Dear Readers, as promised in my last blog post, the following selection begins my own parallel story of Jasmine, the fictional heroine of the book I’m blogging, “Just like Eve.” When I finish Jasmine’s story, I hope to write my own – without blogging it – for future publication. This selection and the following ones will be an intermission from “Just like Eve” and will provide a sneak preview of my own story. I also hope, eventually, to significantly develop and revise “Just like Eve” and self-publish it as an e-book.
And now for the first part of what will probably be a
four part introduction to my future memoire:
February, 2005
Sunday morning began like any other: rushing to get our two toddlers, 15 months and 3 years, ready for church and into their nursery and preschool rooms and breathlessly making it in time for the second half of the worship songs. Settling into my seat, I reminded myself to follow the New Year’s promise I had made two months earlier. Our pastor had challenged us, in place of a typical New Year’s resolution, to pray for a character gift. I took him up on it, already knowing the one I needed, from 1 Peter: a quiet and gentle spirit. Maybe that could get me off Prozac. My children were sometimes a delight and other times overwhelming. My older child, frequently throwing himself into rages, threw me into them too, and I was terrified I would one day lose it and hurt him. Upon hearing my story, my doctor determined me to have Postpartum Depression and prescribed the drug of the day. It helped, but I hated it. Please, God, get me off this drug.
A long-time member of our church,
Tom, retired, 70s, was invited up to the podium. He introduced himself as part of a
multi-church short-term mission team headed to Venezuela. My ears perked up. I had gone on house-building short-term
missions to Mexico, and I had kept hearing of other mission opportunities,
mostly in Asia and Africa, but I had been yearning for one to the country where
I had lived at the very young age of one to four: Brazil. As a bordering country, Venezuela was close. My interest was sparked.
“The church is growing Venezuela,” he said. Missionaries from our denomination had recently trained a few young, new pastors who were leading four new churches the missionaries had planted. To assist the fledgling churches, four teams would head to the new churches for three weeks in May. Could I make myself free in May? The pastor of each church would lead each team to meet with families who had requested prayer; after prayer, the teams would invite the families to come to church. I preferred to meet physical needs, like food and housing. My interest was waning.
Tom invited any of us interested in the trip to talk with him after the service. Then he added one important special request: a fourth translator. With four churches, four translators were needed. Only three were on board. My interest was reignited.
Translator? Could I do that? I had studied Spanish for five years and had studied abroad in Oaxaca, Mexico, enough to achieve some proficiency -- a decade earlier. Could I be up to the task now?
It’s you. An unfamiliar voice from outside of me, yet inside of me, and seemingly so intimately close, whispered. What is that? You’re the fourth translator. Who is that?
The voice spoke with a confidence I lacked, but I mustered the courage to find Tom after church. I said my Spanish was rusty, but I’d take two weeks to consider it.
Could we afford the trip? In May? I’d have to take spring quarter off from my new position teaching at the university on the non-tenure track (NTT). But spring is the quarter with the fewest classes, and I was the newest NTT instructor. I didn’t yet know if I would be offered a spring quarter contract. My husband and I trusted the money could work out. I was more worried about the Spanish.
My two weeks was up. Still hesitant, I found Tom. Had a fourth translator been found? “No. Can you come?” he pleaded. “Please, we need you.”
I bought a bunch of children’s books in Spanish, mostly fairy tales and others I knew well, so they’d be easy to follow, and I read them aloud during bedtime story time to my children. They didn’t care in the least bit that I was reading to them in Spanish, were as engrossed in the stories as always, seemed to follow them just as well, and I wondered whether they had even noticed that I had switched languages.
Just as that soft little whisper encouraging me to be the fourth translator was a sneak preview of more to come, so were the memories returning of my earliest childhood in São Paulo, Brazil. While reading to my children, who were the same ages I was while living there, I remembered sitting on my own mom’s lap at our little kitchen table in São Paulo, while she was reading Monica stories to me in Portuguese. Monica was Brazil’s Charlie Brown, though a girl and very precocious, the favorite cartoon among Brazilian children of the 1970s. She’s much more like today’s Dora: intelligent, sweet, and curious, but she gets herself into more trouble, and, miraculously, she always gets herself out. I was also remembering one of the Monica stories when she and her friends built a rocket. I soaked in the memory, not yet knowing it was the first of what would become many of my toddlerhood.
