Kites Over Itaquera VII

For the less spiritual among us, Pastor Rubens reminds me of Magua in the movie The Last of the Mohicans. In the movie, Magua cuts out the heart of Colonel Monroe. Pastor Rubens is the exact opposite.

I don’t know if it is Pastor Rubens and his wife Elizabeth or the Brazilian culture, but they like to eat. We eat three meals a day and then two lanches, which apparently is Portuguese for “another meal.” My gizzard is gorged the entire trip and when the trip is over, I wonder if the baby I am carrying is a boy or a girl.

The next morning I wake up and go directly to the kitchen. I eat a banana before heading for the shower, thinking breakfast was informal. Pastor Ruben’s wife says something in Portuguese and I know by her tone it is not good. I find I was last to awake and everybody was waiting for me. This is one time I’m glad I can’t speak Portuguese.

The Rubens live above a video store and it has three bedrooms with hardwood floors. By the end of the week, I don’t know if hardwood floors are good or bad. The shower has one temperature: hot. Water runs over a heating element and I wonder if this is how I meet my demise, fried to a crisp in the shower and not on the hardened streets of Itaquera. I can’t ask how to adjust the water temperature but it is not such a bad thing since I love long, hot showers. I was 15 years old before I took my first hot shower.

The only thing keeping us from catching cold is the bathroom door, there is no shower curtain. We stand on tile floor recessed about a quarter-inch from the rest of the bathroom floor and it is flat. After we are done, we have to squeegee the water to the drain.

The Ruben’s are more than accomodating to us. If we aren’t eating, they are preparing food. They have help there from church and we can’t understand them, either, but they are happy to serve. I do exchange a Brazilian greeting I learned: tudo bem–it’s all good.

Much of the second day is hazy, especially in the morning. I am still consumed with the worries of work. All I can remember of the morning is eating and then sleeping when we got back. I remember I dozed off in midsentence with Greg. Two hours later, I wake refreshed.

We return to the streets with the same teams except this time John and I are joined by Florival. He introduces himself as an evangelist from his church; no wonder, since he likes to talk. I guess the first requirement for Evangelist is a joy of sharing, especially the Good News. I wouldn’t make a good evangelist since I am frugal with the spoken word.

I recall that morning we didn’t have much success finding people at home. We backtrack trying to hit some of the same homes. Since Sao Paulo has monumental traffic problems, most of their own making, they must alter driving patterns as a matter of law.

We return to one house we tried in the morning. I remembered this house in particular because I saw somebody stir but nobody came out, the only time we are ignored in Brazil. By the roof alone, it is one of the worst houses we see. “Oh, da casa,” John yells again while clapping his hands. This time I can see a silhouette of a young boy stand, move toward the door, then head back in the shadows. A moment later, an older lady approaches the door and motions for the boy to let us in the gate.

The front door is plywood and only comes up to the waist. It nearly tips forward as we enter and I notice there is no tile on the floor, just cement. In the shadows, I can barely see a bed to the right of the door. It looks like a piece of wood or a door propped up from the floor on both ends–no mattress.

My aren’t acclimated to the dark yet but I see an older woman standing in the center of the room. I smell something cooking and nearly compliment her. A step further, though, and the three of us are nearly incapacitated by the smell. I have smelled rotting carcasses and it is a horrid stench, this nearly as bad.

When my eyes adjust, it is a pitiful sight. She is unkempt and her arms are palsied, unable to bring her withered, clasped hands up without swinging them first. Eventually John introduces us and nobody extends a hand, not knowing how in this case.

John speaks to her and then turns to me to say something. I sense she is a nominal Catholic and I take that approach. However, I don’t think I did a good job, too stiff and rigid. At least I throw out a trial close and she turns me down, or at least turns God down. I am amazed at how many in Brazil understand sin and the need of a Savior but still say no. I make sure later I am not alone on this. Florival introduces himself and he and John talk at length with her. I whisper to John and he says he will fill me in later. The longer it goes, the more worried I get. I am inoculated only against hepatitis and I worry about other unnamed diseases.

They strike a nerve with her and she starts to weep. She feels stronger, though, through her tears. John and Florival wrap up the conversation and she says obrigado, thank you, over and over again. She tries to give John a hug but can’t swing her arms high enough. John catches one of her forearms as if in a handshake and I can see the transfer of warmth to her. I do the same although I think I have failed her. Florival gives her a familial hug across the shoulders and we leave.

John tells me of a woman fraught with setback after setback, including no running water. Florival steps forward and says we must help this woman, this is the essence of the Church. Immediately, I am drawn back in time. I am already familiar with this woman, a woman so far over her head she does not know where to turn. In a way, she reminds me of my mother.

I wear the difficult times of my youth sometimes as a badge of honor. Like many others, we scraped ourselves out of poverty to be respectable, honorable citizens. Up until now, however, I never stepped inside my mother’s shoes. I never understood or sympathized with her plight entirely.

I was only three years old when my dad left and quickly remarried. Though he cheated at cards and ate my birthday donuts when I turned five, my brother was the closest thing to a dad. He liked to be called man of the house and as hard as it is to confess this about your brother, he was. The only thing I remember about my dad was his token efforts that quickly fizzled.

Now, standing 6000 miles from home, from the comforts and securities, I remember my mom in a new light. She raised six kids in a foreign land with no money and a house left in nearly total disrepair. Many of the basic necessities we now consider common were golden to her. I will forego the details in deference to my siblings. However, neighbors castigated her, telling her to go on welfare and move to the projects where we belong. The neighbors called the police on my sister because she did a handstand with one hand on their property. Still others tried to have her children removed from a loving home.

That night, John and I approach the members of the team and we collect 170 reais. A new bed costs about 100 reais and a food basket 25 reais. The women in the church volunteer early the next week to clean the house. I see the results before we return home and for this alone feel the trip was an unequivocal success.

I wonder again how my mom made it. Unfortunately, she passed away two years ago and I can never ask her–or thank her now that I understand. Like many in Itaquera, she made it and I don’t know how. I am familiar already with Itaquera. I was once here.