Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [28]
“Well, African-Americans have a strong sense of their own identity as ex-slaves, the same as African-Brazilians are...”
“And there it stops! Our situation here was very different from that in the States. You don’t call people from Holland—or wherever your family originally came from—sisters, do you? And with Brazilians it’s even worse than that. He has the power; he’s from a First World nation; he knows nothing of having the sovereignty of his country questioned by others in the world, other people telling his government what they should do with their own land, with their own trade policies, their own social programs. No. It’s the arrogance, Margaret. Matthias is a thousand times more my brother than that American could ever be. I don’t even like most people from Rio and still I say that!”
I shuffled my feet uneasily. “Many Black Americans come down here to see another model, to see a country divided by class, not so much race, to see a place where race has some equality.”
“And there you are wrong. You think Brazil has no racism? Look around you, Margaret. Who has the good jobs? Whites. Who do you see in the magazines, the newspapers? The only nonwhites are people being accused of crimes.”
“But, Fernando, who actually is black here? Everyone seems to have a different name to describe themselves—mocha, mulatto, yellow, cinnamon—everything except black. I almost never hear anyone actually calling themselves ‘black.’”
“The word ‘black’ is pejorative—most of the time. I think of that term for ‘black,’ preto, as a black object, not a person. Using that term, you’re saying the person is not only dark in color, has kinky hair, but also is less than a person, almost like an object. That they are very poor and have no standing in society. No one wants to be called that.” Fernando paused. “It is true that you in the States have your historic ‘one drop rule,’ that anyone with any ‘black blood’ in them is considered black, while here it is based on one’s appearance, and how much money you have. As a rule though, the darker you are here, the poorer you are—and the more likely you’ll stay that way.”
I sat for a long minute in silence. “So, how did you get so political, Fernando? You’re not considered black here; you’re middle-class. In Bahia people consider you white. Why do you care?”
Fernando looked at me for a moment and then laughed. “Good one. I suppose I’ve learned through playing capoeira and becoming friends with the people there. Capoeira is Brazilian, but its roots are Africa. It’s a space between one world and another. I have learned a lot about my spirit, particularly the African part of my spirit, through playing capoeira. With all its traditions and immediate reminders of oppression, I enter African-Brazilian culture. I become a part of it, and that part of me which is descended from Africa comes out; I understand it more.” He paused, thinking. “But it comes out in white players too, even in you. I can see it, as you get better, as you sing and learn about the chants. There is Africa in all of us, in the way our feet touch the earth, in the way our souls breathe.”
I said nothing.
“Does that make any sense to you, Margaret?”
“Yes. I think it does, but not in a way I could explain to anyone, or that would make sense in different words.”
“You understand it,” Fernando said. “In your body, in the way you play, in the way you drink beer with everyone, in the way you laugh. You don’t need to say anything.”
I rubbed the pen I was holding. “Shall I make us some tea?”
“No.” Fernando sat back in his chair. He picked up my hand and began playing with my fingers. “I may be leaving.”
“What? When?” I felt a pain of lose, and then, unbidden,