Rainy Days in PoA

It rained a lot in Porto Alegre.

Perhaps I should have taken it as a clue when I first arrived and the airplane had to circle the city for quite some time before landing.

But, I liked the rain.

Except when it soaked through my shoes and into my socks.

And except when cars surfed by on the road and splashed me on the sidewalk.

Except for those things.

There was just something almost romantic and adventurous in setting out, armed with an umbrella, to hop through a downpour on my way to the bus...

It did feel like hopping. There were all sorts of gaping puddles to avoid. And there were also strange pieces of sidewalk, where it appeared that square foot tiles had been placed upon uneven dirt. Sometimes you'd step on the wrong tile to discover that it was only loosely covering a well of water that would promptly come raining down upon your ankle and foot.

Nice.

But, no, really. It's not just romantic conjecture now that I'm no longer there and am recalling my time tere wistfully.

I did enjoy the rain. The sound of it battering the windowpanes as I slept. How Cipote would always want to cuddle because it scared him. How big the drops of water were. How absolutely saturated and green the world became.

The happy reflection of the sky on the wet ground in between showers...

Ah, so beautiful...

Walking the Wall

Cais do Porto, is a port on the lake/river (depends on who you ask) Guaíba in downtown Porto Alegre...the views of the water are lovely.

But the bliss-inducing reason for going there, is to walk down the ridiculous long wall outside the port and fall in love with the street art.

 

I think even my camera was overwhelmed with the fabulousness of these artists' work. So much so that it stopped working on my walk back to the public market and it took some hours before it would turn on again.

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P.S. Some of the artists' painted their websites on the wall too, if you'd like to view more of their work. Also, more of the pictures I took of this wall can be found here.

Coming Back to Texas

 

Who knew it could be so hard to say goodbye to a place. That heavy, choked up feeling in your chest. Pressing my hand against the window as though I was leaving a lover forever. In a sense it's true. I may come back, but it will be a new experience. I was saying goodbye to an amazing four months over a certain time in a certain place that will never exist again. Yup, eyes welling up. A few tears.

And I was also ready to be going home. I began to note the language transition after I landed in São Paulo and everyone spoke to me in English, despite me (unconsciously) responding in Portuguese.

Then all of a sudden there I was in Houston and making small talk was effortless again because it was in my native tongue. Though also, the lovely sound of Portuguese was still there too: several Brazilians set across from me discussing the (lack of) internet connection. Across the way, I overheard conversation in Spanish. Ah, the United States. Gotta love the language blend.

With a ringing in my ear (nothing like flying when you've got a cold), I drank coffee and watched the sky light up with morning and played Sudoku on my iPhone. 

My sweet boyfriend greeted me at the Austin airport with a mug of my favorite tea with evaporated milk and we stopped for breakfast tacos at Taco Deli before heading home. 

I am back and actually already unpacked. 

But, I'm not ready to be done with this blog yet. More posts to come!

The Youth of Pro Jovem Adolescente Exhibit Their Photography

On Friday, the youth program located in the Partenon neighborhood of Porto Alegre, celebrated their one year anniversary. We invited their family and our colleagues to an afternoon of good food, good music.

Everyone gathered around to give their attention as each youth talked about their wonderful artwork such as the beautiful mural they created together a few months ago.

They had a first showing of their photography and their interpretation of the "Drugs: Impact on Our Lives" theme that they had chosen. Each youth was chose their top three favorite photographs and wrote about them. They'll also be writing biographies. They're still coming up with "artistic names" so for the moment I'll have to use just initials.

These are A.'s photos.  

 

I took this photo because I saw a lot of tagging and I saw the nature. There are a lot of trees, the building there on top, a lot of plants. It's just the entrance to go down stairs.

I took this photo because it is interesting. There are a lot of robberies and assaults here. It is violent day and night. Pass through in the morning and one can be assaulted. The photo is important because of Cachorro Sentado, a vila. I don't live in the vila. I just took a photo. 

I thought the shadows that I saw while walking were interesting. I took the photo on the street. I was with people. It is an art. 