But I also grieved it, sometimes fighting back tears while reading to my children. I had lost Portuguese. When I was six, Portuguese was no longer lovingly spoken in my home, and I lost it. Hence, my own decision to read to my children in Spanish was bolstered, and this language, at least was returning, slowly, but coming. Nevertheless, I felt entirely unprepared to be the sole translator for the church I would be sent to.
* *
* * *
Some of these were fun banter, like the afternoon while our team was at the home of one of our hosts, waiting for a meal to be served, and a few of us – Daniel, me, and the 20-something Venezuelan male team-members – were hanging out in an open area outside the dining room. The young team-members, wanting to learn some English, were pointing to various things around. They started by pointing to some of the objects around us: the water jug, the carpet, the cat. Then they began asking for some descriptions. One pointed to my hair and asked, “Rubia?” My hair is strawberry blond, but I made the translation easy and replied, “Red.” Another pointed to some of the older team-members who were standing away and engaged in another conversation, and asked, “Viejo?” I chuckled. “Old.” Another pointed to himself and asked, “Guapo?” This time, I laughed, and replied with a complementary tone of appreciation for his physique. “Haaandsome! Gooood lookin’!” Then another pointed to Daniel, tall and thin, and asked, “Flaco?” Daniel turned to him with a shocked face and smiled a teasing rebuke, waving his index finger back-and-forth in a clear cross-cultural gesture of “No, you don’t!” He turned back to me and pointed to me. “No, Karina!” Then he pointed again to the young teammate in another teasing reproach. The young men were laughing. I was giggling. Daniel commanded our attention. ”¡Karina!” He pointed to me with a strong command in his voice. “¡Soy tu pastor! ¡No!” I giggled and turned to the young man. “Lo siento, no puedo.” I’m sorry, I can’t. I motioned, palm up, toward Daniel. “Es mi pastor.” He’s my pastor. I looked back to them again. “El me manda silencio. Lo siento.” He orders me silence. I’m sorry. I clasped my fingers together and spoke very apologetically.
Daniel took on a triumphant smile. “Gracias, Karina.” I nodded, came up close to his ear, and whispered into it. “No problema, Skinny.” He threw up his head, chuckling. Then he turned to me with a wink. “¡Recuerdas! Silencio. Soy tu pastor.” Remember! Silence. I am your pastor. I giggled, stopped myself, got serious, put myself into attention, and saluted him. “¡Si, Señor!” Smiling, he nodded, then bowed his head in solemn gratitude. Then he looked back up at me with a warm smile.
* *
* * *
I also felt this with a few of my other Venezuelan hosts, particularly with the head elder, Samuel, a new grandfather. It was to his home that we went for our first lunch. The meal was simple but ushered in what I would soon call my cascada de recuerdos: waterfall of memories. I began with what I usually do: the salad, this one a simple one of carrots, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a little onion, lightly seasoned and without dressing, as none was needed. The special entrée was a small portion of savory chicken. But something unexpected happened when I took a bite of the black beans. Tears rolled down my face. My North American partners were embarrassed. These tears were unexpected to us all, me especially. The black beans tasted very familiar, but with a taste I didn’t even know was so familiar. I learned later the South American way of cooking black beans: they are soaked overnight, cook for many hours before they are served, and are seasoned with onion, garlic, salt, finely cut bacon, and a little vegetable oil. At the time, I didn’t know what made them so distinct, just that I had known this taste, had loved this taste, but had not experienced it for a very long time.
In the coming days, more familiar tastes arrived, along with the familiar sounds on the streets, the sights in the neighborhoods, and the interiors of people’s homes. Memories from my early childhood poured like a giant waterfall, my cascada de recuerdos, and kept building, filling up my mind with my very early childhood into a remarkably colorful and vibrant picture, one that explained my life and the struggles I faced in kindergarten and first-grade with a culture shock unknown to my parents and teachers. These will be shared in the future memoire, but some of them are already blogged in my first story of Venezuela and Brazil, especially in Part 2.
My North American team-mates held a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment over my memories; my Venezuelan team-mates were charmed; Samuel showed special interest; Daniel was especially drawn in. I kept sharing them with him. Too many.
He excused himself when I wanted to share yet another one. Later, we sat down to lunch, directly across from one another. I admitted under my breath, while looking down at my un-eaten plate of food, that I was sad he didn’t come to see what I wished to share. He put his hand on mine, then tapped it, and gently said, “Karina,” then he made sure he made eye contact with me. “Lo siento.” I’m sorry. His eyes said the rest. I like you too much.
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