thegoodfellas/blogset-br huggingface dataset:
It allbegan with a desperate desire to be heard. Or better yet, a desire to speak. It was2016, and I had just moved to Richmond.Leaving mycountry had a bittersweet taste to it. My nomad soul craved for the adventureof living overseas, and I knew I was making the right choice for my kidsfuture, but once I got here, I realized how important my close circle offriends and family was. Being away from them turned me into a quiet person,unable to use my huge repertoire of words I so eagerly gathered throughout theyears. When Icould finally say the kids are well adjusted I knew it was time to dosomething for me. And I ended up at a writing class. Not a mere writing class,a memoir writing class. I didntknow much what to await. I knew I didnt expect to deliver amazing pieces,since my English didnt match my Portuguese skills, but for the first time inmy life I was satisfied with low expectations. I just wanted to write.I remembermy first impression as if it happened just yesterday. I felt so small... All myclassmates were ahead of me in this game of life, and had so much to writeabout, it felt like I shouldnt even be using the word memoir. And then,they began to talk. And I started to listen. And out of that writing class,came so much healing, that it was inevitable not to heal along. I needed theirstories to understand my own. I felt blessed to know a little about their livesthrough their short weekly stories and thus feel at ease with all the changes Ihad gone through in that year. They had no idea back then, but they were a hugepart of my adjustment period. They gave me perspective.The firstone I fell in love with was Rosie. She caught my attention the minute shestepped in the room, for she had a very modern and cool look. I loved herhaircut and the way she dressed. She was 75, and could have been a catwalkmodel even when we met. But she really got me when she started to read herpiece. Her southern accent and dramatic, paused reading could be used in aForest Gump kind of movie. Run, Forest, Run, in Rosies voice, was an Oscarwinner. She was seeking to be lighter in her life, and that was something Icould relate to. I needed to be lighter myself. Rosie closed her eyes when wewere reading our pieces, smiled when we wrote something funny and tightened herlips when it was something sad. Her writing was a graceful balance of emotions,making us laugh and cry in the same paragraph. She was a writer. I vividlyremember her talking about being a latebloomer, and about a secret she was telling, that as soon as she told us, wewould forget. I never forgot it. Nor have I forgotten Rosie. The laughswe had on Pennys jokes are also unforgettable. She reminded me of my mom, andonce in a while made fun of me, either for being the young one or for someweird English expressions I used. I loved her story on
her life in Brooklyn,for she was able to show all the bliss and colors of the Brooklyn I used towatch on movies. The piece she wrote about her boyfriends became instantly aGrease scene on my mind. Penny was all about sense of humor, therefore when herpiece brought us a hard moment of her life, all of us could feel her pain and guilt. I want my memoir to beabout Joy, she said. Im lucky, and being lucky is to outcome hard times in ajoyful way. Again, something I really needed to hear during those dark days ofmy life. Wherever you are, Penny, thanks for that.We also hadPatsy. Patsy always had a smile on her face, and from day one shared a lot ofher pain with us. We cried with her. We put ourselves in her shoes, and we gotto the point of hoping, from the core of our souls, that her son would find hisway out of a longtime struggle. We knew that would be the only way to end herstruggle. She was not all about herstory with her son, though. She was, in the midst of a hurricane, trying toreconnect with herself. I admired her courage and will power to start again,especially because I had been a grumpy bitch, complaining life was over for me,that I would never work again, etc. Boo hoo, Tatiana, look to your left side,and find some inspiration. Patsy will give it to you. Becky was acharacter. She was very silent, observing more than speaking. The firstimpression she left on me was of a typical American lady, whose origins wentback to the first settlers. As American as it gets. Then, her story started tounfold, and it was funny. She was funny. And coming from a person that lookedso serious and formal, her pieces were even funnier. Each week we awaited thenext chapter of a novel that could well have been a Mexican soap opera. Wegot to know the pieces of her familypuzzle, especially Steve, her husband, and her mom. I wished I had been herfriend when she got married, so I could have helped her fight for her almostlost honeymoon. Becky dealt with theangst and the frustration of her wedding events looking at them throughwriting, when she could finally laugh at them. She had a strong voice, she wasa strong lady. And by cobbling the stones of her story, she taught me a newword.Since Imtalking about characters, let me go to Maureen. I believe Maureen started thatclass expecting something very different from what she got. She was a talkativelady from Buffalo, with an accent I had never heard before. I enjoyed her openas and her rs that, for my foreign ears, sounded like the rest of an Irishinfluence. I loved it. When we first started discussing the healing process ofwriting she could not relate to it, for she forgot the past as soon as ithappened. She had this light soul that didnt carry around the weight of hardevents. So, at first, it was not easy to grasp her story. She told us a friendrecommended the memoir class
