thegoodfellas/blogset-br huggingface dataset:
"Como alguem faz isso com uma crianca? Como?"Ele disse isso aos prantos, sentado ao meu lado, abrindo o coracao (e o bau de historias) para um grupo de escritores que ele conheceu a apenas 8 semanas. As lagrimas que comecaram a aparecer se transformaram em um choro doido, alto, daqueles de chacoalhar os ombros, e que te obriga fazer algo. Alguem passou a caixa de lencos pra ele, entao minha unica opcao foi colocar a mao em suas costas e gentilmente tracar um circulo de carinho nelas. Eu queria mesmo era abraca-lo, mas 8 semanas sao 8 semanas. Cedo pra colocar aquele homem de 65 anos e porte de motoqueiro no meu colo e ninar a crianca que precisava ser ninada.Dave e um cara grande, daqueles com voz de trovao que te intimidam de cara. Una a isso o sotaque de italiano do Brooklin e voce tem desenhada a imagem de um bad boy mafioso de quem e melhor manter a distancia. Humana que eu sou, na primeira aula duvidei que ali morasse alguma sensibilidade artistica notavel, alem de talvez uma habilidade para consertar motores, ja que seus dedos estavam bem sujos de algo preto. So podia ser graxa, o que mais?Entao vi que um pedaco de papel toalha molhado de tinta preta estava ao lado de um caderno com papel grosso e capa de couro e vi que a graxa que eu julguei era, nada menos, que pingos de uma caneta tinteiro que Dave usa para escrever. Sua graxa e tinta. Quem ainda escreve com caneta tinteiro? Provavelmente alguem que escreve ha anos e que da tamanha importancia pra sua arte que nao se importa com o tempo ou com a sujeira que ela demanda.Suas historias comecaram a delinear uma personalidade tao complexa quanto sua escrita, que me leva as lagrimas a cada aula. Eu nao sou a unica, Dave chora sem medo nenhum de chorar. De todos nos, e de longe o melhor escritor. De longe! Neste grupo compreendi que nao basta ter uma historia pra contar, tem que saber conta-la, conectar as ideias e usar as imagens mais adequadas. Alem de tudo isso, ha que se ter uma voz. Nao a de trovao dele, ou a rouca que eu tenho, ou a esganicada que uma moca tem, ou a suave, sulista e saudosa da Rosie, mas a voz literaria que permeia cada pagina de sua escrita. A maioria de nos esta ainda buscando sua voz narrativa, e a do Dave nao deixa que ele fuja dela: sua voz e negra, pesada e cheia de melancolia e dor. Ele diz que nao "quer mais tentar pintar um quadro bonito" e eu respondo que se ele estava fazendo isso, sua voz o estava traindo: a beleza de suas palavras esta no peso delas.Foram semanas de atalhos para que a crianca aparecesse no papel. Os anos em que morou com sua primeira esposa no Vale da Morte, depois seus dias de "homem das montanhas" no Colorado, as aventuras de quem nao tinha lacos em nenhuma parte do pais e seus anos vivendo
como professor de ingles na Europa foram apenas um preambulo pra chegar no dia da morte de seu pai.Ele comeca falando de uma professora que, em uma fase em que ele nao se sentia visto em casa, viu nele um potencial que sua mae de luto nao enxegrava. O menino de 11 anos agora esta em um palco, recitando um discurso historico que, memorizado, deu a ele a chance de intercalar o nervosismo do palco (e a vontade de agradar a freira que era sua professora e unica pessoa que ele respeitava entao) com a lembranca do dia do casamento de sua irma mais velha.Ele tinha 6 anos, e esperava o resto da familia se arrumar para a cerimonia, em um fim de tarde em 1958 quando seu pai caiu no banheiro depois de passar por uma cirurgia de coracao. A proxima imagem e de seus familiares arrastando o corpo sem vida de seu pai para a sala e a ordem de irem buscar um padre. Nao um medico, um padre. Dave corre pelas ruas do Brooklin com sua irma e volta com o Padre, que nada pode fazer a nao ser ser Padre. Sem entender como, ele escreve que o casamento seguiu, assim como a vida, e ele, aos 6 anos, nao foi a cerimonia e dormiu sozinho em um quarto escuro na casa do vizinho, sem maiores explicacoes e nenhuma companhia.O texto acaba, e ele em meio ao nosso silencio estupefato, chora: "Como alguem faz isso com uma crianca? Como?"Sao sessenta anos entre um dia e o outro, e a crianca ainda quer saber o porque, ainda sente medo do escuro e muita raiva pela solidao que lhe impuseram. No dia em que seu pai morreu, sua irma se casou, ele dormiu sozinho. Como?A empatia que me torna humana me fez chorar, com vontade de correr no tempo e deitar ao lado do Dave menino, abraca-lo bem forte e dizer que de um jeito meio torto, tudo ia ficar bem. Eu diria pra ele que ele nao tem culpa da bagunca interna dos outros e que alguem, ao longo do caminho, ia ve-lo como ele merece ser visto. Que fosse num carro no Arizona, numa cabine nas montanhas do Colorado ou numa mesa de escritores em Richmond.Como eu nao posso voltar no tempo, eu apenas escuto, entre lagrimas, minhas, dele e de todos ali tocados pela forca da escrita e da memoria...
