And I've seen many Brazilians wear this on a chain, though they definitely were not all Jewish...
But one of the most puzzling uses is in Northeastern folk art, specifically with the figure of the cangaceiro:
Though I've found some clues as to why this symbol seems to have been appropriated by different parts of Brazilian culture, I can't quite figure out how it went beyond the religious realm.
One of my favorite things to do in any city is to observe people and how they interact with each other, and in New York, there is no better place than on the subway.
1AM, on the uptown 5. Three teenagers sat across from me, making conversation slightly louder than necessary. One of the boys, tall with messy hair and dark track marks pocking both arms, leaned coolly against the pole, as a girl a few years his junior stared adoringly at him. A second boy, chubby and self-conscious, was seated next to the girl. They talked about getting drunk and getting high, about their plans for the next time they were planning on getting drunk and high, and drunken blather. I wondered if the girl was hiding track marks on her arms, and how old she was. I wanted to scream at her to get out, to get away from these useless people, that it wasn't worth it, that the boy's cold demeanor was obviously pointing to "he's-just-not-that-into-you" and a lot worse. But I bit my tongue, and watched her trail the boy off the train, lovingly clutching his bruised arm.
2PM, on the downtown 6. I clutched the pole, standing next to three Argentine girls excitedly chattering away. "Re bueno, che!" On my other side were a group of Latino kids and a teenager, who swatted at the children blocking the door, admonishing them in spitfire Dominican Spanish. Across from me, a man read a newspaper in Chinese, and two French tourists pored over a guidebook. "God, I love New York," I thought. The whole world is here.
10AM, on the crosstown shuttle. I stared into space at the ads across the top of the car, scenes from different cities, featuring Delta's new destinations. My heart skipped a beat and filled with saudades. [The photo below is the same ad, but Eli took it of a phone booth ad on the street]
7PM, on the Queens-bound N. A hugely tall man, around 6'7, white with messy hair, hauled four large garbage bags and a grocery cart onto the train. He wore dirty sneakers, cut-off sweatpants, and a grungy sweatshirt. He reeked. Once he managed to drag his stuff into a corner, he set off down the car, staring into people's faces to see who was alert and who might be willing to cough up some change. People busied themselves with their iPods and newspapers. He went one by one, leaning close into the passengers' faces: "Do you have a dollar?" It was somewhere between a plea and a statement, but with an aggressive edge, as if he didn't expect anything, despite the fact that mostly everyone did have a dollar to spare, but hoped to somehow intimidate people into giving him money. He returned to his corner empty-handed, and flopped onto the seat, expressionless.
Sasha Zanger, an Austrian man, married Brazilian woman Maristela dos Santos after meeting in Brazil in 1993. They lived in Austria and had two children, Sophie, age 4, and a boy, age 12. But their marriage came to an end and they divorced. Mr. Zanger paid child support ($1300 euros a month) but his ex-wife failed to give him adequate shared custody.
Then, in January 2008, she disappeared. She had kidnapped her children and brought them to Brazil.
Mr. Zanger then began a legal battle to get his children back, using the Hague Convention as the legal basis for his plea. Under the convention, his children should have been sent to Austria within 6 weeks of the kidnapping. That didn't happen. He fought in the courts, went to Brazil four times and spent $100,000 euros on travel and legal fees. Despite the fact that children were kidnapped, he continued to pay child support, especially since the children were living in a favela in precarious conditions.
But it did no good. Though Maristela was located in March 2008 in Rio de Janeiro, the Brazilian courts granted custody to her sister, Geovana. Maristela suffers from mental illness, and her sister was given responsibility of the children in her stead. Maristela disappeared again in April 2009, and was only located on June 22nd.
Meanwhile, Mr. Zanger saw hope on the horizon: on June 17th, 2009 the Brazilian court granted a warrant for the search and seizure of the children. But the warrant was never put into effect, and law enforcement agents failed to act.
Just two days later, four year-old Sophie was pronounced dead at a hospital in Baixada Fluminense.
She had been severely beaten, with signs of cranial fracture, broken wrists, heavy bruising, and was also malnourished. Her legal guardian, her aunt Geovana, and her cousin, Geovana's daughter, are the prime suspects. They claim Sophie fell in the bathtub. In a TV interview, however, Sophie's brother claims he was the one who beat her, because his aunt told him to.
Mr. Zanger flew to Brazil this week and has refused to leave until he is given his son back, as well as his daughter's body. But after the murder, Maristela's adoptive mother was given custody of Mr. Zanger's son, and he must go back to the court to demand custody.
In the meantime, there is no indication the aunt and cousin were arrested, and Mr. Zanger's son remains in the custody of his ex-wife's adoptive mother.
Anytime I tell someone I just moved back from Brazil, their immediate question is, "What were you doing there?" The answer is a little complicated, and every time I try to explain the set of circumstances that brought me there and that I didn't have an actual career there. That I came back so I could have one.