These are B.'s photos.

This one has a story but I prefer not to tell it. This photo signifies cruelty that today isn't so common, stepparents are raping innocent children that don't even know the word "sex," children die almost every day as victims of rapes, if people were smart enough they would know who to leave their children with and that's all I wanted to say.

I chose this photo because I thought it was interesting to speak about it. Trash is something that we all produce, but there are people that think the place for trash is on the ground, and it isn't, the place for trash is in the trashcan, because trash outside of the trashcan brings many awful things and some of those are rats and cockroaches, that are very disgusting and sometimes they end up even bringing sicknesses that are not cool.

Graffiti is a divine thing, and there are people that think that graffiti is a crime, because it is very similar to tagging. Graffiti is a cool thing to do because sometimes it is a portrait of some sad realities and other times it is a portrait of cool things like cartoons and other things.

These are E.'s photos.

The graffiti that we in Pro Jovem did, this graffiti is more or less the same, in the letters and in the wild-style.

It was fun to be able to play football and have various friends and be remembering the playing that we did.

I did this design based on a sunset. It is a beautiful flower. It is pretty sunset and a work of art.

A. N. & R. shared a poster board for their photographs.

 

A.N.'s photos.

In this photo, marijuana is being prepared for smoking.

Shocking moment he is smoking a pitico. What is a pitico: (marijuana, crack and tobacco). Don't follow this example. 

In this photo marijuana is being rolled.

R.'s Photos.

This beautiful landscape is giving a beautiful look at a world without violence totally clean.

With inspiration I was able to take but one that called my attention a lot was the graffiti in the light of the sun.

With music we totally forget our problems. Music brings a lot of happiness and joy. 

"Ka$h" hadn't turned in her camera yet to be developed, so she wrote her biography instead:

My name is Ka$h, I live in Morro da Cruz with my mother, stepfather and three brothers. I am 16 years old, I go out, study and do Pro Jovem. My oldest brother is in jail. I like to go out on Fridays after school to converse with my friends. I smoke cigarettes and I drink on the weekends. I live with a drug user but I don't use drugs. Where I live there are drugs all over the place and if I wanted it would be easy to just use them, but I am the fight against "crack."

I love my life and I am never going to use "CRACK."

These kids are awesome and I feel so privileged to have been able to meet them, get to know them and see their wonderfully creativity.

Next up: their photography exhibit at Santander Cultural!

I didn't bring my camera this time

There was a moment on Sunday evening when I couldn't take it any longer. I'd been sitting in front of my laptop, typing away for the entire day, trying my damnedest to finish one paper so I could start another.

And words started spinning in my brain and I thought I might explode. Yes, yes, had I begun writing this thing months ago, it wouldn't have been this unpleasant. Beginning early would have been an excellent idea. But I used my time on other things. And besides, time sensitive deadlines can provide necessary motivation to get 'er done. Right? Or so I have rationalized.

I think it was around 6 PM. The sky was getting darker. It was almost dusk, but not quite. I threw on my flip flops, stuffed my house keys in my pocket and said to A., "I have to go out."

"Yes, yes you do," she agreed as Cipote laid on her lap and looked at me as he always does when he's next to A. It's sort of a "Don't you come any closer. She's mine!" kind of look. And he will follow it up with a bark or a growl if need be. Of course, if A.'s not there to give affection, he will come looking for me with his adorable I-need-some-love eyes.

Out I went, just trying to get the mess of thoughts in my head to slow down a little. I walked a block and crossed through the bus lane to the street adjacent to the park. It's always full of vendors on the weekend selling organic produce on Saturday and arts & crafts all the rest of the time. They were all closing up their stalls, getting ready to leave for the day.

The street was blocked off to traffic and teeming with people. I made my way to the park entrance. Parents and children and strollers. Popcorn vendors. Men with poles of cotton candy. Chimarrão all around. Teens. Cyclists. Dogs of all shapes and sizes. Elderly couples walking arm in arm. Young couples making out as if their lives depended on kissing. People sitting on the grass, on park benches, strolling, laughing, talking, smiling, running, moving, just being there.

