My Dad and his siblings have come a long way from that small town in Portugal where they were all born and grew up. The small town that gave birth to them and had watched them grow and make something of themselves. They were now adopted children of this wonderful nation, and this wonderful nation was now their adopted parent. It would feed, clothe, and nurture all of them and their families. They had all made great lives for themselves and their children and now their grandchildren. They came with nothing, pretty much the clothes on their backs and without a pot to piss in. But while holding on to each other, helping each other, they survived. They had all found wonderful homes, they found steady jobs, had beautiful families of their own. I wish she could see us all now, how much we've achieved, how far we've come, how many grandchildren, and great grandchildren she now has. I wish she could see the success we've all found, the lives we've all made for ourselves. What a blessing its been! 

My grandmother took great pride in being able to manage the everyday workings of her household. They worked on a barter system. They would sometimes trade products, or trade for other services, most of the time selling or buying on credit. Although she had never learned how to read or write, how could she keep records you ask? My Dad said, in her notebook, she would list those she did business with as symbols, she would use drawings and tallies and she would keep a record of how much they owed, and how much we owed them. She was also the village midwife. She assisted in the birth of so many babies in that area. She also birthed 14 children at home, assisted by a very good friend of hers, that had also assisted her during other births. That is extraordinary to me. 

I often wonder how far she would've gone in life if she had been blessed with different circumstances but times were difficult for women at that time. Times were difficult for the poor. Destinies that befell women were predetermined at that time. Even though we had never met her parents, my great grandparents, I wonder sometimes what type of people they were. They must've been survivors who instilled that same flame in their children. They also immigrated to a new place, to start a new life, with hope of a better life. Maybe they were somewhat progressive in theory because how would my grandmother be able to learn how to grab the reigns of a difficult life and make something of it, make it work? 

A household of 11 children, finding a way to feed everyone, clothe everyone, I'm sure was not an easy task at that time. Although they faired better than many of the families, they were still poor. A life that wouldn't be too far removed from the life that your parents and grandparents had lived. 

In those days, there were many stories about a land across the Atlantic that only lived in their dreams. America. A land of plenty, a land of opportunity, a land where you can create a life for yourself and your family and survive, if you worked hard enough. This was my grandmother's greatest wish, to find a way to get all of her children to America, where they would flourish, where they would have families, and they wouldn't struggle as much as she had struggled. Although the sentiment is different today, we forget what America meant and what it still means to so many people who have come and gone. 

That dream came to fruition when the US opened their borders to Brazilian citizens, I think it was around 1957. My grandmother couldn't believe their luck. She was a Brazilian citizen and so were her three oldest children. Two of my aunts, Maria and Isaura, and their families started the process of immigration to America. They traveled to America where they would settle in Yonkers, New York. After settling, finding homes, and jobs, they started the process of calling the rest of the family. By calling I mean, they had to write a letter stating that they were requesting that they allow a family member to immigrate and that they would take full responsibility for them while they were here. 

My grandmother then brought her youngest child, Ivone with her, who was still a minor at the time. She stayed in Yonkers for two years before returning to Portugal because my grandfather was still living at the time. He did not travel with her because he said he would never leave Portugal again. I realized not too long ago that my grandmother traveled and lived in three different continents, South America, Europe, and now North America. I wonder if she ever dreamed that she would be such a world traveler. My Mom recently showed me the street and house that she lived in while here. After her trip to the US, she would recount many of the new things that she experienced and what she loved most about it. My Dad said her favorites were ice cream, that she called 'papinhas doces', and watching boxing on tv. She told my Dad that if my grandfather passed before her, she would immigrate to America as well and stay with him. Unfortunately, that wouldn't come to pass. After her dream had been accomplished she said.. I will miss all of you very much but I know that you are all well and you will all have a much better life. You will all remain in my heart. 

