Self-reassuring posting

I know, I know, it's been nothing but static on the blogging channel lately. Life has, in fact, settled into a routine. I know the streets in my neighborhood. People know me at the bakery, the apartment building, my work, the supermarket. They are even starting to comment that my speech seems more natural and fluid. Tranquility? Comfort? Ease?

Nay. Madness.

This is just when moving gets dangerous!! You went to Fish Camp. You bought your books (wtf $$??) You ate pizza three days in a row at the cafeteria (becuase I can!). You've explored campus, even attended a few classes (not so scary). The newness of your dorm has worn off (yes, it's that small).

and you're just sitting there.

at the MSC fountain.

all your highschool chums far away.

Well... what now?

The quiet is so scary because you realize so much of your old life was built on transient things. The silence terrifies you because it demands from you... who are you? what are you about? (and worst of all) Why are you worth my time?

Fortunately, I know how the rest of the story goes. You gradually make new friends (some pretty amazing people too!) You find new aspects of your home (You can get on the roof of most buildings on campus). Religious crazies scream at you. You encounter new ideas. You grow. You work really hard. You learn things you never could have imagined. You fail. You join causes. You get in shape. You learn how to manage money. Your perspective changes. Your direction changes. You cry. You make bad decisions. You fall in love. Your heart breaks.

And when you look around your apartment where you made so many memories. When your friends wave good bye while you wipe the tears away on the road to current dreams, you'll look back at yourself (such a short time ago). And smile.

Though I'm pining for the familiar faces and things, though I'm spazzing out wondering what the hell am I going to do next year? I am confident of this: if you put out your hands and open your eyes - wherever you are - life will find you.

Pride and predicates...

-Well, you see, our lock is broken and I need to borrow from the caretaker... er... one of those tools that turns... you know the things... into the holes... could take them them out too... yes, I'd say that's also something it can do..."

-Um... a screwdriver? (chave de fenda)

If you decide to move to a foreign country, get ready for countless interactions like this one. Indeed, if you are insecure, afraid of rejection or needing to be taken down a few notches, I really can't think of a better way than overcoming your foibles than facing snickers, winces and blank stares pretty much every time you open your mouth.

Sometimes I repeat sentences three times, correcting grammar as I go. Other times, I talk so slowly, pausing every few words, people think I've suffered brain damage.

Then there's the "Spanishisms" (gimnasios don't exist in Brazil, they're "academias." Oh, and "buseta"? yeah, that's a vagina not a mode of transportation)

Receiving communication is also a full time job:
-Po po po?

Let's rewind that and play in slow motion
-Posso pôr pó? (Would you like for me to put some sugar (slang) in your coffee?)

OBVIOUSLY, I do not have the patience to continuously be admitting my brain failed to register that...

Ricardo says people ask me directions all the time, because I look foreign and, therefore, less likely to lie for the heck of it.

Joke's on them because I secretly take pleasure in sending people off in no particular direction when they ask me where a street is and I don't understand them. It's my revenge on them for their lazy pronunciation.

Today I sent "Miss Ugly Perm" "over there." I found out hours later she actually got lucky. I had pointed the right direction. An accident, I assure you.

While I can fool most people, Ricardo's on to me now... when I respond "uh huh, sure..." he's been stopping and demanding I repeat what he just said... the asshole.

Really though, clarification is important. It avoids conversations like these:

-Where the hell are we going? I have an appointment in a few minutes!

- I asked if we had time to go to the pharmacy and you said yes, and don't take that tone with me. It's not my fault you didn't say you didn't understand.

-[not spoken] Yes, it IS your fault for speaking this idiotic language! Portuguese?? Really??? [spoken] oooookay, well, can you drop me off first?

-I heard that.

My neighborhood's sex life

The Barro Preto is home to a hospital, various judicial ministries, the Cruzeiro soccer club sports complex and me.

The neighborhood emphasizes a brisk commercial atmosphere rather than quiet living as do some of the more tranquil, leafier zones to the south. This is the place to find clothing both wholesale and retail in the city. All day distributors linger doubtfully over the ugly Euro-trash jeans, the knock-offs, cheap t-shirts and ladies' underwear in the shop windows.

One retailer on my street tries to entice customers by positioning a young Northeasterner dressed up as a psychotic clown just outside her door. Microphone in hand he stands there all day proclaiming the store's wares in one of those weird affected voices someone somewhere decided was "amusing." Professional people in business suits stride purposefully past him eyes averted.

The crowds attract pamphleteers and vendors: hot dogs, popcorn, fresh pineapple juice and one tiny old woman with a knit shaw who stands all day on the corner courageously hawking homemade candy wrapped in ziplock bags for one real! one real! delicious sweetness!