so she could get rid of me, she said laughing. When she started diggingin her past, she came up with beautiful descriptions of her house, detailsabout her childhood Christmas, but still no human relations. Maureen was,probably, the one who made most progress in that fun group. And then, one day,she wrote about her dating adventures, and we could finally, know more abouther ways. We will always remember the clumsy pretender lying on her new sofa, asking for the dinner leftovers.. Shewas going beyond the surface. Maureenhad done it.In everygroup there is someone we have to discover. Someone that looks mysterious atfirst, but as time goes by, starts to surprise you as a very interesting andsparkling person. And to me, in that group, that person was Diane.I found hervery serious at first. After listening to her text about raising her kids in acountryside house, the stereotype of a nice mother and housewife stuck with me.But being life a well of surprises (oh, I can see Penny laughing at thisexpression...) Diane taught me not to hold on to impressions so fast. Listeningto her bits of life I learned how all women are women in any age. As she readthe story about her first love all the senses of a passionate woman wereuncovered in front of us. With thatpiece we saw her stripped of age, of race, of nationality. We saw the pure andwild woman she was. As we all are. It was as if I learned, at the age of 40,not to label people and to be ready for the amazing stories behind every humanbeing. Its amusing to look back at thattime and see what I kept in my heart about those people I shared 12 Tuesdayswith. Diane was struggling with health issues, and to be honest, after so manyyears, I dont quite remember what exactly that was. I remember she was anartist, she sold some of her paintings and the immense literary knowledge shehad. And I remember girl Diane hiding ina car to read by herself, young Diane walking hand in hand with a sailor in New York, woman Diane facing anairplane trip do touch that hand again and lady Diane, sharing those memorieswith us. Andfinally, to cobble all those different needs, styles and experiences (SeeBecky, after all this time, I think Ive learned how to use the verb...) we hadthe teacher. He must have felt like Arthur in Avalon, for the womens power inthat group was overwhelming. His name was Doug, and had some mystery to him aswell. He always arrived quietly, as he should, as we, the girls, were alwayslively talking about some Podcast Penny had heard, or some of Maureens traffictickets, and took his seat. Good morning came from us, to which he kindlyresponded. I could see him doing exactlythe same in his family, not interfering in his wife and daughtersconversations, as a way to show reverence to the feminine universe around him.At first I thought Doug was a Literature Teacher, like myself. Then, I learnedhe was a playwriter. Then I learned he was an actor. And a singer. The
man wasan artist, kindly conducting us towards the art of writing. I remember the glowin his eyes whenever he spoke of his daughter. This was definitely a lovingfather. Lucky girl. He too shared some intimate moments with us. We saw himsaying good bye to his father, we listened about his farewell to his mother (sosoon, I remember) and gave him space to talk about his differences with hisbrother. He, also, needed healing. Maybe the memory of him I still carry withme to this day is the one of him reciting Yeats on our first class. It felt soNotting Hill to me. As if I were in a British bookstore listening to the poethimself. Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.Became instantly one of my favorite verses.I look back on those days with a warm feeling in myheart. I wish I knew how all those amazing people are now. I could bet Penny isstill making people laugh, Becky is standing up for herself and hopefullytaking looong trips with Steve and that Rosie is helping her friends by readingthem her own stories. (or maybe she is strip dancing in Vegas, I vaguelyremember something to do with strip tease...) Im pretty sure Maureen is talkingto a close friend and once in a while trying to find a nice company for a coldnight. Im sure Patsy found peace, and her son is now a healthy adult. I can also guess she is now running some kind ofhelping center for mothers who are in the shoes she once were. Diane? Eithershe is reading in the quiet of a car or painting the sailors portrait, theultimate canvas that glues her life into one big Museum. (I could use cobble,again, but nah...). Doug is now a happy grandfather to 4 girls, who he lovesalmost blindly. I can see his eldest granddaughter getting his wedding ring andasking: Grandpa Doug, what is written here? He then looks with greattenderness to his wife, and answers Its I Love you, in poets language,honey.They are all writing, thats for sure. We are allwriting. For this is the one thing we all had in common: the feeling that existencewas better understood if it was a word on a paper.
