Negro or Negrão?

Does the fact that an event has not occurred for some time exponentially increase the probability of that event happening again? Is the reverse true? Should one be grateful when a plane crashes because it decreases the chances of the one we are about to fly on from nosediving from the skies? No doubt books have been written on the subject. I have just gotten my head around the fact that when throwing dice there are increased chances of getting certain numbers over others (and here was I thinking mathematics was the last bastion of equality).

On the subject of equality and probability, I wondered how long it would be following the election of The First Black President that the Administration in the U.S. would make its first racial faux pas and - sure enough - word reaches me this week that Question 9 on the U.S. Census 2010 is causing a bit of a stir in the northern parts of these Americas. One doesn't need to be Jessie Jackson to get a sense of the moral outrage caused by being asked whether one considers oneself a "negro" by the State itself. I mean, what were they thinking?

A Brazilian would have no problem being asked if they were negrão. In fact, it's a popular mode of expression here to get someone's attention (as in "Oi, Negrão!"). It applies to anyone not of a pearly white complexion (they are simply called Alemão - literally meaning "German"). The contrary, though, is not true. Call a Brazilian preto (black) and it would be considered a racial slur.

I have been living in São Paulo for almost a year now, but grappling with the language (or lack of) emphasises daily just how powerful individual words can be. Introducing Open Book the other day, Mariella Frostrup was asked how she was and she replied "I am OK, considering." She didn't elaborate. Didn't explain why. It was just one word, tacked onto the end of a generic response, but how powerful, how evocative that word is when left hanging.

As I concentrate intently on what I am saying, I often take it for granted that what the kids might be saying is actually wrong half the time. We have a laugh when when one of the boys goes to correct me (with an I-know-more-than-you-even-though-I'm-a-child attitude), only to be corrected themselves by an adult native speaker. Furthermore, as a novice, one becomes so distracted by the semantics, that one misses the dialect, style and rhythm of the language which can so often be used to prejudge a person's background and upbringing. This, of course, is a blessing.

Often it is not what is said, but what is left unsaid which is most powerful.

Preach the Gospel at all times and when necessary use words.
(St. Francis of Assisi)

For this, I am grateful.

Random Observations #7

I passed a heavily pregnant street kid in the park today. She was rearranging her boxes and scraps of possessions by the side of the path. I hesitated, but ended up smiling awkwardly as I walked by. I think I will always find the sight of pregnant homeless girls - often drugged or drinking and smoking - difficult to comprehend.

"I'm building my castle" she responded, with a smile.

Bill & Mel

"The biggest disease today is not leprosy or tuberculosis,

but rather the feeling of being unwanted."
(Mother Teresa)

40 days of rain

Floating cars on the cover of the local rag

Language Learning

Sometimes, learning Brazilian Portuguese is easy.

The commute

The bus stalls at the lights. It makes a welcome change from the usual screech of brakes and abrupt halt, followed by passengers tumbling in comic domino fashion. One lady bellows to the front that she wants to get off and the driver wearyingly obliges by opening the doors. Another to my left confidently asserts se quebrou! (it's broke), followed by another who repeats the phrase as a question. A rush for the exit ensues.

Five seconds later the engine starts and the whole gang are thumping on the (now) closed door, begging to be allowed back on.

Law Enforcement - São Paulo style

There is a bewildering, veritable cornucopia of law enforcement agencies in Brazil. I thought Italy was bad. Here, there are municipal cops, traffic cops, park cops, financial cops, subway cops, federal cops and even environmental cops (officer, there's someone illegally pruning their leylandii - arrest them!). I can't work out which ones I am meant to take seriously, but I generally go by weapon size.

We were with the kids over on Nove de Julho this week, playing ball and writing our names and outlining the kids contorted body shapes crime scene-style on the roadside with sidewalk chalk. At one point a city cop (she had a small handgun and so was to be taken relatively seriously) approached our group. Within a split second, drinks bottles filled with petrol and paint thinner were stashed under small tee-shirts, down trousers or thrown into the bushes. I can understand why the officer came over: there were thirty children collected in one place, having fun and taking a break from mundanity. Threatening stuff indeed.