At night, well... after dark let's just say my neighborhood is known for a different kind of delicious sweetness.

Every town no matter how conservative or religious or tiny has a gay hook up scene. Some neighborhood to the north got the ladies (and ladies?) of the night... after dark, our empty streets suddenly become the hang out of well-dressed young men who seem to have nothing better to do than pace up and down the sidewalk and talk to men in cars. Didn't your momma tell you not to talk to strange men with candy?

If you're worried about your car being identified there's always the 24 hours saunas for cruising.

If you're really really closeted, well just go to an on-line chat room for an incredibly dangerous rendez-vous with some guy you meet on-line like Americans do.

While I believe sexual satisfaction is best sought in the context of a loving, committed relationship, I'm not going to judge. I don't have to imagine the extreme pressure to keep your sexual orientation a secret. I've experienced it. You see, the problem with disapproval, rejection and discrimination is that they do not restrict sexual desires... they just assure that desires will be met in the most unhealthy, dangerous, dysfunctional manner possible.

Do I feel unsafe at night with all the shady business going on around me? Not really. Nor am I really fazed by it. After all, I've heard more about my male friends getting harassed during the daytime in Veteran's Park in College Station, Texas... Besides most prostitutes know who's interested and won't waste time on residents going to the grocery store. And their clients? BELIEVE ME, these guys are eager to avoid any kind of a scene.

All I've really got to say is THANK GOD it's not drug trafficking!!!!!!!

[Working] at home

Currently, I work from home. When I say work, I mean I get paid to sit at my computer and do stuff... Important stuff.

I'm pretty up on the news. I was never such an involved citizen until I came to Brazil. Now I debate public policy and write letters to congress.

I write for this blog... in addition to reading a (few) others.

I tweet. I twit. I run errands. I clean. I cook. I explore this giant Brazilian city I live in.

I just went to the bookstore for fresh supplies. I'm currently on a African/Brazilian lit kick. I have five going simultaneously.

I'm learning Chinese, computer scripting languages and studying human rights abuses.

I paint.

I workout.

I realize this is most people's dream life - getting paid for doing all those things you never seemed to be able to fit in. However, being a highly educated workaholic, I am seriously (sadly?) looking for adventure or productive employment next year. Maybe in China! Writing for a provocative political website!

Besides, every time I get paid, I feel kind of like I'm stealing. Perhaps, I should consider it patronage for my intellectual work. I do do stuff when they ask me to... you know, stuff.



What do you think about the beard? Be honest... Ricardo cannot be trusted. He just gave me that "whatever makes you happy" crap when I asked him.

I'm just big boned...

Since my original plan was to travel through Brazil like the adventurous rebel I am, every article of clothing that went in the duffel was scrutinized for portability and necessity. In the end, I only packed two pants - a pair of jeans and a pair of khakis.

Now that I am married, employed with two kids, a minivan and a mortgage, it's been a pain to keep these two clean - especially since in my apartment laundry is defined as:

3(soap+washboard+sink+rinse+wring) + clothesline^airdry + iron =
"The olden days sucked! Give me a fricken washing machine!"

Then the khakis got a hole in the crotch that shows my boxers when I sit down.

Fortunately, Ricardo lent me some huge, baggy jeans he just happened to have from his ancient "skater days." Needless to say, they fit me snuggly. Too snuggly...

On a long distance call with an American Executive, I sat down at the table only to feel the entire seat of my pants literally explode. (see Twitter) They ripped open from top all the way down my ass to the pant leg.

If that's not depressing, try taking them to the seamstress only to have an old woman laugh at your distress. Or then there was the sales assistant at the clothing store who guessed my size when I walked in.

Not only could I not button the jeans he picked, he eventually had to pull out the "one more size bigger and you have to shop at the fatty store" jeans to accommodate my huge butt.

Geez! I'm only a size 32 in the US!!! What is up with you Brazilians and your tiny perfectly shaped rears?? Oh... yeah. Pretty much no processed foods whatsoever and most fat in the diet coming from dairy or olive oil. And genetics... that might have something to do with it.

Fine.

It did help that they tailored my pants for free.

(Again see Twitter: this story has been unfolding all week and you didn't even now it)

new pants
now I have four!
(two are in the hospital)

Never underestimate the power of stupid

I'm not sure why, but on Friday at going home time, so many people and cars clog the streets I can't help but think of rats escaping a forest fire. The buses have standing room only. The herds of people swarming the crosswalks migrate like wildebeest on the Serengeti - mindlessly lost in their group identity, focused but still slightly jumpy as though a lion might ambush them at the corner. Friday night commuters are so glazed over tired, I am convinced donating pints of blood is the primary economic activity in this city.

I decided to liven things up a bit by wearing my goggles on the bus. I know it seems rather infantile, but I was really trying it more as a cultural/psychological experiment. You know... for science.