Eu ja escrevi aqui sobre a Rosie, e sobre as outras mulheres maravilhosas que eu conheci no meu curso de escrita de memorias... Foram 12 semanas intensas, repletas de historias de vida, risadas e muitas, mas muitas lagrimas mesmo... Imagine 8 mulheres sentadas em volta de uma mesa, uma a uma abrindo, aos poucos, seus coracoes e seus baus de sabedoria... Quase uma reuniao de Avalon em pleno seculo XXI. Pra quem acompanhou minha saga com a escrita nesse periodo lembra a importancia que aquelas reunioes de terca feira tiveram no meu ajuste a vida nova. E, claro, no meu crescimento como mulher...Foi tao bom, que eu me inscrevi de novo. Minhas amiguinhas acima dos 75 todas disseram que voltariam agora pras 12 sessoes no outono, e eu estava super empolgada para ve-las e ouvir mais de suas vidas. A ideia de ter a Rosie lendo com seu sotaque sulista as historias de sua infancia, de rir ate doer a barriga com a ironia da Penny e chorar de preocupacao com o filho da Patsy me deixou mais feliz que pinto em dia de chuva... (ah, as expressoes que eu nunca vou ter em ingles...)E hoje chegou o dia. Qual nao foi a minha decepcao em ver que so a Becky voltou... Olhei em volta e me senti como crianca em primeiro dia de aula num pais estranho. "Ah, eles nao tem cara de ser nem metade do que nosso grupo era. Nao gostei de ninguem. Quero ir embora. Povo chato. Nada a ver. Afff" Todas essas verdades absolutas passaram pela minha cabeca nos primeiros 3 segundos de contato, enquanto eu via que um senhor tinha roubado o meu lugar (como assim, ele nao sabe que eu sentei a primavera toda ali??) e precisava me acomodar do outro lado da mesa. Sheldon Cooper, I so get you...Seguimos 8. O mesmo professor com cara de professor. A mesma introducao. E assim que as pessoas comecam a abrir a boca, a magica acontece. Das bocas saem as primeiras historias, quem eu sou, por que estou ali, por que escrevo e por que quero escrever sobre a minha vida. Por que eu quero saber da vida dos outros. Por que eu sou quem eu sou. Ou melhor, "estou aqui pra descobrir quem eu sou".A Carol e a primeira. Advogada, professora de Direito, quer registrar a linda relacao que ela teve com o pai, e essa relacao se deu em volta de uma propriedade na Carolina do Norte. Carol sempre escreveu textos juridicos, mas quer treinar algo mais pessoal. Logo de cara, no primeiro texto, ela chora falando da casa que o pai deixou, e que agora ela precisa vender. Na minha cabeca limitada, eu sigo escutando sem entender por que alguem quer escrever sobre "terra" e propriedade", ate que ela me da a licao que eu preciso ouvir: "pra nos, um pedaco de terra sempre significou liberdade e independencia." Carol e negra. Da Carolina do Norte. Eu suspiro e entendo, finalmente, ao que ela veio...Jennifer pede pra pular, por enquanto, sua apresentacao. Pulemos, conforme ela
pediu. Deve ser timida, a pobrezinha. Nao deve estar muito confortavel pra falar em publico. A Pat e uma senhora de cabelos brancos que se apresenta como alguem que perdeu contato com sua familia e quer retomar sua infancia maravilhosa atraves da escrita. No primeiro texto, fala sobre se entender como gay aos 40 anos, depois de um divorcio e um filho de 8 anos. Fala sobre sua relacao com a mae, com irmaos e primos, pra, no fundo, falar sobre sua relacao consigo mesma.O John ja fez esse curso antes, e na primeira fase, falou sobre sua infancia conturbada, com uma mae alcoolatra que fazia a manha de Natal ser a mais feliz do ano, por que ela acordava sobria. Seu texto me deu um soco no estomago:"Nas manhas de Natal, minha mae... fazia cookies. Fazia panquecas. Acordava antes de nos e punha uma linda mesa de cafe da manha." Nao, Tatiana. Ela acordava sobria.A Lisa fala pouco, baixo, e chora logo no primeiro texto. Filha de alema com filipino, casada com um indiano, ela lanca na mesa logo de cara a culpa por ter corrido de um ataque de adolescentes e de ter deixado seu primo pra tras, pra apanhar de corrente de meninos americanos que os chamaram de nazistas, por causa do alemao que falavam. O Dave, do meu lado, deve ter uns 55 anos, e tem um sobrenome italiano que ele pronuncia como se tivesse saido de um filme de mafiosos em NY. Um sujeito grande com cara de motoqueiro, que dava aula de ingles em Hanover e resolveu voltar pros EUA depois de 15 anos na Europa. Compete comigo e com a Carol pra ver quem de nos fala mais. Da varias dicas de tragedias familiares, que logo enchem seus olhos de lagrimas, e eu fico logo surpresa em ver tamanha sensibilidade em um grandao com cara de mau...A Wenda nunca escreveu. Tem uma fala rapida e agitada, assim como seu primeiro