Since April, I've been searching for a job in New York, even before I came home. I've applied to maybe two dozen places, and got interviews at three. I've been applying mostly to non-profits and a few private companies that do philanthropy, in the hopes that I can find something that involves social development or research in Latin America. I had three first interviews and one second interview, and really convinced myself I was getting the job, in the last case. But with no Masters and two years of unusual non-office jobs, I still find myself unemployed.
Before I came home, my mom had warned me how bad things were, but I waved her off. It wasn't until I got a fresh dose of rejection that I saw how bad the job market really is. I'm competing with people with years of experience and advanced degrees, and despite speaking three languages and having spent a lot of time abroad, I still haven't made the cut.
Though I've been scouring the job boards daily and networking with friends and acquaintances, I've lost a lot of steam since I found out I didn't get the job I thought I would. I haven't heard back from anywhere since then, nor have I found any jobs that look appealing.
The problem is that I came back here with the purpose of doing something worthwhile in my field, to start building a career, and not to take whatever comes around just for the sake of having a job. Though I do need a job for practical reasons, like health coverage and being able to get a lease, I'm still hoping I can find something up my alley. I can't imagine anything worse than languishing at a job I hate just to get by.
But I'm not feeling optimistic. A lot of jobs in my field are in Washington, but for logistical reasons it would be really difficult to move there at this point. I wouldn't mind trying something new, but it's hard to start a career in something totally different. I like teaching, but with no certification and lots more competition with seasoned veterans and properly trained candidates, I don't think I'd have much of a chance. The kind of job I'd like is in short supply in New York, and I'm worried it may be a long time before another opportunity arises.
I definitely don't regret moving back when I did, but I am concerned about what I'm going to do. I can't make a living out of blogging (I'm no Dooce), and making one out of writing is something of a pipe dream. Though I'm overjoyed Eli is finally here, I am weighed down by the stress of not having a full time job, with seemingly no prospects on the horizon.
I'm starting a new series called "Credo!" which is something of a mixture of funny or sad meets crazy and ridiculous. If you have submissions, please send them my way!
For today's post, we have two videos of evangelicals: a young girl preacher and a very, um, creative interpretation of the Bible. Or should I say, Brible.
It's no secret I am a little obsessed with the arrivals gate at the airport.
But when a Brazilian flight arrives at JFK, the arrivals gate isn't quite as emotional or interesting as the one at Galeao. Nevertheless, it was a sight.
My parents and I arrived an hour after the plane had landed. The flight was around 90% Brazilian, from what I could tell. People were trickling out, first and business class passengers on their way to a shopping vacation in New York, winter jackets and leather boots in tow. Women teetered out precariously on stiletto heels, their swollen feet painfully stuffed into them. A doleful Brazilian cab driver called out to the arriving passengers, asking if they had a ride to the city.
There were a few people arriving, however, that were meeting their families. An exhausted single mom with a toddler and a five year-old boy tearfully embraced the woman meeting her, while her son chirped, "Tia!" with surprised delight.
I watched as couple after couple, family after family passed by, writhing with impatience. But another woman next to me was even more impatient. She paced anxiously, trying to find the best angle to see the people coming through the gate. She called someone, complaining that the person she was meeting hadn't come out yet. I wanted to talk to her, to tell her I was dying of impatience too, but I was so exhausted from so little sleep and so strung out that I just watched her as she fretted up and down the gate, finally stationing herself in the glass-walled baggage complaints area next to the doors.
More people came out, more women wincing in their heels, more excited kids. No Eliseu. I lay my head on the divider, refusing to budge in case he came out that very minute. But then there was a flurry of motion, as the anxious woman burst out of the hallway to the gate, where an older man had stopped, smiling. She burst into tears as he brought her into his arms saying, "Minha filha." And then, obviously, I started to cry, very awkwardly as the man caught my eye.
And then they were gone, and only a few stragglers were left, some chauffeurs and some guys from CVC. One by one, they met their clients, and soon, I was completely alone at the gate.
Since I am not particularly apt at hiding my feelings, a few people stopped and asked who I was waiting for, seeing the stricken look on my face. Some baggage handlers told me a few people from the flight hadn't come out yet; some immigration officers told me they'd seen him.
By then, an hour had passed, and no one had come out from the flight. Another immigration officer came out. "I started with him," he told me. "He's doing some standard paperwork. It should only be a few more minutes." Not entirely comforted, I lay my head on the pole again. An airport employee, an elderly man from somewhere in the Caribbean, saw my face. "Who are you waiting for? What does he look like? I'll see if he's in there." He disappeared behind the sliding doors. A few minutes later, he reappeared with a chair, and sat himself down next to another employee sitting inside the doors.
Then, finally, finally, nearly two and a half hours after the plane had landed, the old man cried, "He's coming, he's coming!" and I threw myself through the divider and unceremoniously leapt on the man (who is now officially my fiance) standing in between the sliding doors. "See, I told you he was coming!" the man grinned.