The elevator ride came first. I positioned myself at the back with a big grin. Two people got in on the long descent to the street. They ignored me and Ricardo who was turning purple from trying to contain his laughter. Dignified they both just stared at the elevator door intently, desperate to escape that dreaded question "why?"

In the streets, the commuter zombies were so lost in their cares that few noticed how stupid I looked. Every once in a while someone would see me though... You could read the internal dialog on his face... is he? He is. Why? What on earth? One young lady passing in a bus pointed me out to her friend. Another older woman just burst out laughing.

In the darkening gloom after a wearying day, I'm glade I was able to send at least one person home with a chuckle...

The Travesti Who Could

In the previous post, I noted the grim reality that most travestis end up working in prostitution. However, Ricardo told me about a case in the Northeastern state of Ceará about a travesti who managed to graduate from college and even pass the rigorous public exam to work in the school system as a teacher. I looked up the story written by Kalima Fernandes in the January 4th, 2009 ed. of the Folha de São Paulo.

It was so inspiring, I thought I'd share the main points with you. João Filho, or Luma as she prefers to be called, is the first travesti to enter into a doctorate program in Brazil. She also works in the school system managing 28 schools in 13 districts of the state.

Luma is the child of illiterate poor parents. She chose to study to support her family instead of entering into prostitution. In the school system, she was the constant victim of ridicule and physical violence. She tells the story of once running to a teacher for help after being assaulted by a classmate only to be told, "Good job, and who was it who forced you to be this way?" She remembers that the persecution would only diminish around exams when her classmates would ask her for help with math.

Upon graduating, despite her exemplary performance and grades, she was singled out to be monitored for a over a month by the school director. Another attempted to block her assignment all together. In the classroom, she often would face ridicule from her own students.

Now, as she continues her doctorate research, there is no questioning that she is highly qualified. Apart from her professional performance, her own truly heroic struggle against intense discrimination and ridicule to obtain an education and a respectable job is a testimony to her strength of character. Hopefully, her courage will open the doors for other young travestis in education and provide new opportunities away from a life on the streets.

Why face all this grief? Why come out of the closet?

Integrity.

Do what they will, no one can rob you of your freedom and dignity if you are true to yourself.

You go, girl.

Gender B-b-b-b-bender!

I finally trusted someone here to crop my increasingly unruly mane. That person was the oh so fabulous travesti who reigns from her beauty parlor on the north shore of the lake.

When we walked in the door, I met a large black woman. Everything about her physical appearance was somewhat contradictory. Her feet were huge, but beautifully manicured. Her face had the strong jaw of a man, but was framed by elegantly styled long hair and softened with makeup. She served us coffee and we chatted for a while. She went out of her way to make me feel welcome and to cut my hair... I couldn't help feel she was trying to search out my impression. Is he okay with me?

While I never got breast implants, began dressing in women's clothing, adopted a woman's name and started wearing make up, I do empathize. Being known as gay also tends to put you on edge around new people you're not sure will accept you. Fortunately, for me I just don't care anymore what people think (most of the time). But then again, I have it easier than my hairdresser.

People might forgive an alternate sexual preference, but mess with their concept of gender roles and boy do they get uncomfortable! Man = this. Woman = that. In fact, we often praise people for having characteristics in line with our ideas about gender. "He's so strong and manly..."

Now to clarify, travestis are not transsexual women, nor are they cross dressing men. In America, we like dualities: man v. woman, right v. wrong, gay v. straight, Republican v. Democrat, white v. er... well, not white. Travestis are more like the Libertarian party of gender. Americans might manage to recognize their existence, but they aren't really sure what to do with them on election day.

To explain: men who have sex with travestis are not considered homosexual; however, travestis generally are biologically male with varying degrees of modification. We don't really have a way to work them into our rigid Anglo categories. Nevertheless, many other cultures do have a parallel third gender. Take the Berdache or "Twospirits" in Native America or the Hijra of South Asia. While in Latin America and South Asia, these people are often forced into prostitution due to a lack of opportunity in the formal job market, this is by no means always true. Take my hairdresser for example. Really they're fairly common in Brazil...

In fact, in Native American cultures, these people were often high status individuals performing certain roles in society such as medicine and religious rituals. Unfortunately, in all these cultures the Anglo idea of fulfilling a gender role equaling morality has taken hold and resulted in intense discrimination. Or maybe it comes from the familiar case of economically empowered straight men sitting at the top of the heap. Whatever the reason, violence against travesti prostitutes is often horrific. Their HIV infection rates tend to be much, much higher than the rest of the population. No wonder they have the reputation for being fighters... you don't want to mess with someone backed into a corner.

p.s. Watch this movie!