A confrontation ensued with one of the girls (who must have caused some trouble earlier), but a broad smile (and, I am guessing, the presence of three foreigners) was enough to diffuse the situation and she withdrew. It's rare. When the police tire with the presence of the children on the street, they generally undertake a clean-up of the streets Giuliani-style. The operation is comprised of:

(1) high-pressurized water apparatus (see to the right of the photo below)
(2) a dust cart
(3) two police cars
(4) a police minibus

It operates thus: the street cleaners use (1) to forcefully remove the children from the area affected, the police use (2) as a container in which to dispose of what meagre possessions the children have and (guns poised) use (3) and (4) to take away children who demonstrate an unwillingness to co-operate.

police keep watch over our hockey game with the kids
call for reinforcements!

I always found Giuliani's policy of eradicating Manhattan's homeless "problem" to be rather tasteless, but this literal cleansing of the streets smacks of the worst elements of what some have called his "dispiriting political vendetta" against the homeless. At least Giuliani purported to find shelters for the displaced. Here, the unruly spend a night getting roughed-up in the cells and are then hearded-off to another part of the city.

Someone else's problem.

POSTSCRIPT

Police brutality is not new or, of course, exclusive to Brazil, but I do not think I will ever be comfortable with the site of weapons drawn at even the most minor infraction. Parked on a double yellow? Guns drawn. I can empathise to a degree - especially in our neighbourhood - but the gung-ho attitude of most cops here smacks of a machismo which is distasteful in a force which at the same time is attempting to mirror the UK model of "community policing".

The Street

I thought it would be helpful to post a few pictures of the kids (and adolescents) we work with in that part of downtown São Paulo known locally as The Valley (which in the 19th Century used to be a highway, but is now a pedestrianised area flanked on each side by skyscrapers - hence the name). I rarely take the camera, since I do not want to appear a gawking tourist or some self-interested hack, but when I do the children seem to enjoy having their photograph taken and oblige with a smile, a gang sign or sometimes just a blank stare.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies

You may remember the people who live in the marshes out the back of Casa Elohim from here or here. In between Christmas and New Year - that strange period when the whole world appears to be in limbo (a phrase which, I was interested to note, has a curious etymology) - Mike, Thomas and Fran (from the girl's house) took a table, decorations and an abundance of food out into the muddy backlands that border the lake. In a small hastily made clearing, surrounded by shelters made of splintered wood, a Christmas meal was had with those that have been terrorising the neighbourhood these last few months. Tears were shed as a message of hope and forgiveness was shared with 15 homeless drug addicts, dealers and prostitutes.

My guess is that we won't be having any more sleepless nights for a while.

The C Count

Sweeping the kitchen floor in the morning is always a revelation to me.
This was a 4C day.

Ongoing cultural challenges

As the pastor's wife nattered away to her friend in the pew in front, oblivious to her husband's zealous exhortations from the pulpit, was I the only one becoming increasingly irritated?

The local baptist church with whom the rescue house has close ties (1a Primeira Igreja Baptista Jardins Imbuais - so good they named it twice) runs a helpful and interesting "sunday school" for adults on Sunday mornings. I had gone the previous week to the seminar on anger (how to prevent it, so-called "righteous" anger, etc - you get the drift. All pithy comments will be deleted, mum). The poor lady trying to deliver her carefully prepared presentation not only had to deal with what must have been three or four pairs of constantly chattering couples animatedly discussing goodnessknowswhat, but also an audience member who was clearly depressed and was anxious to share the news of her recent - multiple - suicide attempts with the room. By the time the two stray dogs entered the room from the back door (which had been left ajar due to the stifling heat), I was so seething that I genuinely thought it may have been some weird test of my own anger threshold. I wasn't angry merely because I couldn't concentrate on what promised to be a fascinating discussion; it was more frustration for the speaker, mixed with embarrassment to be associated with the audience.

