Testing A Theory

A year ago my husband and I made the crucial decision to home school our children. Tough times call for tough measures. Upon making this decision, we also decided to teach the boys languages as part of their daily curriculum. I guess you could say it has been a long road between then and where I sit now, here at a table in Brazil. The theory of course was to spend the first part of the year with book studies, and in February or March a month in Brazil so they could hear the language for themselves. I am here to tell you, theory is always so much easier on paper than in practical application.

Many people would question why Portuguese? Why Brazil? I guess the simple answer would have to be, why not? Ok, so I speak Portuguese, and I used to live here. I wanted to share this culture, this place with them. Again, on paper this seems so ideal, so wonderful, but the day to day application of this has been very difficult for me, and pretty easy for them. We all see those groups of people in the US who do not speak English. We all wish they would and could, but they stay to themselves, talk amongst themselves and continue speaking their native language. Most times, a person in their group, usually a child can speak English, but often times, not. I am sad to report, we are that group here. Not for lack of wanting to speak, but for lack of need. Because the boys are all here together, they have a tendency to remain speaking in English amongst themselves, leaving me to translate.

We spend our days doing just about everything we can. We leave the apartment and immerse ourselves in the very essence of this town. I lead the way and the boys follow along like dutiful little ducks. I speak to them first in Portuguese and then repeat in English, and we draw all sorts of looks. We are inland from the popular tourist areas and so, not too many people come here from overseas, especially with children. It has taken an unimaginable amount of effort on my part to keep this up. So, I completely understand how people could live in a place, and never really pick up the language.

What is even more difficult is to be constantly interrupted by the boys while I am speaking to someone else. Let me explain first that back home, we are rather strict. The boys are not allowed to interrupt so rudely and for the most part, they abide by this rule, or at least they try. Here, a curious thing has started to occur. Instead of waiting patiently for a break in the conversation, they come up and immediately start speaking in my ear in English. I ignore their advances because I find their behavior rude and extremely assaulting. You heard right, their English is an assault on my mind which until their interruption had been plugging away happily in Portuguese. The English in my ear starts to intertwine with the words flowing from my mouth until they are all just a jumbled mess in my head. I am left unable to speak either and stare blankly at the child there in front of me, painfully struggling for the right words in the correct language. I would say this leaves me a little irritated but I would be lying, it is like being slammed upside the head, thought process stopped in its tracks.

I have explained and continue to explain on a daily basis, that they cannot interrupt. They do not, as of yet understand the conversations around them, but one day they will. One day, they too will find someone whispering words in their ear, while speaking in another language and find it as assaulting as I do. Until then, I try my best to remain patient. They are trying and this is hard for them as well, or at least I tell myself that. The boys have very laid back personalities and as a general rule don't get too excited or nervous when left out of conversations. I guess it could be a lot worse. They could be throwing tantrums on the floor or completely refusing to speak. They are trying and they are learning, just at a much slower pace than I would like.

They are making friendships with other children, and it is fun to watch the pantomime of signals sent from one kid to the other, and the glances to me for help. Many kids, seeing them playing soccer or basketball down in the quad, come to watch and join in on the fun. They listen to the banter of English between the three of them. It all sounds so elegant when you do not understand.

Some things need no explanation. When one child or another, whether mine or someone else's is upset, angry or sad it is easy to understand without words what is being conveyed. We have talked a lot about this very subject. When frustrated with each other, the boys still argue, as if in their own home. They raise their voices, and I suspect are more liberal with their words here because far too few people understand them. I am left to remind them that when they are angry, it is not necessary for anyone to understand what they are saying, their expressions, their tone and bodies tell the whole story. I mean really, when someone is upset, we all know, just by looking at them, without the need of words. It is almost comical to see someone realize they are understood when they thought they were not.

Everyday we learn something new. Where do we go from here? The only thing I can say with certainty is that they will never forget this experience, nor will I!!



Lost and Found

I sit and let the sun's rays beat down on my bare skin. Areas covered by bikini are warmed and I let my thoughts drift and swim through time. Nearby the boys are playing, splashing and jumping in the pool. They are enjoying their time in Brazil, and I am enjoying watching them learn the ropes of a different culture. My thoughts land on my sister, again and again I see the two of us walking arm in arm through the streets of Maringa. Chatting in Portuguese, and explaining certain nuances about boys, games and life in general. We are young, me 17 and her 14 but we are close. We share so many things, a love for so many things. We are bonded as true as any sisters could be and I do not want to leave her, and yet, the days and weeks are drawing to a close. I promise myself I am going to write and I am going to call, but life has a way of interrupting even the best of intentions. A tear starts to slip out from under my closed lid and I rush to brush it away with the back of my hand. I look over to where the boys are playing and find them still safe, my mind only away for moments.

I relax again and feel the sun on my skin. I know history cannot be changed. For as much as it pained me to leave my sister standing in that airport, tears running down both of our cheeks, I had to leave. My year was up. The memory of my six weeks at home in the states now seem like a blink. I barely remember what drove me to leave again, but it was as if life had been set on autopilot and the controls taken away. The further time moved from my year in Brazil, the harder it seemed to return and the easier the emotion and loss to bury. Now, eighteen years later, here I lie, soaking up this country's air and culture. Beyond the voices of the children I can hear the cars racing by, one horn blares here and an alarm sounds there. Dogs bark from down on the street, then from levels above in the adjacent building. I love the city and open my eyes to stare up at the 6 buildings that surround this little piece of aquatic freedom. I shade my eyes from the sun in order to take more of it in, until my arm tires from the exertion. I relax again returning my attention to the sounds of the children. They are playing an all too familiar game of Marco Polo and splashing happily along. The stress of the morning has faded, and the sounds of their laughter fills me with a sense of happiness that buoys my spirit.