My Dad was the last to come. At that time, Portugal would not allow any minor who was a boy to leave the country because they thought they were evading the draft. He would go on to serve in the Portuguese military for four years, stationed in Timor-Leste in SE Asia, before he could immigrate. After my Dad was discharged, he eventually joined his family. The stories of his many adventures are also worth telling. 

My Aunt Maria, was a true friend to the Portuguese immigrant. For many years, she was a safe haven to many, they would search her out. She would open up her home to new immigrants and help them in any way she could. She would feed them, find them homes, find them jobs. Anything they needed, she would find a way to help, making their transition a bit easier and a lot less stressful. Growing up, she would spend a lot of time with my parents in our home, in the backyard during the summer. I never heard her say a bad word about anyone, never complained, always in a great mood, laughter came easy for her, the love and pride for her family so obvious in the stories she told. She was a great woman, I miss her. She sounds a lot like her great grandmother, a beacon of light, but that's another story.  

Chap 2

 That determined, extraordinary woman was my grandmother, Minervina, later changed to Minelvina, when she applied for Portuguese citizenship. As a little girl growing up in the town of Cacapava, right out side of Sao Paulo, Brazil, she probably never dreamed of the path that she would one day take. She grew up poor. I don't even know if she ever went to school but the fact that she didn't read or write makes me believe that she didn't. She told my Dad many stories of her home in Brazil. She told him stories of the wild cats, probably jaguars, that would follow them home and how her mother used to warn her to keep walking and to never stop until she got home, or else the cat would catch her if she stopped. She told him once of the snake they had found in the jungle, that was in the midst of digesting a man that had gone missing a week before. She said from time to time, they would always come across a snake that had eaten a farm animal. She didn't know what they were called, but I imagine an anaconda in the Brazilian jungle. A life lived in the wild. I used to love listening to those stories. 

She used to talk about her grandmother who was part of her own Underground Railroad of sorts. I don't know what it was called back then, if it even had a name, but I'm sure something like it existed. She was known for helping escaped slaves, at least in their circles. She would clothe them, feed them, and hide them from those that were out looking for them. Those men would come knocking, and even though the family would be in such peril if they were caught lying, she would always say she hadn't seen anyone. They would come in the middle of the night searching for her, desperately in need of help. It was a stop that they would make while on their journey to freedom. I wish I could find some kind of confirmation, but who knows. She deserves a story of her own. 

As a teen, she met my grandfather, a recent immigrant from Portugal. I wonder sometimes about their story. How did they meet, how long they courted, was it a love story? So much we don't know. I wish I would've had the opportunity to ask her all these questions. They eventually married in a small church in Chavantes, Sao Paulo, and continued to live in Brazil. My grandfather was a builder of the common one room house, made of wood, found at that time in that area, and that's how he made his living. Their first three children were born there, three little girls, Maria, Joaquina, and Isaura.  

At some point, my grandfather decided to take his new family and travel back to his birthplace, Portugal, and continue their lives there. What made him decide to travel all that way? Was he homesick? Were they struggling? At that time, there were many people struggling to survive there, so who knows. That little girl from Brazil, my grandmother, was about to set sail on quite an adventure. An adventure that would take her across the globe to a new continent, knowing that she was leaving her family and all that she's ever known behind and she would probably never see them again. I can't imagine the trepidation, excitement, or anxiety that she may've been feeling at the time. Especially, it turns out, after reaching her destination, the realization that it was going to be a new life that she was not accustomed to. She lived most of her life outside of Sao Paulo, a bustling and fast paced city, alive with so many different people. The heartbeat of Brazil.  Her new destination was very much the opposite of all of that. A very quiet, less populated, slow moving, town. It must've been a shock for her at first. 

