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 TWO
I couldn’t help myself from loving you, I looked up one day and there you were. I can’t quite explain the beginning of love, it’s unlike anything else; it is not a creation, it’s a force that already exists somewhere, unencumbered by any other forces, except for the very existence of the person you love; and how it enhances all your senses: the river, the birds, the music your mother played for the entire city through the catholic church speakers, the April floods, the jabuticabeiras, the quick rain that broke through the clouds on a bright sunny day, and made me look up to your house wondering if you were outside playing in it.
The narrative of your life would be precise, direct, starting and arriving to the right place and time where you would meet Fernando. I wonder if he knew the moment he met you that his life would never be the same. I only knew that I loved you with all my heart until I left Afonso Arinos when I was 11 years old and never looked back. I kept one scene of our narrative and watched it over and over throughout the years. You, Karla, my mother, my grandfather are saved in my heart in one powerful scene.
There was always something distant about you, even when you gave me your full attention; but love is such a powerful force that it didn’t matter much. Every school vacation you went to the city of Niterói, near Rio de Janeiro, and I stayed alone in Afonso Arinos waiting for you to return: writing poems, stories and getting into trouble.The very next morning after you left for school vacation felt like the day after a movie shoot ends, or the end of play rehearsal. I felt a tremendous void gaping inside me, and I kept it at bay by avoiding the front of my house, with the perfect view of your empty house atop the hill.
I would wake up and sit at my grandmother’s backyard for hours, thinking; about you, my inexistent mother, one and the same, a void that my 9 year old heart couldn’t take, a pain that my soul filed away unexplained.
Eventually, thinking became waiting; waiting for grandma to get busy, so that I could walk to the riverbank, climb into my neighbor’s canoe and row it up stream. I was 9 years old and unable to swim, but poets risk their lives to feel alive and deny death; there is no courage in it, it’s a selfish act.
I used a long bamboo to row up stream, passing under the railroad bridge and carrying my grandfather’s transistor radio; turned off. I would listen to the calming sound of the water hitting the canoe on the way up, and as I stopped rowing, the canoe would slow down almost immediately, and gently begin to turn, and turn, and turn, until it faced downstream. Only then I would turn the radio on to Radio Mundial and lay my head against the second seat, enjoying the gentle flow downstream.
( The Black river viewed from the railroad bridge, with the cemetery in the distance; my grandparents resting place )
From the canoe that far upstream, I could only see the cemetery, then the church, the elementary school; your house would come as a cinematic reveal, but knowing that you were not there, only revealed how empty I felt when you were not around. I tried not thinking of you, there were plenty of trouble I could get into before you returned. I closed my eyes and listened to the music while flowing downstream; the current was gentle and it would be a while until I floated passed my grandmother’s house. There are no words to describe how much I love that woman, but seeing her standing at the riverbank was always a bummer.
Most of the time she couldn’t do a thing, she was old, diabetic and if she knew how to swim she never showed. I knew I was in for a beating the moment I got home and I remember clearly thinking, “If you are going to get a beating anyway you might as well enjoy this,” so I lay back down, close my eyes and listened to Jeff Barry’s “Sugar, Sugar” or whatever else was playing. I would float down as far as the soccer field, a good 10 houses away from my grandmother’s house, until the influence of Hollywood movies would intervene and end my adventure.
The comedic genius Jerry Lewis wrote a book that every single person interested in filmmaking should read, The Total Filmmaker; in it he describes the “Dingaling,” a person on the set who has a constant need to show off his ability , speed and skill. “There is one in every crew,” he said. What Mr. Lewis couldn’t have known is that Afonso Arinos had its own Dingaling, and it was fascinating watching him.
By the time I got to the soccer field, the news of my adventures had hit half the population of Afonso Arinos, after all, we only had around 50 houses. Dingaling never missed an opportunity to impress his elders; I watched as he climbed the tree near the soccer field, took his shirt off and hang it on a branch; then took a dive that would have made Tarzan’s Johnny Weissmuller green with envy. He would swim to me very quickly and climb aboard and lecture me all the way upstream to my grandmother’s house. I couldn’t hear a single word Dingaling was saying, all that I could think of was, “ what’s your problem?” and why did you leave your shirt behind, it will be a long walk back to that tree.
