let that slide; you chose him, and In You I Trust.
But I didn’t say anything. I sat there looking at you and pondering the danger you face in 2020, and I feared you would sense my concerns. You looked so small sitting there that I felt sad and cried, thinking, “How will this little thing stand in front of a pandemic killing millions of people worldwide.” I felt pride in loving you. I feel useless sitting here writing this.
I love writing and directing, and I am good at it. Still, I am at home, absolutely useless against this enemy, and so are the many, many famous movie stars, action heroes, rock stars, soccer players, and celebrities of all sorts. We are irrelevant when it matters. Ricky Gervais wasn’t joking, and it is blatantly apparent now; we are entertainers, and this is the time for real heroic figures: Bruce Willis, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Sylvester Stallone, and Tom Cruise need not apply. The world is dying one person at a time, and they don’t have the skills needed for the job. So they must hide at home with the rest of us, watching doctors like both of you, hospital cleaning staff, nurses, garbage collectors, gravediggers, face the storm.
In the near future, when someone is pontificating about how amazing they are, busy telling you how many followers they have on social media, ask them where they were during the pandemic of 2020; when they tell you that, just like me, they were at home, hiding, wish them well and tell them that you are happy they are alive. There is nothing else you need to know.
It is truly inspiring to see what your community is doing, but it must be scary to get in and out of protective gear while unable to see where the enemy is.
Reality is indeed stranger than fiction. The 9-year-old girl I love grew up to save the world, one person at a time, not on the pages of a novel or the big screen but in real life, where it matters. And she is doing it quietly, like a good Christian girl.
Her sidekick is Dr. Fernando, the love of her life. Isn’t that a beautiful love story?
-----------------End of PART ONE ------------
Note: if you read this, please write a note of encouragement in your social media to the people with the most challenging jobs these days, the people who leave their families behind and work burying their bodies. I can't imagine having to do that day in and day out.