You have no idea, I wanted to say. But instead, I thanked him, and took Eliseu's hand.
I met Luiza a few weeks ago when she was in New York for the weekend. A long time reader of mine, she quickly made me a fan of hers, since she is extremely smart and mature for her age and is clearly destined for great things. Plus, her English puts my Portuguese to shame, since she has never lived in an English-speaking country but sounds like a born and bred American (she in fact has spent her whole life in Brazil). She's passionate about human rights, and someday she will likely make a name for herself helping make Brazil and even the Americas a more just place.
She offered to write about her experience at Sao Paulo's Pride Parade, and I was happy to post it here.
It can be said that São Paulo is a ghost city during the holidays or long weekends For the stressful, hectic life the city provides its inhabitants, people can't help but skip town at every chance they get, looking for the sunny beaches of the coast, or the peaceful settings of the countryside. Like every rule, however, one fairly loud exception must be added: Pride.
São Paulo's Pride Parade takes place during the Corpus Christi holiday (celebrated every year on a Thursday) and the days that follow it. Since most people don't work on that particular Friday, there is a lot of traveling going around. This time, however, Brazilians are not after peace and quiet, but quite the opposite. The numbers speak for themselves: this year, over 400,000 tourists came to São Paulo on Corpus Christi to go to Pride, and over 3 million people attended the Parade.
Now, I've never been to Pride in the United States, so I can't really compare, say, New York's and São Paulo's Gay Parades. However, I have noticed that in the US the Pride Parades tend to be exactly what they're called: parades (with floats, people on the sidewalks watching and cheering, choreography, motorcycles, and the like). In Brazil, however, the Parade would be more accurately named if we called it a march (only with lots of music, people in drag, and half-naked men).
What we have here is about twenty "trios elétricos" (which are trucks equipped with huge sound systems, and with a space on top for people to stand and dance, sort of like on a float) blasting electro, house, techno and pop music as they are driven through the circuit of the Parade. The people, instead of mostly standing on the sidewalks to watch, gather around these "floats" as they half-walk, half-dance their way throughout the event, making the Parade look something like this.
In order to avoid ending the post on an unhappy note, I should probably mention the downsides of São Paulo's Parade before giving it all the compliments it deserves. First off, it's important to say that São Paulo is a very gay-friendly city (much, much friendlier than Rio), but, unfortunately, it's also a city that has few but very radical homophobes. I have friends who had to run on occasion from neo-Nazis and gay-haters. This year, to the horror and sadness of the gay community, a home-made bomb was thrown on a place some people were standing, celebrating the end of the Parade (more about it here), and a boy died in the hospital after being beat up by gay-bashers.
The main security problem regarding Pride remains the same: while the government deploys thousands of policemen to aid and protect people during Pride (and they actually do a pretty decent job), they seem to be sent home after the Parade is over, when there are drunken people all around, it's dark, and violent events tend to take place. Smart, huh?
Events like these sometimes make me think we haven't gotten anywhere since the Stonewall riots happened almost forty years ago. And then Pride comes along and shows me just how wrong I am.
The best thing about the Parade is the realisation that everyone around you —maybe for the first time— is free to be who they are. This is especially true when it comes to the more persecuted fraction of our little community: the transgender folk (and all the other people that don't consider themselves in the gender binary). They add such joy, colour and awesomeness to the Parade I'm pretty sure it couldn't be done without them. It kills me to look up to the floats, see those beautiful human beings and think they are also the ones that are more often killed by homophobes. However, I can't help but feel hopeful that the day will come when the Parade won't be the only day they'll be able to feel safe, free, and accepted by our society.
During the last six years, I have also noted that the Gay Parade is often the first event many closeted young LGBT people attend; the first opportunity they have to be out of the closet and to feel what it's like to be among others who face similar difficulties, and who take them for who they are. In other words, to feel authentically free for the very first time.
It is a lie universally repeated that there is no prejudice in Brazil. That here we don't care what you look like, because we have such an amazing mixture of different ethnic groups in our society.
Brazil is the country of the closeted racists and homophobes. Often I have heard from people that didn't consider themselves prejudiced that they didn't think there should be a Pride Parade. That they didn't understand why we were proud to be gay, if they weren't proud to be straight. After all, "there really isn't a Straight Pride Parade, is there?"
When faced with questions like these, I try to be polite and patiently explain that they don't have the need to say to the world they're proud to be straight because, well, the world doesn't persecute them because of it. LGBT people use the Parade as a political movement that shows the world just how many gay people there are out there, and how many people support us. To tell everyone it's not OK to beat us up or kill us just because we're different from them. To ask for the same basic rights everyone else takes for granted, like the rights to an identity and to family.
We have come a long way since the days the police used to beat us up on Christopher Street, New York. However, there is still a long road ahead. And taking this trip magnificently clad on top of a float with three million people all around us at Avenida Paulista, São Paulo, seems like a much better option than doing it alone.
For great pictures and a video of 2009's Parade, click here and here.