I remember once, on a whim, having the idea of asking him to let me row , and he did. He stood on that canoe as if I was a damn prey he just caught; I could see some of the neighbors standing on the riverbank yelling at me, “You are going to kill your grandmother,” they would say. Dingaling would complain about how slow we were going and I’d suggest to him changing the station; and to my surprise, it always worked. I would be rowing and rowing and rowing upstream, the neighbors would be yelling and he would be there, standing in the middle of that canoe, trying to find a good song. Thank God we didn’t have an iPod then, that transistor radio got Dingaling very entertained. Thanks to Dingaling, I never missed a beating.
Using the word beating to describe my grandmother's punishment is a bit of a stretch, I don’t even know why she bothered, quite honestly. For starters, she would ask me to go to the bamboo trees and get her a thin bamboo that grew on the edge of the river. I stood watching as she took a knife and began sharpening it, “ Whatcha you’re doing there, grandma?” After she was done sharpening the already thin bamboo, she would hold my arm and explain to me what I did wrong, and why I should never do that again, and she would hit me with her device on my leg a few times. You can experience the same feeling by giving yourself a long paper cut on your thigh and rubbing salt on it.
I learned that valuable lesson the first time around, and the very next time she asked me to get the bamboo, I went to get it and never returned. I enjoyed my day climbing trees, eating mangos harvested from one of the six trees we had in our orchid and by the time I came back home, mid afternoon, she had completely forgotten that I needed a beating. Strangely enough, I never felt unloved by that woman. It would be years after her death, Karla, that I would come to realize that she felt about me the same way I felt about you.
My grandfather is like you, a single memory that I play over and over in my mind. He sat with his elbows rested on a pillow, which he placed on the table, next to his transistor radio. I don’t have a single memory of him otherwise; not walking, not standing, not even speaking, but I remember pride in his eyes and his smile when I sat next to him. I would be playing outside and hear a song I liked, and I would run inside no matter what I was doing. I would sit on the chair to the right of the table, or maybe I stood, can’t quite place that memory, but I never forgot his gentle smile at me and I never forgot his eyes. Fellini was right: face and eyes, it betrays the most private of souls. In his eyes I saw love, pride, as if he had written the songs himself and was glad that I was enjoying it.
My grandfather sat on that chair day in and day out until the day he was no longer there. I don’t remember his funeral, I don’t remember him dying, I don’t remember the house filled with crying people, and yet I know that it had to have taken place. My grandparents had 9 children and when you add the grandchildren, there had to be a day when everyone came to mourn his loss. He is my eternal connection to Italy, to Dante, to you, Karla.
I have plenty of memories of my grandmother, but losing my grandfather was obviously a major event, one that I completely erased from my mind. Perhaps, learning to block the painful memories of his death helped me in dealing with walking away from you at 11 years old. The same overall feeling permeates both moments; one day you were there and the next you were one single scene I could recall for comfort. My grandfather’s death and my mother’s absence taught me that there are things in this world that are absolute, things that remain unchanged no matter how much you wish it to be otherwise. Death changes everything permanently but pain lingers in your heart and soul like Madame Curie’s little sparkly rocks; its half-life a slow lifetime decay.
As I again look at the coronavirus death toll rising, I feel useless, yes, there are things I am doing to help, but it is not enough. It doesn’t feel enough. I am, and have always been a human being that suffers his condition, acknowledges his place in the world, however irrelevant, unable to take things in stride, but one hundred percent committed in being truthful to who I am, and changing what I don't like. Perhaps it is one of the reasons that I have never taken a selfie, taking pictures of myself and things to show others is silly any day of the week, but now, with the bodies piling up around the world is unthinkable. I look at my library, almost 3,000 books and I lack any practical skills that can be useful at this time, and yet I know that the only way this will end, it is if people stay home. Period. Every person that sits at home is one less person your community has to treat.
