My high school boyfriend emigrated from Brazil to the U.S. around 1960. Crazy in love, I tried to pry that story out of him, looking to make sense of his changeable personality. He didn’t want to share, so I picked up not a single detail about his early life.
Lately, though, the
coverage of government corruption and social instability has helped me to
imagine the situation from which his family fled. It’s clear that the people of
Brazil have never caught a break.
In 1930 after a contested
election and military action, Getulio Vargas became president through a junta.
This began the Second Republic, marked by nationalism and authoritarianism. But
Vargas did institute social welfare programs which is why Brazilians still
celebrate the “Father of the Poor.”
Skimming through history,
there was a 1937 coup and Vargas’ establishment of the New State (Estado Novo),
a political and economic system known as “corporatism” that also found favor
with Mussolini. Vargas kept coming back until 1954 when he committed suicide
rather than resign.
Violence, terror, and
poverty; I guess my ex-boyfriend’s parents had enough by then.
They were very young. I
knew that because his mother bore him at the age of 18, possibly earlier. She
was a sweet worried lady who hugged me the only time we met. His stepfather, I
learned later, harassed him even though he earned excellent grades and didn’t
make trouble.
Clearly there was discord
in his family, but he never talked about it. Not that family life felt
harmonious anywhere in the U.S. during the 1970s.
Looking back now, I think: why should he have shared his Brazilian immigration story with me?
Looking back now, I think: why should he have shared his Brazilian immigration story with me?
Between 1948 and 1980, many
of the kids who went to public school in Mt. Vernon, N.Y., were the
grandchildren of Italian, Irish, and Eastern European immigrants.
We didn’t tell our
families’ stories to each other. We knew them, all right. They weren’t that far
in the past. But why would teenagers, already embarrassed by so much about
themselves, draw attention to stuff that would make them feel even more
conspicuous?
I wouldn’t have told anyone
that my grandfather slept on a park bench in Union Square after he got off the
boat at Ellis Island in 1914.
As an adult, however, I've found that some of the best stories that friends share are about the lives of their parents and grandparents. Some are about immigration. Overall, they grant greater understanding and intimacy.
As an adult, however, I've found that some of the best stories that friends share are about the lives of their parents and grandparents. Some are about immigration. Overall, they grant greater understanding and intimacy.
Meanwhile, here I am stuck
with a tenacious habit, gravitating toward any and all information about
Brazil. After 42 years, still trying to figure out that boy.
Collage by Claudia Keenan
https://www.throughthehourglass.com/2016/04/brazil.html
See also 2015 posts: November 5, November 23, December 21 + December 29
See also 2015 posts: November 5, November 23, December 21 + December 29
In the year since my mother's death, my sister produced a hard copy of the blog I made for the French family. One of my cousins has now undertaken to translate it into French and we are constantly emailing back and forth with clarifications.
ReplyDeleteWe have noticed all of the stories that went untold in the 50s and 60s because those that had lived them in the 40s was looking forward as part of a mania to forget the shame and humiliation of the war. I think my own curiousity -- from the age of ten -- drove my of the mother's opening up.
You are also speaking of an America that tore down Penn Station! Our desire for modernity was pathological!
I had a Brazilian boyfriend for a while - two of them, both named Celso! In my early 20s. So I also check out Brazilian news. It's what we do.