Kites Over Itaquera XIV

We must go–we must all go–to Itaquera and other parts of the world, as well as down the street and around the corner. Here the ground is fertile—gumbo soil. But the workers truly are few and the countless boys like Clayton continue longing for something they cannot see from people they do not know. Faith comes by hearing and most will probably never hear the true Gospel.

Security has a premium in Sao Paolo. The mall charges to park there, unlike the one we visited earlier that week. This one looks like any upscale mall in America with nice shops and restaurants. Again, I stick out in the crowd although they do not stare as much here, probably with a greater influx of foreigners. We travel as a group, but soon get split into two. I travel with Jean and Dalete again like in the morning and it is a great time. Today, Jean is Mama Primavera to everybody in the mall.

The girls conspire to buy Pastor Ruben and his wife a gift. Thankfully, I wasn’t involved or it would have been a hammer. I do indulge myself once and buy a miniature Brazilian license plate that says “Pedro,” a reminder that somewhere in the world I am famous, but for no particular reason.

Ultimately, we have to go. We present the gifts and John Weaver takes plenty of pictures. I’m not sure what they will look like other than a collective façade of forced smiles. Through the week I’ve learned enough Portuguese to express my gratitude, the first time all week. They greeted us warmly, now they send us off warmly.

How the ambulance gets to the airport, I don’t know—it runs on miracle gas. Its last leg was gone years ago. I ride with John Weaver and we both notice the ambulance struggles up the hills. If something happened, though, John does not have enough room.

The first sign we are leaving—no turning back—is the airport terminal. Again it reminds me of the American terminals, but the Portuguese reminds us we have not left. Brad hustles us up to the ticket office for our boarding passes. He is a veteran and knows how we feel, the faster the less painful. He got to know me this week and he makes doubly sure I have everything in order.

At first, only John Weaver, Pastor Rubens, and the interpreters were our send-off party. Suddenly, some of the church members join them. They make it hard to leave again but we must board.

In the little time we have left, we exchange e-mail addresses, phone numbers and mailing addresses. I take the longest—too long—and Brad gets impatient and rightfully so. I push the margin for error way too close to takeoff. On the very last sightline to security, the sendoff party starts to break into “Pedro, Pedro, Pedro…” I jokingly acknowledge my pseudo-fans and accidentally start walking in the wrong direction, almost into a wall. In those short few seconds, several behind me in line take my place. Because of this little theatre, I almost miss my flight.

Brad is about 20 spaces ahead of me in line. He keeps looking back and can’t help but giving me the hairy eyeball. I can’t help but laugh. Since junior high school, I always heard the line: there’s always one in every crowd. Without fail, I have always been that one.

The line goes a little slower than we like. Now, everybody in the group is giving me the hairy eyeball. I’m typically not given to worry but I am starting to worry now. I’m in Brazil and can’t speak the language, plus the send-off party is long gone.

As the line through security loops around, Tren is standing one aisle ahead. The man behind him looks kindly and I ask him if I can cut in front. If he hadn’t, I would not have made the flight, it was that close. We literally run to catch our flight. I feel badly for Jean because she has to hotfoot it because of me. Then again, she has been down the Amazon and could probably teach me a thing or two.

At last we reach the gate and it looks safe. However, I get stopped before I can board—a random search. They pull me aside and take my bag, ask me to take off my shoes and then run the wand all around me. The plane is almost ready to leave and I wonder if they can see the fireworks shooting out of my head. If I complain, they will probably spite me and take their time. Instead I comply. Literally, I board with one minute to spare.

Brad is not so shy about the evil eye once I’m on board. I’m all smiles, though, Pedro has perfect timing, I tell him. I can tell it burns holes through him but he says nothing.

Another eleven hour flight awaits us, retracing our steps through Chicago. Training my mind back on St. Louis is hard. Much has happened, more than I ever dreamed, a catharsis of sorts. My own words ring out again: I leave here a much richer man than when I arrived.

I find I am unable to sleep and I replay the events of the last week, as well as those in the airport. I cannot shake them. This was supposed to be a sweet memory but it has become much more. Putting Itaquera behind me is difficult so I remind myself I have work to do when I get home. As we approach the equator, I turn my watch back to St. Louis time hoping it will help, but it does not.

Finally I am able to catch a little sleep. I wake up in time to see the city lights of Havana. It does not seem like a major city as the lights are not strong, but then I remember it is Havana. To try and keep my mind from Brazil, I follow the plane’s route on GPS. We fly up the east coast of Florida before cutting through Georgia. The movies again are bad and there is only so many times I can listen to John Prine on the audio loop. Finally the tentacles of dawn reach over the horizon, a new day, a new beginning.

Freezing temperatures greet us in Chicago and I quickly long again for Itaquera. I am the last one off the plane and I never mind being last. Brad chants “Pedro…” again as I enter the terminal. We have three hours between flights so we compare notes as well as have some fun. People around us are too serious, some watch us stoically, one moves away. I wish I were back in Brazil.

The flight home boards and lands in St. Louis without a hitch. Again I am last off and the same “Pedro…” chant starts again, my triumphal return and I play it up. Hopefully nobody recognizes me. We are met there by Ron Lowry, another staff member from church. He packs our stuff in the van and says get in, no fanfare. Does he not know he is speaking to Pedro Primavera? My fame only gets me a ride back to church.

The ride is all highway. Already the differences between St. Louis and San Paolo could not be more plain. Everybody keeps to their own lane, their space, and I feel they don’t want it invaded no matter what. Some of the new subdivisions crowd the highway and all the houses look pretty much the same. Suddenly I don’t understand the uniformity. People slave for that large house and car as well as escape the inner-city uniformity and then they look the same, the same but bigger. So, too, seems the American church in general. Abortion, illegitimacy, and divorce are at the same rates within the Church as without. I look around and wonder if we are becoming like Brazil with a large nominal church in pursuit of what is ours. In America, however, they don’t want to be bothered.

I have never, ever in my lifetime taken such a lonely ride home. Every cell in my body wants to return. At night, I wake up now thinking I’m at Pastor Ruben’s. Sometimes he speaks to me in my dreams—in English—though I can’t understand him. Even in the mornings, I hear the children go off to school and I expect to hear them speak in Portuguese.

I am a hapless Romantic, perhaps a lazy one, some necessitated by circumstances, some my arch-nemesis contentedness. I see the world sometimes how it should be, darn the realities, but rarely act on them. Now that I’ve gone, though, I will now and forevermore see the children of Itaquera and hope for better.

There is only so much I can do, though, and it will be up to others like you to fill the void. In the limited time we have left, you have to make a difference somewhere in the world. We must make a difference in a life like Clayton’s.