They reach Portugal, and they settle not too far from my grandfather's birthplace, a small village named, Alveijar, a mountainous area overlooking the main town of Porto de Mos. They settle on a modest farm with some land and my grandfather starts to build a home. He builds a similar home that he had been accustomed to building back in Brazil. A one room wooden styled structure. Recently, I have been searching for any images on the internet of what that may've looked like. The only structures I've seen is what looks like the modern day favela in Brazil. After some years, they build a bigger home to accommodate their growing family. They eventually would have 14 children. Three children died in infancy, no one knows the exact cause and one, my aunt Joaquina, passed away in her early twenties, from a fall that had left her bedridden. My Dad was five when she passed away, he remembers sitting on the floor by her bed while she spoke and played with him. He always used to say that unfortunately she lived in a time where medicine was quite limited. In todays world, it probably was something simple, that wouldn't have taken her life. 

They lived off of their land, like any typical farming family. My grandfather's land was rich with olive trees and he made olive oil, best in the area I'm told, they made wine, and sold much of what they cultivated. My Dad always talked about his childhood, I feel like he missed those times a great deal. A simpler time. 

My Family, My Life

 My whole life has been about straddling two different worlds. Living in two distinctive cultures, the Portuguese and the American, where I was expected to thrive. In the world that I was born into, it was deeply marked with culture. A home filled with love, family, camaraderie, friendships, language, music, religion, and the smells of wonderful foods emanating from our kitchen. A life filled with laughter and the occasional debate between my father and I at the dinner table. He was a great listener, even if he didn't agree with me, which was most of the time, he always let me speak my peace. I would lay out my side of it, and then he would lay out his side, and we would meet somewhere in the middle. He gave me my voice.  

My home was an extension of a home that was set in a faraway place thousands of miles away. My Dad kept an extensive vegetable garden with fruit trees, mainly peaches and figs. Many friends and family would come and pick from his garden, a garden that filled him with pride. A passion that would propel his life until the very end. We always had an abundance of vegetables and my Dad would offer it to everyone. We also had plenty of animals over the years, including chickens, and rabbits. 

My first language was not English. When I was born, my Mom didn't speak a word. She had only been here a year at that time. So, when I started primary school I barely knew how to communicate with the other children or teacher, aside from my name, numbers, letters, and shapes. I spent a few years in the ESL room, learning how to speak the language. I also spent a lot of that time learning how to sound more "American". This sounds comical to me now, because I was American, the whole time. Mostly, I felt different from everyone in my class. Although my class was pretty diverse at the time, I was the only one that couldn't speak the language, and the only one who's parents spoke broken English. I remind my boys often, that when they see someone who is having a difficult time with the language, just remember that your Mom used to be in their shoes. 

Speaking Portuguese was a given. We were all raised, my cousins and I, around family, and community, so we had no choice. Most of the adults that were part of our lives didn't speak English either. I also spent time overseas visiting my grandparents and other family members, so keeping our language alive was very important to our culture and to our relationships with other family members. So it only made sense that my Dad would start teaching me how to read and write Portuguese as well in his spare time. At the time, I couldn't grasp why he was forcing me to spend a few hours on Saturdays conjugating verbs and writing as he dictated, but now I am so grateful that he did. 

We've all spent so much time together. One of the greatest things about being part of a big family is you're always surrounded by them. We were always at someone's house, or traveling together, my Aunts and Uncles were like extended parents, always looking out for all of us. My Dad used to always say that his nephews and nieces were like his own children. My cousins were my best friends, they were like my siblings even. There were plenty of big sisters and big brothers to go around. We've also been to our fair share of weddings, christenings, communions, and birthdays. Unfortunately, now that we are all older, we are starting to see more and more funerals. 

The Portuguese community was a big part of my life growing up. We frequented the Portuguese Church where I spent most of my time as a child, my parents were very much involved there. My Dad was the director of the catechism program, and every year he would put together a field day of sorts. He would plan a whole day of games, food, and fun at a local park, Cooke Field in Yonkers. Every year he would also put together the most beautiful seasonal Christmas displays I have yet to see again. He and my mother put so much time into putting that all together.  As a teenager, I also taught catechism at the church, and I played the organ during mass and special holidays. 