And I was so gratified by how easy it was to just meld into this huge sea of humanity enjoying the park on a Sunday evening. With the sun far behind the trees, the sky almost dark but still light enough so that you could see everything.

I came upon a group practicing capoeira near a fountain and stopped to watch getting lost in the fluidity and grace of the movement of all the participants of all ages and sizes. Their bodies flowed in and out of a dance of complex movements, actions, reactions as if it was that easy to defy gravity. It was amazing. I watched in awe.

This may have been the best "break" from academic work that I have ever managed to take. Of course it choked me up a little too because it just felt so beautiful, because I kept thinking -- as one always does when an 'end' is rapidly approaching -- that I hadn't taken advantage of this nearly enough. But there I was, at least then, on that evening, in my t-shirt that was too thin for the weather, with 5 centavos in my pocket and a sky getting darker and darker with every minute.

Blind Assumptions

I watched The Blind Side here in Brazil where it's titled O Sonho Possível (The Possible Dream). I get that it was based on a true story about football star Michael Oher, an African American who grew up in multiple situations of risk and vulnerability and was adopted in his late teens by an Anglo couple. However, there were a number choices made in the presentation and filming of this movie that made me disappointed, sad and angry.

One of the things that got to me was its depiction of neighborhoods. There was the rich neighborhood that the protagonists lived in - with its beautiful trees, enormous houses, white people and children who did all their homework. Then there were the housing projects on the other side of the tracks where the black people lived and where it appeared that no one ever laughed or was nice to each other.  Just guns and drugs and violence and bad memories. So, uh, why did the director (and everyone else on board) chose to make these neighborhood realities so...black and white? Wasn't there some awareness of how awful and racist this comes across? Is this movie really saying that every single aspect of this young man's life was hellish before he came to live on the good side of town? That there was no good or beauty or love in his world?

And since I'm looking at strength-based and resiliency theories right now for a "Social Work Inventory" that I need to write for my last class of master's education, it's got me back thinking about this movie and how frustrating this all is. First off, I just find it hard to believe that this young man could have made it to his late teens and be the wonderful young man that he was if there hadn't been some special, nurturing people there at least at some points during his life. And some of those people likely would have lived in that housing project...and if that's the case, then there was some good and beauty there that the film doesn't show us.

The other aspect of this presentation of dichotomies (good/bad, safe/unsafe, etc.) when it comes to these two neighborhoods is that it doesn't create a space for the people who live in the unsafe neighborhoods to thrive and succeed. And then it blames them for the choices they are making without looking at potential root causes for those choices.

Here in Porto Alegre, it's true that there are a lot of neighborhoods that if people don't live in them, they are fearful of entering them. I can't imagine how on earth The Blind Side would choose to depict them, but it wouldn't be pretty. But real people live in them. And many of those people are the youth that I work with in my internship, youth that are in conflict with the law, for a variety of reasons. When I talk to these kids and ask them about the spaces where they feel safe, accepted and included they often mention their homes and their neighborhoods. The very spaces that so many people living outside of these neighborhoods think about in terms of fear.

The other day when we gave youth group #2 their cameras for the photo project, we all took a walk together through part of the area where they live. Of course this area is a mixture of the very rich and the very poor, almost side by side. And there were these beautiful praças [plaza/square/parks] shaded by trees that everyone uses. We were there playing and taking pictures. The more intrepid among us were also walking off the beaten paths into the woods where homeless encampments were located. Trash littered some areas showing signs of recent drug use. There was a beautiful field for soccer playing. The sky was blue. The sun was shining. The foliage was dense and green. I got to play the part of tourist and the kids showed me some of the beauty in where they lived. I took pictures but so did they and those are the pictures that will likely have much more to say.

And then they took their cameras back home for more picture-taking of their worlds through their eyes.

