The dream of blue blue sea and the blue blue eyes
I solemnly
confess that I used to hate my sister! If
you know my sister you are in shock right now. Hating her is nearly
impossible to do. My sister, with her
gorgeous floppy curls and infectious smile, is one of the most loving,
amicable, un-hateable human beings on the planet. How could I possibly
have had distain?
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| My beloved sister Liz and I, 200 |
It was
jealousy. Vicious, visceral jealousy. For her blue eyes.
Lizzy was the
lucky one. The only one with the ocean
blue eyes of my late beloved Grandpa Albie.
My eyes, like my parents’, were poop-colored brown.
I remember
many a family event when a well-intentioned relative would nestle up to my
sister and gush, “Elizabeth, you are just so beautiful with your big blue eyes.”
I’d be off in a corner with my geography book, hoping no one noticed as I wiped
my tears off of South America.
Thankfully,
20 years later, I can empathize but not identify with my former self. Now I dearly love my sister with her blue
eyes, and me with my poopy ones. So much
so that it’s difficult for me to imagine why I ever idealized having hers!
Or rather it
was difficult before I traveled to Rio.
Here, the hierarchy of eye color appears not to be a thing of the
past. I remember my first night out in
Rio, back in 2015, drinking choppe beer with my couchsurfing friends Jessica
and Sabrina. They asked me what type of
guys I was into. When I asked them back,
they both blurted “Gringos!” “White guys with blue eyes! Blue or green.”
When I asked
them why, they said, well, “White guys are better looking. And they’re better educated. They’re gentlemen. “What are you talking about?” I asked, “You
two aren’t white. You have brown
eyes. And you both are gorgeous! And
brilliant!” They shrugged their shoulders.
Fast forward
2 years. Last Sunday, my dear dear
friend and soul sister Juliana Radspieler met up at a concert by Arpoador beach
in Rio called "Arpoador Beach and Beer". The free party, as Juliana put it, was quite “democratic”. There were black folks, white folks, grandmas
and babies. Pitbulls and kittens dozing
on the concrete. I had hoped there would
be samba music, but the DJ was mostly playing Drake and Bruno Mars. Juliana pointed at the stage and whispered,
“See that chubby DJ? I dated him for 8 months last year! Now’s he
with that other blond girl on the stage.
I think he only dates blond girls.”
We headed
over to one of the kiosks and Juliana treated me to a pilsner. Before we
could say cheers, a young guy with surfer arms and neglected puppy eyes nestled
up next to Juliana. “Oi!” he said, and gave her a lingering kiss on each
cheek. “Who’s that?” I asked her. “No idea!” she whispered to
me.
This is the
only thing I dislike about Juliana; wherever we go the guys swarm!
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| Leblon beach |
Leblon is the
poshest neighborhood in all of Rio. The rents
there match those in Manhattan. I was about
to ask him where he lived, but Juliana, who has an owl’s intuition, gave me a
“don’t do it” nudge with her knee. I
learned later that if he wasn’t volunteering where he was from, he probably
lived in the favela, one of the low-income neighborhoods nestled in the
hills.
The
relationship between altitude and wealth is of course not exclusively
Brazilian. Go to my fair city of Oakland and you find the same
phenomenon, though reversed. In Oakland, the rich folks live in mansions
up in Piedmont and Montclair, safely protected from the poorer scum like me who
live down below. Of course this dynamic is all changing with gentrification,
but that’s a conversation for another day.
In Rio, it’s
the opposite. The rich folks live in the flatlands of “Zona Sul”, the
south part of the city that borders the beach.
As a tourist, that’s where you’re likely to spend your time. That’s where all the museums are, the Havaiana
flip flop emporiums, the bars with passion fruit caipirinhas. You have to really go out of your way to go
to a favela. Or even to see most of
them! But if you out into the water, and
turn around, there you’ll see them, colorful settlements nestled in the
hillsides.
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| Favela in Rio |
Similar to
the flatlands of Oakland, the dominant narrative of the favelas is negative: violent,
crime ridden, terrifying! The most
watched Brazilian films in the U.S: “City
of God” and “Elite Squad” both document this stereotypical favela life. Shootings in nightclubs, kidnappings, drug
dealers galore.
Is this stereotype
of favelas accurate? Maybe in some
favelas, but it certainly wasn’t my experience this trip during my Airbnb
in the Favela Babilonia. I had a wonderful time.
The past 2
trips to Rio, I stayed in the bairro (neighborhood) of Leme, a small beach to
the far east of the Zona Sul. Leme is more modest than the super posh
Copacabana and Ipanema neighborhoods next door, but its still in Zona Sul, thus
the land of the rich!
It’s
impossible not to notice that in Leme, most of all the folks walking their
poodles around the block look like they were transported from Portugal. While most of the folks of color are service
workers: supermarket cashiers, porters outside hotels and musicians playing
samba for the patrons of the bars.
Why does this
racial/class dynamic exist in Rio? The same reason it does in the United
States. Capitalism. Slavery.