After a generous round of laser beam eyes at the culprets (righteous anger? probably not), I was about to start shooshing when the presentation ended (and when I say "ended" I mean the speaker carried on talking while people gradually got up from their chairs and left the room because her allotted time was up). Maybe it shouldn't have come as a surprise to me that the exhortation "shhh!" is not part of the Brazilian idiom. I thought that it would be one of the few expressions I would not have to translate to make myself known to the boys, but I was wrong.

o que significa "shooosh"?
[index finger raised to closed lips]
ahh

There are certain standards which transcend borders and cultures. There are, for example, what those in the legal profession call, "human rights". Others talk of a "universal morality". Although I believe both are unattainable and somewhat unattractive fallacies, there is (like most fallacies) an element of truth in the concept of standardised - for want of a better word - manners. I am not suggesting that genuine local custom and convention be done away with simply because they may somehow offend my western middle-class sensitivities (whatever those might be), but I do believe that there are certain standards of behaviour which should not be excused. I am saddened when bona fide selfish or stubborn behaviour masquerade as "cultural norms". It is not right and it is not fair to turn up to a team meeting 20 minutes late! It is not "British" punctuality or "Swiss" efficiency that dictate such standards. It is manners, plain and simple.

Looking around the room, however, I also noticed this: nobody was getting their knickers in a twist like I was. I felt convicted and then I felt rather silly.

And then a wider truth dawned upon me. If I am the only one affronted (even the speaker - onto whom I was vicariously channeling frustration - didn't look in the least bit concerned as the chatter level rose to such a crescendo that she had difficulty making herself heard) then I myself must check my attitude. This is not so much morality by majority, but more a realisation that I should respect what others might not consider to be important. To put it another (less clumsy) way, sometimes one must refuse to be offended and concentrate on more important matters.

The silly season

January here is like August in Europe. The country heads to the coast.

The mass evacuation from São Paulo is staggered, but generally commences around the second week of December and - well, this is Brazil - isn't reversed until March.

Carnaval conveniently falls in February which means most people take that month off too, effectively producing a three month mega-holiday which, three weeks in, is already driving me nuts because I need to get things done and nobody seems to want to do anything in this heat.

Eeeesh.
Happy New Year!

What fools boredom breeds

Is it only me who can see the grime on the walls and the broken tiles? Are missing light bulbs and flaking paint in the children's rooms just small things, invisible to the normal eye?

As part of the frenzied two week period just gone, I have been waging a one man war against the dirt. The stinking pond which passes as our swimming pool has become my bête noire (or should that be bête vert?).

I suppose that cleaning a pool is a little like working with children at risk. It's a deceptively complex and sensitive process requiring daily attention, patience and care.

Neglecting these responsibilities - even for a day in this searing heat - can result in a return to stagnation and a lot of hard work to achieve restoration.

Acampamento das Famílias 2009

Before the year is up I thought I might post a few pictures from the Acampamento we had a few weeks ago. It was great to finally have the opportunity to meet the "missing link" in these children's complex lives. Usually the only family that makes the effort to come to the camp are aunts or uncles, but the kids always have a great time.

the only father who came - but what a great dad!

his three sons

G and his family were there

S' mother, brother and two sisters were there. Three of the four children have been in and out of homes all their lives.

S' two sisters

brothers and arms

Last month I went to church on a tractor with some recovering alcoholics and drugs addicts. This month I enjoyed a Christmas dinner with a room full of children, some of whom are thieves, drug abusers and child prostitutes. But what a privilege it is to work amongst them.

Random Observations #6

Haven't been so physically (and mentally) exhausted at Christmas since 230 Park.

Insensitivities

Much preparation here for the annual Acampamento das Famílias (when we invite the families of our kids present and past to a weekend camp in the country). This will be my first, and judging by previous years' offerings it promises to be a lot of fun.

I have been assembling a presentation for Saturday evening. It's a collection of my photos, interspersed with individual messages of thanks from each of the boys. I joked with W that he must first (and always) thank his mum, then God, and then The Academy.