I allow my thoughts to float over the events of the past few days and how I happened to find these people I had lost contact with so long ago. Just yesterday I stood at the gate of this building inquiring as to whether or not the Olivera family still lived here. My heart stopping in my chest when the doorman said, "Yes."  The hesitation I felt as I stepped through the gate he opened for us, followed by three half grown boys nearly paralyzed me. I had searched and searched for these people, year after year, month after month. My modern self has a hard time reconciling with my past disconnected self. We did not have internet, cell phones or social media when I lived here, yet a guilt spreads over me as we ride the elevator to the 11^th floor. “You should have tried harder. You loved these people and you should have fought harder,” a voice from within admonishes. Again a tear slides down my face, and again I hurriedly wipe it away. I roll onto my stomach to hide my anguish from the boys. The feelings that have flooded me in the past few days are hard to understand even for me or maybe it is shame that makes me want to keep it from them. I let life sweep me away, keep me from this place for so long and I could have, should have worked harder to stay connected. By the time I discovered my mistake, it was too late. This family had moved as if cruelly, time had wanted it that way.

 

On my stomach now, the sun toasts my shoulders and back all the way down to my bare feet. I allow my thoughts to be lifted by the warmth of the sun's rays as my memory returns to just yesterday. Entering their apartment and seeing both mom and dad standing there I rushed to embrace both of them at the same time. What a surprise for them, the daughter they sent back to the states over 18 years ago, mysteriously shows up on their steps one day with three children of her own. Anger cannot be found on either of their faces or in their eyes, only happiness and joy at our arrival. For a moment it is as if time has not been stolen from us, as we stand their happily talking and rushing for introductions. They of course do not speak English and the boys sit dutifully and listen to Portuguese which they are only beginning to understand. Even they admit that we have encountered one another as if I had departed only yesterday. As the minutes and hours pass swiftly, we talk of many stories and adventures that 18 years have brought us. They tell me that my sister did an exchange of her own, as we all knew she would, and for the past 7 years has lived, worked and studied in London. My younger sister, then only 7 is married and living with her husband in California. A sadness starts to envelope me and I am left wanting to freeze time, to stop the world here, for this moment and not move forward. I bury my head in my arms and let the tears flow freely from me. I am both happy and sad, mournful and joyous as a realization starts to dawn on me. Slowly the tears subside and I feel as if I have gained a sense of peace with all of this. The loss of 18 plus years can be and is overwhelming but here and now I am stealing some of that back for myself, for all of us, and as if in retaliation I am giving some of it, even now to my children.

Even still, time moves forward, marching to a cadence that no one can control, and I am caught on its wave eternally destined to move forward with it. These moments are the ones we cherish, like my sister and I walking through the streets, the sounds of the boys playing in the pool and me here with my mom and dad chatting all day long. Only memories will remain when we part ways in the end. Finally I am lifted with this thought. Thank you social media, thank you internet, because going forward I will not be lost by time again, I will not allow life to kidnap me from these shores. I love these people, and going forward, I will never lose sight of this again.



Long Road

I look at my son now, who knows what thoughts could be floating through his sleeping head. He is laying against me, not a care in the world. I am having trouble fitting my legs under the seat in front of me. Oh to be 10 again, and walk around on legs so short, that fit neatly under you when you wish, and to be able to fold in half. I run my fingers through his hair and cup his chin for just a minute. He does not register my gaze and remains fast asleep. Traveling with them is more complicated than going it alone, I think. So much more to think about, worry and plan. But I am excited to be sharing this with them, so I let my hand fall and feel the weight of his head against my shoulder. I could not have left them home if I had wanted to. This is too important for me, for them to see this place, to know these people. This very child told me just as we were taking off that the had to keep reminding himself that all of this was not a dream, but real life, real time.

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Ghana Reflection

The first thing I notice about Ghana, besides the liquid heat and the wispy haze of Saharan sand that often hangs overhead like sepia gauze, is the Zen-like calm of her people. They exude contentedness despite the fact that chaos dominates the scene like Iron Maiden music played at a funeral. I step off the airplane and onto the melting tarmac where I follow a jet-lagged throng of fellow travelers into a run-down building that dates from the sixties, still garishly festooned with Christmas decorations in February. I walk past the sign that reads, “Sexual perverts not welcome in Ghana,” the ambiguity of which surely must make many people, besides myself, pause and question for a moment "what a perfect place for a web cam." And then you step out of the tepidly cooled airport and into the beautiful frenzy that is Accra.

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In Our Own Backyard

My family has a history with this region. I am not even clear what the history of the region is, other than Native Americans once inhabited the caves and why not, they are cool and would provide awesome shelter. The boys often dream of sleeping in the caves, but that thought only leaves me looking up and wondering just how much guano we would be covered with by morning. I see the delight and excitement in their eyes each and every time we visit the area. I remind them that they were very young when we first stumbled upon this local treasure. Our oldest, now nearly 14 had been a toddler and our middle son newly born rode strapped to my husband in a backpack when we first ventured down to this area. I remember looking at each other sharing the same disbelief, had we crossed into Kentucky? Ohio had hills, cliffs and caves?

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Our path to homeschooling

Whose homework? So how did this busy mom with a budding career in real estate become a homeschooling momma? Good question. The boys never flourished in the one-size-fits-all school environment and I was a far cry from a model PTA mom. I struggled with the boys going to school, not because I missed them terribly but because the endless string of papers that would find their way into backpacks and hours of homework each evening felt like a second job for me. At least three days a week, I would get a call about forgotten lunches, homework assignments, or improper attire. Funny, looking back, I never realized just how stressful my life had been within the confines of traditional schooling.

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Road Trip To the Redwoods!!