texto. Esta ali por que encontrou centenas de paginas de um diario que sua filha escreveu antes de falecer aos 19 anos, de uma doenca cronica, e quer entender como colocar tudo em uma historia linear. Depois de todos, a Jennifer fala. Ela e jamaicana, e enquanto escuta o que os outros falam, tem um sorriso doce no rosto e murmura um divertido "hum hum", concordando com as falas dos colegas. Em meio ao sorriso facil, ela diz que foi abusada pelo pai. Por isso pediu um tempo pra falar. Precisa escrever sobre tudo que passou, pra ajudar outras mulheres e ajudar a si mesma a achar paz. Daqueles 3 segundos da minha primeira impressao nao sobrou nada. Aquelas pessoas sem graca que de cara me desagradaram todas foram embora, e de repente, chegaram outras, cheias de medo, paixao, sabedoria e empatia. Sentaram-se ao meu lado na mesa oval daquela casa do seculo XIX que eu amo e imediatamente eu me interessei por elas. Serao mais 12 semanas de choro, risada, terapia, escrita, literatura e vida. Muita vida.
It's the kind of subject that everyone has an opinion on, nowadays. Tip of the tongue, pro or con, Immigration is great, or Immigration sucks. Bring them in, or send them home....Home...What I don't seem to hear, though, is what people consider to be home... Or what is "being a true American" or a "true Brazilian" means... (lots of "..." on this post, lots of thoughts, inconclusive thoughts, sighs, "saudades", nostalgia, fear, sadness, hope.... All of them demand "...")Let me start by what I know best. Let me tell you what being a "true Brazilian" means: My father was born in Rio, and was on a ship to his mom's Portugal when he was 2 months old. At 6, he was in a plot to kill Dictator Salazar, and at 21 he was listening to cannibal tribes in Congo, right before he hopped on a ship to Brazil. Back in Rio, he was asked: "What ID do you want? Portuguese or Brazilian?"He said "he, since I'm here, let's go with the Brazilian one."He always considered himself Portuguese, as other people around him did. As I do. His accent was the most charming thing about him, and the stories he told us at dinner made me love a country I am yet to visit. Now, more than EVER, I understand how he felt when he listened to fado, sitting on our couch, eyes distant and a wistful smile to Amalia Rodrigues' voice. (he wouldn't weep, as I do when I listen to "O Bebado e o Equilibrista", but I am pretty sure he felt the yearning those melodies brought...) He sought the smells he left behind, and brought them to our kitchen, the flavors to our table and the culture to our hearts.Yet, he couldn't have been more Brazilian. Especially when he bragged about his ancestors, "We descend from the moors and the jews" (note: AND... Apparently there are both Muslim and Jewish bloods running somewhere in my highly mixed veins) Dad adored this melting pot he said he descended from. It was his pride and joy, to belong to many places, and to no place at all...Shifting to the other side of my family, we call ourselves "Italians". Yes, my mom is "nonna" to my kids, as her mom was to me. Even though my "nonna" descended from native brazilians (you mix that with the moorish genes my dad brought to the cake, and you understand my sister's amazing olive skin tone...) My great grandfather (my nonno's dad) came to Brazil on the huge Italian immigration wave (would we have called them "hunger refugees?...) and here I am, his great grand daughter pride of her "Italian side". We are loud, love pasta, place our "mammas" in the very center of the family, and all of that, because we still think WE were the ones sailing the ocean a hundred years ago. Basically, the same yearning my dad had, we feel for a culture we NEVER experienced as our own.No one in Brazil will contest that: being a true Brazilian is being from
everywhere, a mixture of a bit of every corner in the world.I married a mixed Italian/ Spanish guy, have blond frackled kids who I placed on a ship to a different country I now call home.I cannot conceive a world without Immigration. At least, not my world. We are ALL immigrants.And here is where I finish my first thought... What does "home" mean to me?An Immigrant has a split heart, has eyes always teared up and feels that something is always missing. But at the same time, the first step of becoming an immigrant is filling your heart with hope an joy. You do not throw your soul to the sea if you are not expecting to float, to lie on your back and contemplate the blue skies. You know you will swallow some water on a storm eventually, but you long for the warmth of the sun.An immigrant cries in the shower