During this crisis, all I have around me are more questions; death has the power to concentrate the mind. I took a trip around the worldwide web and came to realize two things: either I am the only person in the world afraid of dying or people are already living in a virtual reality. Pictures of people enjoying their day, playing volleyball, enjoying themselves is everywhere. People out with friends buying beer and partying, footage of the president of Brazil cleaning his nose with his hand and then shaking people's hand in the crowd. I think of the many people suffering, disappearing into a hospital to never returned, dying alone and being buried in unmarked graves because there is no space nor time for a proper burial. I think of the people who leave their homes and whose job is to bury other human beings. One thousand a day.
We are not on a worldwide vacation. This matters. The lives lost matters. More than staying home to curtail the spread of the disease, is our responsibility to mourn the dead and we do this by being humble and introspective. It might be why I despise politicians so much, masters of well rehearsed lines to fit any circumstance, meaningless quotations unattached to their soul. If you are going on with your day unafraid of dying, trying not to feel too bad, whatever you say for public consumption invalidates all your words of appreciation for the medical community. The medical community's courage is directly related to your fear of dying and understanding of the danger you face; there is one truth they are certain of, the more patients they see, the more are the chances they will catch the virus and perhaps die from it.
There are times in our existence that feeling horrified, sad, unhopeful is a sign of our humanity; not a weakness as many politicians want us to believe. The governor of Texas, Greg Abbott, last week, pulled on Texan's pride string to send them out there, back to work, “Texans are proud people. They like working” said the governor. Your excellency, they need to be alive to be able to work. Carefully study the second wave of contamination in China, that is why Texans voted you in. This week was time for his offspring, Texas Lt. Gov. Dan Patrick, to suggest on national television that, “ lots of grandparents out there are willing to risk their lives to save the economy." This sentiment is echoed by many politicians but yet, I would give all the money I have to see my grandmother and grandfather again. Compassion and empathy make us humans. I was born in Brazil and we don't “swim in sewer water” as the President of Brazil suggested for worldwide consumption, and we are certainly not immune to diseases. Even Jesus Christ, whom these people profess to follow, washed people’s feet to show love, compassion, friendship and empathy. These feelings make us humans.
I am afraid of dying. I am aware of how dangerous this virus is; just try watching everything you touch for one hour and the danger becomes clear. I have two children that still depend on me and I still have things I want to do; life is a precious commodity I want to keep. I refuse to keep the appearance of normal. There is nothing normal about thousands of people dying a day, and when we are out there posting insignificant pictures in our social display of hypocrisy, we give the politicians a signal that we would be willing to let our parents die to “save the economy.” When we don't display our sorrow for the loss of lives, we give politicians the idea that we might be okay to the possibility that some in our society can be "sacrificed."
Never once in my lifetime I gave a second thought about the people whose job it is to bury other people, and now they are all that I can think about. A horrific job. The courage these people are displaying is remarkable. I sit home, afraid of dying. Our medical community and staff risk their lives to save others. Many of these people now pleading to the government for more masks and protective gears, and it is hard to believe they are being heard. When politicians are out there suggesting that grandparents are expendable, anything that comes out of their mouth in support of the medical community is just another display of their demagogy and hypocrisy.
I have time on my hands and death in my mind.
I also have the understanding that there are times in our narratives that feeling sorrow, sadness, empathy is how we relate to each other as human beings. It is how we show other people, in far away places that we are sorry for their loss, and that we share their grief. In the end, it is love that will carry us through: love of being alive, for another, for a child, for your parents and grandparents, or the unforgettable memories of a girl you loved when you were 9 years old.
A bit of humility before the fragility of life and our powerlessness before nature would also help. That is why we pray, for ourselves and others. If there was ever a moment for a prayer. I am an atheist, and I've learned that much.
-----------------End of PART TWO ------------