I know that I'm on my high horse here, full of indignation about a movie, comparing it to real life, which of course it is supposed to be based on. And I know that I'm coming from the space of a white girl who has lived a very sheltered, privileged life. I've had my white guilt phase and know that it's a place of paralyzed inaction. Looking at the world's issues and thinking "My God this is too much. It's too overwhelming. There's no way I can make a positive impact. I'm sorry!" Sometimes I still feel guilty, like when I pass the one-armed beggar on the street corner outside the pet store and he looks me in the eye and I don't want to give him money and I hate that I want to do something but don't know what. And I still perhaps try to take the easy way out. Even the easy way when it comes to discussing this movie. Normally I hold back my rants when I hear people gushing about it.

But, I have social work school to thank for the fact that I can no longer watch a movie in peace and blindly enjoy it. As well as for the knowledge that if I've got this privilege, then I better try damn hard to do something good with it. More than try, I better act.

Life is just never as simple and clear-cut as The Blind Side made it out to be. It frustrates me that the makers of that movie didn't think about representing any nuance or showing how much gray area there is in everything. But that of course begs the questions, who are the people who are telling the story and whose story are they actually telling?

Starting to Say Goodbye

Funny how you can get nostalgic about a place before you've even left. With less than three weeks before I fly home, I've already entered into that territory. In no time I'll have graduated and I'll be looking for a fulfilling, challenging and inspiring job (if anyone has any leads, by all means let me know!). I'll have adapted back to the rhythm and flux of Austin, to daily life with my boyfriend, to breakfast tacos and Barton Springs and delicious potlucks with my friends, to driving a car again. And my time here will start to feel like something that happened in a sepia-tinted dream.

Soon I'll be that girl. The one who instead of saying, "This one time at band camp..." will be saying, "This one time in Porto Alegre..." to anyone who will listen. Of course, I've still got a lot between me and my 6 PM flight on May 18. A LOT. Some of which I should be attending to this very moment instead of writing a blog entry. But hey, this is how I always operate, putting off the important stuff. I'm in this time period that my mother described as, "...such a whirlwind and a wanting to stay longer, yet feeling the rich fullness of the time." It's this moment where I want to grab onto everything and make it last, but where I'm also ready for home.

I've been talking to some of the coordinators of the youth groups I've been working with, saying that I hope, hope, hope to find a job working with adolescents back in Texas (fingers crossed!). And then if that's the case, oh the possibilities. With a glint in our eyes we imagine embarking on projects of cross cultural exchange where the kids here can learn about the kids there and vice versa...like wouldn't it be so cool for kids to share pictures with each other about their lives, lived 5,000 miles away from each other?

The connections I've made won't be cut just because I leave the country...it's just the nostalgia I have for the little moments, all the walking around this city, all the waiting at bus stops, all the cafezinhos, daily greetings with doormen, finally knowing exactly where the coconut juice is located in the supermarket, always feeling pressured by the huge clock in front of the hospital, that time a little old lady asked me to help her across the street, how soft the skin of her hand felt against mine. It's a nostalgia for a place and time that can't be revisited because each time I return (and I do want to come back) will be a different experience. The deep colors of the graffiti that I took pictures of will have faded. Likely there will be new graffiti in its place.

And so it goes. 
[Thank you Kurt Vonnegut for that oft-repeated phrase in Slaughterhouse Five which struck me as profound when I first read it at age 13 and has stuck with me ever since].

Day Out at the Museum

Yesterday we all had a fantastic time when we went with the the guris (Portuguese slang for "young people") to a photography exhibit at a museum.

They were hanging outside the room in the morning before the oficina  (translation: "workshop" - essentially the youth groups), some were using up the remaining photographs on their cameras by taking some shots of the view out the window.

Today was the day for them to bring the cameras back so that I could get the photographs developed in time for the next oficina.

We saw photographs by Henri Cartier-Bresson...

...and watched a video talking about the art of his photography...

...and we even added our own art to the art we were seeing :-)

When asked at the end of the oficina about their favorite part, they agreed that it was all fun, that they loved seeing all the photography. And now none of us can wait to see their photography.