because one picture she saw reminded her of a friend, or of the smell of a place. An immigrant smiles when she sees the flag of her country and weeps when she listens to the National Anthem. An immigrant, knows different literatures, languages, songs, foods, beliefs, Histories, and should be seen as an addition to every nation. You don't make foundue with one good cheese.Nevertheless, embracing a new country brings new loves, new ways to see the world, new friends and a new National Anthem. After a while, becoming an Immigrant gives you a new home. So, at the end, there is nowhere to run... Your heart will ALWAYS be split, you will forever be missing someone, some place, some taste, some sound... You will forever be crying in the shower.I wouldn't change not even one step of my History... If I stay in the US forever or for one more day, this will always feel like home to me. And I love it. Loving the US doesn't make me love Brazil less. People shouldn't make that assumption, for an immigrant's heart is filled with nuances that allow us to understand love as a whole. Love is one, and this is what I believe home is...For the curious ones:Amalia Rodrigues, Queen of Portuguese Fado:"O Bebado e o Equilibrista", the song that brings me to my knees, for mannnnnyyyy reasons, but mostly because my sister sings it beautifully....
So Ithought of finishing by talking about the beginning. If there is a memoir Ishould be writing at this point of my life is the memoir of my femininity. Ofhow I got here and where I think Im headed to, even if my path surprises mewith a sharp turn left... Maybe writing about my journey through womanhood willhelp me understand it better. Its a confusing track, filled with metaphors andeuphemisms that you dont quite get at the right time. The woman Iam was seeded with the women my mom and grandma were, and is planting itsfears and pleasures in my daughters heart. I wish I had better and purer seedsfor her. I wish my steps were lighter on her soil, and that my love would beenough fertilizer. I was 6when I first experimented the mixture of pleasure and fear of being a girl. Thesame age Iolanda is as I write this piece. We were visiting with a friend of myfathers, and he had 2 sons. Andre was around 13 back then. He found me aloneat the living room, and sat in front of me. See how good this feels? he saidas he slipped his fingers in my shorts and through my thighs. He reached mewhere I felt pleasure I never thought existed. A subtle pleasure, like a tickle.For thenext two nights I sneaked out of the family room, where everyone would bewatching tv and sat at the same spot he had found me, hoping he would comeagain. He never did. For someintrinsic reason, I knew I could not mention that to my mom. I was not afraidof Andre, or of the tickle I felt, but I knew there was something about it thatwas prohibited, and from my mom came a core energy of judgment that made mefear her answer, her looks and ultimately, my sexuality. It took me years tounderstand that my fear and my stiffness were not mine, but hers. And it took me three paragraphs tosee why I loath my daughters obsession is wearing shorts. She is six, I wassix. I want her to feel comfortable in her own skin, but I dread the thought ofany invasive touch hurting her soul. I see my moms heart, and how she did allshe knew to protect me. But I also see the anxiety and chains that came alongwith her shield. I want my cub to be free, but for this to happen, I have to befree myself.Sadly, theworld sometimes confirms our nightmares, and I knew for a fact that men were amenace when I was 11. My mom had learned the same thing when she was 11. Themoment that security guard that was supposed to protect our school grabbed myarm, I knew my tenderness was gone. I had my mothers and my grandmothersexample, and now my final mask was ready for me to wear: I had to be strong,with no gap for being tender. You know,thats how it gets heavy. Thats how your face becomes hardened, and the frownon your forehead starts to deepen. The thin lips I have were born with