I guess I should start this one by the end. Just like Machado de Assis, author of the Brazilian classic novel The Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas, Ill start by the end. But, not being the literary genius he was, I will be the voice on this piece. Machado gave the voice of the classic memoir to the deceased narrator, who feels no shame at all to look back on his mean and selfish character, and thus, trustworthy to the reader. Who can judge him now? He doesnt care.I wish I could listen to my dads life from this vantage point. He would be sitting at a bars table, sipping his cheap wine, nibbling cheese and salami, as he looked back on his journey here on Earth. Maybe then, I would be able to understand him better. Or at least, I would be able to see if he understood himself, at all.Tatiana, bring me a little slice of guava marmelade and white cheese, please... Romeo and Juliet, his favorite dessert...And then, on a cold summer morning, Romeo came along. Not the cheese of his sweet and salty dessert, but his first grandson, my first child and the apple of his eyes. That little piece of human being brought up something in the old man that I never felt I, as a daughter, did. He was in love. Dad laughed as a kid at each of Romeos movements, each of his small achievements and when his grandson first smiled at him, I saw the most pure and bright smile I had seen in 33 years. He felt complete.Romeo was three months old when I woke up to my husband saying your dad is sick, we have to call an ambulance. He was visiting for the weekend, and could not get up in the morning. The paramedics had a very hard time lifting that 6,2 feet man up the stairs, lying on a stretcher. I saw his hand trying to grab the handrail, showing me how afraid he was of falling, and I can still feel my heart beating scared and realizing how fragile my strong dad was. He was 81.He was in and out of the local Hospital for the following 2 months, and I was juggling taking care of my sick dad and a newly born son. Both men of my life need me so bad, both men of my life needing me like little boys. The day he was diagnosed with Leukemia we were sitting at the doctors office, I was holding Romeo and Dad was all smiles. He was wearing a wool vest over his cream pajama shirt, blue sports pants and worn out shoes. My father had always had worn out shoes, ever since I can remember. He liked to say that he would happily wear old shoes so my sister and I could go to good schools. And so he did. The only inheritance Ill ever leave you is your education. His shoes were a statement to that.As I was trying to grasp the image of my old,
debilitated father, the same one who used to send us to our bedrooms in fear of his enraged discussions with my mom, I heard his last wish:You know, doctor, I dont want to live more than one year or so. All I want, now, is to see my grandson say vovo (grandpa, in Portuguese)My answer was just like any answer should be: Ow, Dad, stop it, you are a bull, youll live to see his first girlfriend.He shooshed me with his hand, silently telling the doctor to pay no attention to me, I knew nothing...That same day my mom took over, even though they had been separated for many years, and they still had a sea of hurt between them. He will ruin your marriage if he stays with you, and he might live for 10 more years! You have to focus on your family, Ill take care of him.He looked like a boy being dragged against his will and pride when I drove him to my moms apartment, but Im sure he, too, knew that was the best option. My mom took care of him as a daughter would, yet I never felt he was grateful for that... Being a deceased narrator he might have told us how much it hurt to accept his ex wifes help. Being I the narrator, one can only assume...Romeo started walking, I was pregnant again, he held his granddaughter many times, and I could see him fading. To hold Iolanda I had to be next to him, and he could only keep her so much.In September 2009, we took the kids and the grandmas to a resort hotel in Bahia, the place where Brazil is Brazil at its most. Beaches, sun, music, good food, friendly people and coconut water. And a phone call.Dad is in Intensive Care. He couldnt breath and the doctors think he has water in his lungs, but so far he is doing all right.My sister placed his clothes (same wool vest, same rotten shoes) in a cabinet, showing him where they were.Take them with you, Caia, I will not be leaving here...He was put on oxygen mask, as I bargained for a reschedule of our air ticket. As we waited, my mom and my mother in law were trying to make Romeo say vovo, (grandma) but all he could say was vovo... Thats when I called my sisters friend who was on duty that afternoon. She placed the phone on his year and I said:Dad, wait up, were flying home tomorrow! And I have news: Romeo said vovo!Ana s voice returned to the speaker, nervous and loud: What did you say to him?? Hes extremely agitated.That was the last sentence my father consciously heard, for he went into a coma as soon as we hung up.The following thirteen days were hard to take, especially as we saw him at that bed, languishing to his final morning, on September 23rd. I was wearing a striped brown tunic over brown leggings, doing my make up for a regular day. Eye shadow on my
right eye, left one undone. My brother in law calls. Its 8:30 in the morning, this can only mean one thing. I bend down in pain, cell phone in one hand, eye shadow brush in the other. Hes gone...We dont do big funerals in Brazil. We dont wear black funeral clothes, we dont serve food and we dont wait for relatives who are far away. I wish we had incorporated more of the African culture we so take as ours when it comes to celebrating the passage in a joyful way, but no... In that sense, we are Portuguese to the core. Melancholic and taciturn. My father was Portuguese himself, but quite the opposite. I was so confused growing up with him because he could switch to extremes in a second, but his light side was a very funny one. And thats how he pranked us for the last time. We ended up choosing a song for his cremation in such a hurry, we never discussed if it was appropriated for a funeral or not.You can play this one, we dont care...So there he was, rising in his coffin, to the sound of The Four Seasons, a joyful piece of classical music that was known in Brazil for being the theme of a soap commercial.I had to laugh.p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Baskerville; color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Baskerville; color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 15.0px}p.p3 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 32.0px Baskerville; color: #dc5922; -webkit-text-stroke: #dc5922}p.p4 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 8.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 18.0px Baskerville; color: #5c432b; -webkit-text-stroke: #5c432b}p.p5 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 27.0px; font: 15.0px Baskerville; color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000; min-height: 17.0px}p.p6 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-indent: 27.0px; font: 15.0px Baskerville; color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke: #000000}span.s1 {font-kerning: none}span.s2 {letter-spacing: 0.3px}Well, he was a soap lover after all...