We also frequented the Portuguese Community Center where we spent many weekends dancing the night away, where I made many of my friends. Portuguese Club hopping was also a thing, we'd get together and drive over to other clubs in the vicinity and hang with friends from other towns. I feel blessed to have made so many worthwhile friends that I am still in contact with. It was a wonderful community to grow up in. Portuguese picnics where you knew everyone, where you had to make sure you weren't doing anything too scandalous because you knew it would get back to your parents, Portuguese food set up all over, and Portuguese music. Boy were we a proudful bunch, pride in our culture, pride in our roots. We still are. 

You'd be surprised to know that I hadn't tried many of the usual American staples until I was well into my teens. Something as commonplace as having pizza on Fridays or visiting the local Chinese restaurant for some takeout was foreign to me. See what I did there? Foreign. We didn't eat out much, most of our meals were culturally based and both of my parents did the cooking. It was a good way to save money at the time too, I'm sure. My parents spent years working opposite schedules, Dad worked nights, Mom worked days and she would usually work every other weekend. On the weekends that my Mom worked, my Dad would take my brother and I to a local park, Tibbets Brook Park, in Yonkers, and we would spend the whole day there. My Dad would set out his chair and read his newspaper while my brother and I rode our bikes throughout the entire park, on our own mind you. I remember being on the other side of the park and my Dad would whistle to get our attention, and we knew it was time to go.  Great memories. 

As I got older, I realized that I was also being exposed to American culture, it was also becoming a part of me, while in school, with school friends, participating in different activities, even at the grocery store. I was being molded by a different set of cultural ideals and traditions that would also become a part of me. Two cultures woven and intertwined within me, two cultures that made me who I am today. 

We were all very much aware of how much of a privilege it was to be able to live in the US. We were all raised to assimilate into this new place, this new home, even though most of us were born here. Assimilation outside of our homes, in a world that was very different from what our parents were accustomed to. My family loved this country because we knew how much it meant to be here. 

It all started many years ago by a very determined, extraordinary woman, that I was blessed with meeting when I was just 2 years old. Realistically, I shouldn't remember this woman, I was so young at the time but it was a meaningful and loving time spent with a grandmother that I would never forget. Unfortunately for me and for all of us, she died a few days after our time together. The impression that she left with me lives on. I remember everything we did together during our visit, how she put an apron on me and gave me some kernels of corn to put in my apron and we proceeded to go outside and feed the chickens, the pictures we looked at and the meal we had. I remember what she looked like, what she sounded like, I still love to listen to anyone who speaks her native tongue.  My Dad said that he couldn't believe how much I remembered about her. My Dad remembered something that had happened soon after our return home.. After we returned home after our visit, we were in the car waiting for my Mom, who was learning to speak English at a local public school. I was sitting in the back seat of the car and I started to yell for my grandmother, an older woman who I had noticed walking across the street. I was convinced that it was her.  One encounter and she had left such an impression on me, and I've carried that with me all my life. I think of her often and I've always believed that our time together had always transcended time. I thank my Dad for that, because he had kept her alive for me, in his stories about his time together with her while growing up.. The retelling of the stories that she had shared with him about her life, her childhood, the family she had left behind so long ago that were still so vividly placed in her memories. 

Back then, the only means of contact in between families on different continents was through letters and my grandmother did not know how to read or write, no one in her immediate family knew. So there was no communication for many years. She found out from someone who had traveled to Brazil of the passing of her parents, 10 years after it happened. The way my Dad tells it.. she grieved as if she had just lost them, the pain of not knowing all that time that her parents were no longer on this earth was heartbreaking for her. The realization from so long ago that she would never see her parents again had become reality. 

My father said, that back then during the height of immigration. When someone left their families and villages to immigrate to new continents, it was like a funeral. Parents would cry and scream as they left because they knew that the odds of seeing them again were very small. Trips were very expensive, most weren't able to even write a letter. Once they left, they would hear nothing else about them, not even if they reached their destination safely.