thatmans threat.I carriedthat burden through the years when I was supposed to learn how to swing myhips, or how to turn my head so my hair would flow along the sensual lines ofmy neck. I felt the inner fire of a sensual me, but it was too sheltered by thepanic of abuse. I was luckyto meet wonderful boys, who became caring and affectionate boyfriends. It justsaddens me that it could have been lighter. A scared woman becomes an insecurewoman. And an insecure woman will do everything she can to be loved. For somemagical inheritance, my daughter carries that trace of insecurity in her. Ithurts me so deep... I wish I could strip her of that feeling that is not hers. Itwas mine. I wish she finds a path where she can walk alone in such comfort,that if someone joins her, she will be delighted, but not in awe. I wish her soulfeeds from itself, and not from someone elses approval. If that is too muchwishing, I just wish she wont take too long to be in peace with herself.It took mea while. In fact, its still a work in progress. The first step was to be happyon my own. In that exact moment, my husband showed up. Delight, not awe. Thelove I felt for him and the love I felt from him was the kind that caressesyour essence, the kind that makes you lie down with a smile instead of withfear. He was gentle, and I was ready to accept his gentleness, with a fearlessheart. And the passion that came with it, for the first time, faced no barrier walls.By his sideI have been learning to seek lightness. The unbearable lightness of being, tobe honest. When I met him, I was kind enough to myself to be able to leanforward and feel fragile. I didnt need to be the fortress I had been, andwinding a lock of hair while he was telling a story was no longer a sign ofweakness. Crossing my legs and wearing a pink dress with a beautiful cleavagewould not endanger me anymore. I was safe being a woman. And not because of him.He was just possible because I was finally a woman. A woman with all the power,but also a woman with a new sense of the feminine. A woman that had begun tounderstand that fear doesnt protect you from the world. Fear stops you fromliving in it. From allthe legacies I could choose to leave for Iolanda there is none more importantthan my healing. She doesnt need my fear, she doesnt need my weight. Sheneeds a restored mother, a cured woman to show her she can be healed herself. And thatthere is no bigger empowerment than just being whole.
One year ago, as I was beginning my journey into this new life and not by far feeling adjusted I went to my first PTA meeting. Every detail of it was new to me, even though, having been a teacher myself, I could not be more used to this sort of event. Principal outlines general issues, teachers go through the projects you will be fencing with your kid at home (yes, fencing, not facing... It's a duel...) and parents either cry of anxiety or float around not having a clue of what lies ahead. In Brazil, we don't have the strong PTA americans have, but I had my share of Hollywood movies to know how it worked. So, theoretically, I was ready.Nothing prepares you, however, to feeling as an outsider. I was an outsider, but felling as one was bringing back memories of my first day of High School at a new school. I so remember placing my pencil case on a desk and a girl approaching me saying "Oh, no, you are not sitting next to Fritz, he is awful! He was my boyfriend last year, and you will haaaaate him! Sit here, next to me". Marina ended up being one of my best friends throughout those hard times, and Fritz ended up expelled for putting a home made bomb on the boy's lavatory. Upscale school, let me add...This time around, I enter a full gym of parents, and no Marina comes to my rescue. I'm a grown up mom and I shrink my shoulders to pass unseen. The "Pledge of Allegiance" starts, and I feel like a catholic in a mosque. "How do I pray that? Can I say the Holy Father?". I wish they were singing the National Anthem, instead. At least I could move my lips to "the land of the free and the home of the brave", every human being knows that emotional ending. No... No anthem.I try to look around and spot other outsiders as myself. Maybe we can softly smile at each other, or even a "peace out" sign, followed by two light punches in the chest, just to say "I get you. You'r not alone." No... No peace out signs.... No punches in the chest... No smiles....I left as soon as the teachers ended their presentations, with so much information on my mind I had a headache that night.And then, life kept on going. School started. Kids made friends. I talked. (I talk too much.) And shit life happened.One year later, I find myself chatting with a friend at her new house deck, after Tae Kwon do class, refusing another glass of my favorite Almond Sparkling wine (yes, one year and you have favorites...) because "I have to go to Back to School Night!""Oh, no you don't! You know everything they will say!!""Yes, I do..."(yes.... I do know...)"But I have to go anyways! Save the bottle for later!"I get to my second PTA meeting thinking of how I had felt on the previous one. I smile... We've come a long way... And I get