White Supremacy. The Portuguese
kidnapped almost 5 million African folks from 1502-1866 and brought them to
Brazil. There, the white people made
fortunes by working these enslaved folks nearly (and often literally) to death in
the gold mines, and the sugar and coffee plantations. The institution of slavery official ended in
1888 in Brazil. But just in the United
States, the Brazilian government has never
made official reparations towards people of African descent for the hideous
injustices of the past.
And just like
in the United States, the abolition of slavery did little to eliminate discrimination
for Brazilians of color. According to a
2011, among the 10% of the poorest Brazilians over 70% are of African origin.[1]
Negro and mulatto (mixed race)
Brazilians are more likely to live in poor quality housing (favelas). They are more likely to attend poorly funded
schools. And if two people with equal qualifications apply for a job, and one
is white and one is black, you can imagine who is more likely to be hired.
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| Leme |
Getting back
to my trip…While I usually stay a few blocks from the beach in the Leme
neighborhood in the Zona Sul, this trip I decided to try something new. I found Gilcellia’s “Peace hostel” on Airbnb which was just up the
hill from Leme and within my budget! The
Airbnb reviews indicated that it was in a safe favela “way up a STEEP hill”, I checked google maps and it said it was only
a 5 minute walk from where I had stayed last trip. No big deal! When Gilcelia, my host, picked me up in front
of the Carioca Fruit Shop, she rolls her eyes lovingly at my bulging
rucksack. “Um, I think we’re going to
need to take a taxi. We can’t walk, I
asked? She chuckled.
Driving up
the hill in the taxi, I saw what she was talking about. The Airbnb reviewer wasn’t lying. I prayed that no kids would run into the
middle of the street because if the taxi had to stop, it would never be able to
start up again!
Even 100 feet
up the hill from Leme the differences were obvious. Leme is populated by 10
story marble apartment buildings, gray, lavish.
Imagine the 7th arrondissement of Paris right on the
beach. Up the hill in the favela, the
houses are pastel pink green, blue. Maximum of 3 stories. With windows scattered erratically around the
facades like refrigerator magnets. For
anyone who’s ever been to Cappadocia, Turkey (go there if you can!), imagine
those cave houses in bright colors.
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| Babilonia Favela |
And unlike
down in Leme, where I had to scour to find folks of color who lived in the
neighborhood, up in Babilonia, most everyone appeared to be of African and/or
indigenous descent.
I asked
Gilcelia if it would be safe to walk up the hill at night. “Of course!” she said. “100% safe.”
And Latin Americans never say that so I knew it was true. The taxi driver winked at me through the rear
view mirror, “Olha menina (look here little girl), the only person you have to
worry about here is me!”
Staying in
the favela Babilonia was turned out to be “otimo” (fabulous). A delicious breeze wafted through the myriad
of windows, unobstructed by the Hiltons and Marriots down below. I could see the indigo waves of the Atlantic ocean
from my kitchen table.
And the
music! Down in the streets of Leme, the
only music you’ll hear is live sambistas playing for restaurant patrons. In the favela, the neighbors pumped pagode and
sertanejo pretty consistently until about 11pm.
At that hour, quite respectfully, the young adults left for the clubs
and let the kids and grannies go to sleep.
Down in Leme,
nobody makes eye contact with one another.
Up in the favela, the neighbors smiled at me and said “Bom Dia!” And chatted me up as I bought their fruit!
If someone
held a gun to my head and said, “Favela Babilonia or Leme for the rest of your
life: Choose!” I’d pick the favela.
Without hesitation.
But I’m not
sure most Brazilians would choose the same.
My favorite
song of the moment is called “Patrocinha do olhos azuls”. It’s about a singer from a different favela
of Rio, who confesses his love for a blond girl who lives in the “Zona Sul”.
The chorus of the song loosely translates as, “I live in the Favela and my girl lives by the beach, land of her blue
eyes and the blue waves. I’m a regular
joe with kinky hair. My neighborhood
might be poor but my heart is noble. I
swear I’m going to marry her and leave the favela forever.”
Why am I so
obsessed with this song? The beat is
catchy, sure. But I think the real
reason is that I’m intrigued by the singer’s attraction to the blue eyed
girl. Is it internalized racism? Until this trip to Rio, I thought that all
black Brazilians were proud of their heritage.
This opinion
I had concluded two years ago while traveling through Bahia, the northeastern
state that oozes pride for Mama Africa. In Salvador da Bahia, nearly all the
murals on the walls depicted beautiful African people. There were Afros galore, African continent
earrings galore. My best friend that I made there introduced herself to me as
“La Negra” and refused to let me call her anything else.
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| Me and my dear friend "La Negra" in 2015 |
A few days
after I met her, “La Negra” invited me
to her home in the favela “Liberacao” (freedom). As we ate boiled peanuts and corn, she proudly
shared the story of her neighborhood. It
was the first quilombo (maroon[2]
colony) in the Americas. 400 years ago,
her formally enslaved ancestors had fought the Portuguese for their
freedom. They ran away from the
planations and formed their own settlement (called a quilombo) that they
defended to the teeth from the Portuguese.