It's hard to choose the language I will write in now... My heart knows all the subliminar beauty in Portuguese's melancholic words, but my surroundings have no idea what "saudades" means... And the better I am at explaining things, "saudades" is just too Portuguese to be explained. "Saudades" has a salty taste that interweaves with the tears it breeds and comes with the sound of a good old "Fado Portugues". "Missing" something doesn't come close to explaining "saudades". We own it.Choosing the language is maybe the smallest of my choices. Daily choices. "Do I do laundry now or do I sweep the kitchen?"; "Do I buy 'cage free' or 'cage free organic' eggs?"; "Do I hand wash my dishes or use the dishwasher?"; "Coconut or Almond milk on my coffee?" Boring choices my father would not be necessarily proud of...All I am now is a result of my choices. And I have been very grueling to the feeling that I got to my 40's with no idea of who I really was. This last years have been an almost juvenile amount of crisis rolling around this question that can actually keep you nailed to the same spot until you are too old to figure it out anyways.So I decided to understand my "uniqueness" through the small choices I make. (No, whether I use fabric softner or vinegar does not belong to this category...) But there's a catch to this. At least for me: these choices that define me, are the ones I make when I'm alone. Sola, allein, sozinha, seul, hitori de, all by myself.Don't get me wrong, all I do make me, but most of it is related to the people around me. I decide to go early to the gym to be available to my kids later. I watch basketball with my hubbie because he loves it, but I won't watch MMA... I read about good techniques to raise my strong willed daughter, but probably I do so quickly because self help books bore me to death.I know who I am when I watch a show about politics, or History, or the great mysteries that lie in museums or castles... Perfect Saturday night for me, after putting the kids to bed: A marathon of "Race to the White House" on CNN, followed by "The Tudor castles" in Smithsonian and "Van Gogh and Gaugin: behind the scenes." If I can wrap up the night with "The Golden Lady" on Netflix or "Civil War in colour" I will go to bed smiling. (obviously I never do that, by 10 I am drooling in the sofa while History Channel tries to teach me what might have happened to Hitler had he survived the war...) "Antony Bourdain" or "Chef's Table" make me extremely happy, but only when I have Fernando by my side. He is my chosen travel and dining companion. Hence the necessity of him, so we can dream and possibly decide on our next destination. Or snack....I know I prefer sparkling wine while I watch all of those presumptuous shows above cited.
Rose is my choice, though, for I won't drink the whole bottle... I'll have grapes to nibble and will end with a small piece of salted chocolate.I will write while the grapes disappear from the bowl and the words fill my screen, and I will postpone my children's bed time because I don't edit and I will not come back to this piece later. It is what it is. No looking back has place in my writing. Or my life.I will only read if there is a hint of time travel in the plot. Oh, paradoxal you, what about "there's no looking back bla bla bla?"... Yeah, there's that... The fascination with looking back and imagining how people lived in old times. How they smelled, behaved, ate and loved... Nothing catches more my attention than the possibility of imagining myself in Florence during the Renaissance or in Ireland during the 1930's... ("Angela's Ashes" on my nightstand as we speak...) That very smart look I have in a Museum has nothing to do with a great knowledge of Art Techniques, but is the face of a person trying to set that object in the place and time it was produced.The only thing I cannot choose is to write. Writing is more that an option, is a necessity. I remember writing letters I would never send, and writing poetry on my journal... If all of you knew Cecilia Meireles I could say that "Eu canto porque o instante existe", but you don't know her.... She taught me that a poet writes because. Just because. If I don't, I choke.And I don't want to choke anymore.I choose to breath.I choose to be me.