Finding
Mom My mom’s love gushes like teenage girls at a Maroon 5 concert. It’s uncontrollable, unpredictable, wild, and sweet. It can’t be completely explained by the fact that she’s my mother, and it isn’t just because she’s a woman. A significant part of it has deeper roots: She is Brazilian. I came to Brazil to get to know my extended family here and to learn Portuguese. But a big chunk of me wanted to understand my mother better, to get closer to her by getting farther away from her and closer to her homeland. I doubt I will ever completely understand her, but the more time I spend interacting with my Brazilian friends, family, and neighbors, the more I grow to appreciate the Brazilian locked deep inside my mom. The eccentricities of Brazilian culture remind me of her. Lois Lehenbauer Winter was born in the small town of Concordia, Santa Catarina, a few hours from where I live in Porto Alegre. At the age of 20 she went to the States and met my father, after which they promptly got married and moved to Taiwan to serve as missionaries for (what turned out to be) 17 years. Three kids later, in 1983, they moved to the U.S., where they have lived ever since. She’s quite an international wonder, spending roughly 20 years in each of South America, Asia, and North America, while picking up flawless Taiwanese, Mandarin and English along the way. She’s a God-loving woman who follows His will for her, leading her way through whatever obstacles with a deep mix of emotion and self-assurance. And though this sensitive composure cannot be characterized as a strictly Brazilian trait, as I go about my daily activities here, I encounter my mother chatting with her friends on the street, cleaning the dishes up after a meal at my aunt’s, and hugging my cousins with all the force a hug should convey. She’s not here, but bits of her personality are evident in each of these little things. Allow me to provide a few examples: A Do-First Attitude My mom’s do-first attitude is all around me here in Brazil. Glasses are filled before you can say cerveja; clothes are ironed (complete with pleats) without a word, just a smile. Questions such as “Where can I get a new rechargeable battery for my camera?” are immediately phoned in to relative after relative, honing in on the answer faster than a Google search. There is little concern of bothering someone else by giving them a call. Your little problem is there to be solved, and that’s what they will do. Talk, Chat, Gossip, Discuss
I thought I felt a bit of my mom’s presence when Kevan, Edgar, and I happened upon a random cachaça shop in Rio. The feeling was ambiguous, but the smile on the girl’s face when she invited us in I recognized. The pristine joy with which she offered us a taste of their 20 types of cachaça was the same emotion my mother conveyed to her customers at Kmart or Sears. We stayed for a taste, but the delight with which the girl chatted with us was remarkable. There was no ulterior motive; we didn’t buy a thing. She just loved to meet new people, to hang out, to chat. Brazilians, like my mother, like to talk. They talk on the phone, they talk with random street vendors, they talk at the bus stop. They talk everywhere, with everyone. The subject matter is unimportant, the thesis of the conversation inconsequential: there is togetherness in talking. Talking to everyone about everything strengthens the concept of community. One’s neighbors become an omnipresent font of information and smiles: you ask a stranger for directions rather than burrowing your head in some fold-up map or Palm pilot, and you put down the newspaper on the bus to meet the new friend next to you. It’s impressive and heartwarming. The Brazilian Hug Brazilians hug, they kiss, they show affection. My cousin Virginia has this thing where she gives me a hug as if she needs it just as much as I do. She holds it just a bit, to distinguish it from all the other hugs we give and get each day. It’s quite extraordinary. My mother also exhibits this skill, squeezing me like a tube of toothpaste, as if to hug a little bit of her family out of me. It is just a reaction: see relative, hug living daylights out. There’s a lot of love that can be recalled, a lot of Brazilian essence that can be extracted from a hug so sweet, so pure, so whole. When I hug my family members, I’m hugging my mother, too. There’s just some connection there that can’t be fully described. I suppose the connection is love.
And as I started out talking about my mother’s love, let me finish
with it. My mom oozes this most pure of emotions, so much so that it is
manifested in frustration, in tears, in a tired smile, in the joy of reunion,
in the tone of her voice. It’s still a bit foreign to me, as I don’t
know the freedom that comes in such emotional release. But I cry when
I can, just to feel a little closer to my mother. I cry without shame.
There’s a part of me that’s Brazilian, too — a part
of me that is impulsive, that talks to feel close to others, that hugs
with my whole body. I have that love, too, that my mom exhibits. It’s
not as strong or uninhibited as hers, but I’m practicing here as
much as I can, to feel closer to her, to become the Brazilian son she
never had. Carl
Winter is a Taiwan-born Brazilian/American dual-citizen, living in Brazil
for the first time at the age of 28. The posted stories, pictures, digit$ and flix are meant to give an indication of the daily fabric of Brazil —
from an outsider's inside perspective.
|