He didn't laugh. He didn't even raise his eyebrows. He just left the room. W was abandoned at a very young age by both his mum and his dad.

My insensitivity sometimes exceeds my stupidity.
At times, the two collide.

The proximity of death

Q: Do you struggle with the proximity of death, about how little time we all have?

A: I'm fascinated by the brevity of life and how people use their time, because we all know that the axe will fall. It's inevitable - as you and I sitting here now - that the Tuesday will arrive when you, Kirsty, are not here. Nobody can reach you by telephone. Nobody can write to you and nobody can email you. You just won't be here. So, we all know this fact. With that in the forefront of our mind - in everything we do - I find it fascinating how people spend their time.

Morrissey, Desert Island Discs (4 December, 2009)

Casa de Recuperação

Yesterday I went to church on the back of a tractor with six recovering alcoholics and drug addicts. I accepted my good friend Berto's offer to take the weekend off and travel three hours out of the city and into the depths of the countryside or “interior”. I love the way the locals describe the city as “centro” and the rest of the huge state simply as the interior.

You may remember Berto from here or here. My age - give or take a few months. He's what you might call an overcomer. He's overcome depression and addiction to crack cocaine. He is one of the most joy-filled people I have ever known.

Health & Safety look away now

The facility, established by my Irish missionary friend Glen, can take up to 20 men who are struggling with addiction. Many come directly from the streets and vary in age from 18 to 70. All of them want desperately to be well. They live full time at the house for a minimum of 9 months (symbolic of rebirth) and work the extensive surrounding land. After cleaning-up, each has the opportunity to join Glen's construction team, which in turn (and rather neatly) works primarily with projects like Casa Elohim.

not looking to the left or to the right, just forward

On the first day we took a tour of the grounds on said tractor and I had my first experience of driving it up and down the muddy lanes. Incredible fun, but I managed to fluff a gear change at a rather critical moment (the top of a steep hill) - knocking it from nice steady first to crazy neutral and sending the tractor careering out of control, with Berto unable to reach the controls because I was in the way. When we reached an abrupt halt at the base of the hill, I could hear the blood racing through my head. Shaken, and only a little stirred.

Donna Maria - at a spritely 85 years - has been like a mother to many of the men who have passed through the doors of the Rehabilitation House. We dropped by to see her and her sons in the impossibly small but incredibly cozy collection of rooms they call home.

Donna Maria and her sons

A better day

W cracks a joke

Babies, Bankruptcies and Bereavements

Broadcasting House
BBC Radio 4, Sunday 15th November, 2009.

Nearly 70 years ago, psychologists at Harvard University began a study which has become one of the longest and most comprehensive scientific studies ever undertaken: The Grant Study. They sought an answer to the perennial question about what makes people happy. In a blow to those sharing last week's £90m lottery win, the answer is not to "wait for fate".

Through it all: the battles survived, the babies born, the bankruptcies and the bereavements, the researchers have doggedly followed the Grant subjects. And their conclusion? Paraphrasing 68 years of work here...but essentially, being rich doesn't make you happy. Being nice, does.

"What makes people feel joy. What makes people feel glad that they lived their life, has to do with their relationships." Professor George Valiant is in charge of the study and therefore in charge of dispelling any lingering illusions that happiness is about pills and liquor...or sports cars and second homes. "Someone who has a fantastic naughty weekend is picking up the pieces all week. Whereas someone who has devoted themselves to other people - rather than happiness - when they are 80 has both a loving spouse and children and grandchildren who are fond of him. The way the brain is wired is that winning the lottery doesn't stimulate that part of the brain that heroin stimulates. Whereas attachment does."

The shelves of American bookshops are groaning with self-help books whose titles hint at the anxieties of this edgy nation. From How to Survive a Robot Uprising to Dog Sense: 99 relationship tips to get the most from your canine companion.

"The path to happiness is easy to identify, it's just hard to follow in real life. There's nothing more wonderful in time present than a great bottle of wine. The trouble is that once you've drunk the bottle, it's got no sticking power."