It was in quilombos like “Liberacao” that formally enslaved Africans preserved
their languages, foods and music throughout the centuries. These cultural elements: samba, pagode, cassava, acaraje, feijoada are
now archetypes of Brazilian culture.
Without Africa, Brazil wouldn’t be Brazil!
I naively
assumed that everyone in Brazil was as proud to be black as La Negra. That everyone was as proud of their favelas.
But as I was learning, this wasn’t the case of everyone in Rio.
As Mr. Flirty
turned on the charm with Juliana, I rolled my eyes. Why was it that this always happened whenever
I went out with Juliana. Sure, she was
gorgeous, but so was my friend Paula! Whenever
I go out with Juliana, guys buzz in from all directions. We can never finish our conversations. With
Paula I can philosophize all night without interruption.
My stunning
features never vary, so what was the difference? Ahhh, I finally made the connection! Juliana has the “ blue eyes like the blue blue sea in her
neighborhood” With her blond hair and blue
eyes, it’s obvious she comes from the zona sul, aka from wealth. She represents an escape from poverty. If you’re thinking like the singer, if you
marry Juliana, you’ll never live in the favela again! Meanwhile Paula, (even though she does live
in the Zona Sul herself) has darker hair and chocolate eyes like me. She looks more Portuguese/indigenous in
origin. She’s a brown eyed girl, I’m a
brown eyed girl. Thus we get ignored. While neither of us are of African origin our
looks make us wild cards. We might come
from money, we might live in the favela ourselves. For those type of guys that pine for Juliana,
Paula and I aren’t worth the risk.
Once Mr.
Flirty found out I was American he waved in his wingman Gilson, who had been
scoping out some blondies on the other side of the dance floor. Foreigner!
To a guy looking to escape from the favela, the only thing better than a
girl from the Zona Sul is a girl who can get him a visa to leave the country . Gilson
swooped and gave me two sloppy kisses on the cheek. Then, seeking no permission whatsoever, he swiveled
around my back and started massaging my neck.
Thanks but no thanks. I gestured
to Juliana that I had reached my limit.
We fled behind a hot dog stand and finished our conversation in
peace. In the 24 hours since I started this blog, Mr.
Flirty has texted Juliana multiple times inviting her to join him on the beach
this week. She’s leaning towards
no.
As I biked
home later that evening, I gave thanks to God for my skin color, brown eyes and
the spattering of melanin on my face.
They have been my ticket to freedom in Brazil. The freedom to pass as a middle class
Brazilian. In this I have avoided being
a target. Both for the favela Romeos and
the racist cops who repeatedly harass folks of color.
Then I
realized how freaking selfish that was! I’m
not thankful that my skin color gives me freedom! As poet Emma Lazarus put it, “Until we are
all free, we are none of us free.” I want to live in a world where NOBODY is
hit on by sleezy guys trying to escape their lot. Or hit by sleezy cops who are given free
reign to brutalize folks of color. I
want to live in a world where everyone gets to choose like I did whether they
live in a favela or in the zona sul. And
where the choice would be difficult because all neighborhoods would be safe and
equipped with affordable, comfortable, housing.
And where all of us love our bodies exactly the way they were made,
whether black, brown or white, blue eyed or brown…
How do we go
from this world to that one? Whew! Any ideas?
I’ll be praying for the answer to that one every day as I bath in
Yemanja, divine mother of the big blue sea.
********************************************************************************
Halfway towards the sky
I come from
the north
You come from
the south
of blue blue
waves and eyes
My north is papaya
vans,
samba triple-clapped
from rooftops
where we
harvest clouds
from the
leaves of sky.
Your south is
a ventricle,
of a beige
heart
inside a
beige body
held ransom
in a beige taxi
darting back
and forth
from East to
West
like waves reigned
by the
lunatic on her throne.
Take off your
golden watch,
Unwrap your golden
wings
And take
flight from your stolen sands.
There,
halfway towards the sky,
you’ll find
me in my morro,
wrapped in my
wind curtains
eating papaya
seeds to digest
your
ascent. Watch me count
the steps
between my charcoal eyes
and your
footprints in the sand.
Watch me
watch you rise.
I live in the
North,
Siberian tiger
perched
in my crumbling
veranda,
Do you see my
golden heart?
My golden
teeth?
Lifting you
up
By your
golden strings
into this
southern patch of sky?
*********************************************************************************
Afterword…
In the time
since I drafted this blog, I traveled from Rio to Itacare, a beach town on the
coast in Bahia. There I made a delightful
friend Fernanda from Curitiba in Southern Brazil. Fernanda is about 5 ft 9 with lovely red hair
and skin 2 shades lighter than mine. I
told her about this blog I was writing about race in Brazil, and asked for her
perspective as a white person.
Fernanda
shared while the favela/blue eyed phenomenon certainly did exist, the reverse
was also true. And plenty of white guys
who preferred dating black women. She
knew plenty of white girls who only wanted to date black guys. The opposites attract phenomenon. So feel free to ignore the last 7 pages!
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