Nothing surprises an immigrant more then someone speaking their language— be it someone from the same country as them, or not. If familiarity had a language, for me, it would be Portuguese. The sing-song tone of it; the altos and lows and letters and punctuations that don’t exist in any other language I’ve studied. I’ve studied four.
So I’m in this coffee shop, right? And I’m nervous; I’m really nervous because I’m fifteen minutes away from starting my first ever official internship in a country that is not my own with a language that is not my own and I decide: why not have some coffee? Inside this quaint coffee shop I go, and here I find myself. And I know– I just know– that I’ll be there once again on Wednesday. And Monday. And Wednesday. And Monday again. And until my internship is over, I am fully aware of my presence in that little coffee shop; maybe too aware of it. Too aware of the melodic voice of Marisa Monte coming through the speakers; the loud cries of the baby and the familiar hushes of the mother. You see, we, Brazilians— and I am sure it’s not just us, I’m sure everyone must think this about themselves too— do things in a very particular manner: loud, careful, obvious. We give and take, just like that. We worry about our friends and we worry about everything else, some would even call us paranoid. But the truth is, we might be paranoid. We might be loud. We might even be obnoxious from time to time; but we are smart. And I don’t mean smart as in school smart, I mean street smart. We know how to handle pretty much any situation, having grown old with a certain set of rules. No talking to strangers alone. No walking alone. No going out at night alone. No living alone. Not being alone. And well, being here, I’m always alone.
It’s Wednesday now and I go in the same quaint coffee shop. I order the same iced latte. I hear the same melodic accent coming from the clueless bartender. I think he might also be Brazilian and that warms my heart. I hear her before I see her; the melody of her voice and the magnetism of her presence; that’s something I’ve only felt a limited amount of times. Her voice draws me in, my iced coffee long forgotten in my right hand; the nipping feeling of the ice not noticeable over this hypnosis I felt. It was incredible. My mind almost forgetting her, almost replacing her, but not quite because there is nothing that could fill up such position. She is my mother, my friend, and my confidant. She is my right hand, my heart, and my mind. She is hard, and volatile, and really, really beautiful. She’s something I am proud of.
She rocks me slowly, side to side, once I reach her open arms. Her image ever changing, from love, to kindness, to angry, to maliciousness. Her voice, oh her voice, singing a sweet melody– one that my mom sang to me when I was little.
Você é assim. You’re just like this.
Um sonho pra mim. A dream to me.
E quando eu não te vejo. And when I don’t see you.
Eu penso em você. I think about you.
E a gente não se cansa. And we don’t get tired.
Da nossa velha infância. Of our old childhood.
Yes, my old childhood. That’s who she is. She is my brother calling out my name, and my mom scolding me for drawing on the walls. She’s my dad laughing and my teacher shouting. She’s all around me. She’s the alfa presence.
And she’s as beautiful as always.
