Category: Tufts 1+4 Brazil

by Bryan, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Oftentimes when my host mother would greet me, she would say, “Meu angel com olhos azuis.” My blue eyed angel. One of the things I had to become accustomed to was how my host mother displayed affection. On about day 3 of my living there my host mother began kissing me on the head and cheeks, and on roughly day 5 she felt comfortable enough slapping my rear, as she does to her grandchildren. At first, this made me very uncomfortable, but I soon became accustomed to it; it’s just who my host mom is and how she displays affection. I always knew my relationship with her was special, but I didn’t quite realize just how much I meant to her until she spoke these words to me. It all started with my host brother in law making a toast during Christmas dinner. He primarily toasted my host mother, Miriam, and told her how proud he was of her and how strong she’d been after losing her husband just months prior (only about three months before I arrived).

She later came to me, and thanked me. She said that she was going through a really hard and sad part in her life, and that I brought her so much pride and joy ever since I came into it, and that I was her angel with blue eyes. While I knew I was entering the house at a tough part in her life, I never knew just how much she was struggling because she was always so cheerful. It was incredibly touching. This was the moment I realized just what an impact I’d had on her life. I knew she loved me and I had an impact, but I failed to piece together our relationship and its timing, and how that made it all the more special. She’ll never forget that part of her life, and I was a part of it. The happy part. After that, she began calling me that regularly and would introduce me as such to friends and family with a smile on her face while caressing my head or gently lifting up my chin.

After entering my host family and hearing them often talk about the previous fellows they’d hosted, I was determined to be the favorite. And I’m proud to say that for our final dinner together when they were mentioning other fellows, I asked them who the best one was, and I had achieved my goal! I truly am going to miss my host family, and my host mother in particular, and it’s nice to know the feeling is mutual. Miriam took me to the airport and when we said goodbye, she had tears in her eyes, and then subsequently grabbed my hand and walked back with me to the group. It was incredibly sweet. We had said goodbye multiple times and she never left until I passed through the checkpoint and was no longer in sight. She even sat there on her phone while I spoke with my friends and staff, not wanting to leave until I was absolutely out of sight! She even said she would come to my graduation from Tufts.

Now my mother always tells me everything happens for a reason, and I tend to shake my head because I don’t really believe in that kind of thing. Now maybe Miriam and I did meet each other for a reason, or maybe the timing and everything was just a mere lucky coincidence. Either way, our relationship is incredibly special, and certainly had a large impact on the both of us. I know I’ve made a lifelong connection with my Brazillian family and they consider me part of their family as I do for them. It’s special to have this unique relationship and understand the impact I’ve made on their lives, in particularly Miriam’s. Even when you may think your life doesn’t matter that much, you never know just how many lives you’ve touched. And even touching one alone, that is worth living for.

by Roger, Tufts 1+4 Participant

As each Fellow moves through their journey, they’re confronted by a slew of day-to-day encounters and oddities, each tucked away as a memory-a portion of the physical voyage we’re on our ways through. A gorgeous bunch of natural flowers with unfamiliar scents, particularly haggle-y street vendor in an open-air bazaar, or a spontaneous and joyful dance on the streets at Carnaval have all added to each of our unique experiences and given us new recollections on which to draw to re-access our emotions during this year. (I have found that writing these experiences down has been particularly helpful in doing this, as merely reading the words can teleport me backwards into the middle of any of the rich days I’ve lived.)

All of these memories are being created within this space abroad, outside of the home and the comfort zone. Thus, it seems almost strange (and even selfish) to desire a further level of self-transportation. I mean this in the form of stories, of books. Having read more than the other Fellows this year by a significant margin, I’ve been asked time an time again why I would choose to spend my valuable time in a foreign environment seeking to enter another one though printed pages, by both peers here and back home. It certainly is a valid point: You can always read, but you can’t always be on the beach in Brazil. Though I had come in to this year with the goal of reading as much as possible (to recoup for time lost during high school), I began to internalize this, and my practices changed. As the number of inquiries of my habit rose, I began to read less and less. And though I knew this was ‘the best use of my time,’ I was keenly aware that I was doing this more to please others than myself, and my days, though fuller of uniquely-foreign experiences, were notably dryer and less memorable.

It was not until I heard the words of wisdom from (who else?) a Brazilian librarian that I was able to find closure in this internal conflict. As I laid out the “why read at home when you could be on a Brazilian beach” conundrum, she simply laughed and said, “Why not read on a Brazilian beach? It’s for certain you can’t do that in the States…” and it clicked.

This is no new realization-thinkers before me have come up with it, and many after will, as well-but I am glad I’ve come to it in my own, on my own time. That’s what this year is for, hmm? Having heard her words and reflected on the duality of my outdoorsy Brazilian year and my private one passed between the pages of what has now added up to twenty-four books, I’ve realized that that the environment in which a book is read can and does so, so deeply affect my as a reader’s experience, and that some of the most profound memories I hold were built directly upon this confluence. I recall with soulful fondness my enjoyment of Californian Cannery Row while swinging in a hammock on a cloudless, dusty Brazilian day, of my laughter at Waiting for Godot as I sat in a bus terminal, knowing that my bus would never come, of my tearful joy at the love found in the last pages of The Teahouse Fire as I realized a love of my own. Yes, of course I will reflect with gratitude on the experiences and relationships formed independent of the themes of whatever I happened to be reading at the time. They far outnumber those for which I found true, meaningful overlap. But those that did-these are the ones by which are made not only memories, but blossoms of growth of the soul.

(That last bit was going to be the end of this. But after a tumultuous flight from our host countries followed by an utterly positive moment that made all of my reading in Brazil worth it, I felt it could be prudent to share this last thought.)

Back at home, a month before expected, and my heart and eyes are still in Brazil. I feel a deep sense of longing to simply be there, for my body and my ego to be in the same place. I will walk outside in a tee shirt, forgetting the new necessity to survive rather than thrive in the outdoors, and stubbornly stand, freezing, for a few minutes, wishing the tropics to return. I say “Please” and “Thank You” and “Excuse Me” in Portuguese when talking on the phone, and have to give an, “oops! My bad…” And of course Brazilian hugs (or any hugs, for that matter) are deeply and presently missing.

But I can still get back. Open Captains of the Sands, and the beach is there, washing over me. There is a portal inside some of my books now; they cannot be read without a journey backwards, towards the hurt-so-good past. And for that, I would do it again in an instant.

By Cher, Tufts 1+4 Participant

Standing upon a simple yet elegant mansion, I was awed when I first saw how architects were able to transform white walls and wide pane glasses into such an aesthetic building. Walking through the rows of mansions by the lake, I always admired the modern houses the most. I admired how architects are able to turn such a simple shape like boxes and triangular prisms using the colors of whites, grays, and black to establish grand and beautiful houses. To me, these homes represent wealth, elegance, and power. As an immigrant, these qualities are part of the dream that my family and many other families had dreamt of when sacrificing our blood and sweat. To live in such a house meant that you worked hard to get there.

As my host brother walked me through the traditional houses and the shops, we came to a halt at a big intersection. At first glance, I noticed all the sleek and beautiful modern houses across the road. This road is where the vacation homes for the rich intersect with the homes of the people whose ancestors have lived here long before it became a destination for tourists. I admired how beautiful they were, but questions popped up in my head. Why do these beautiful houses feel so out of place? What was here before them? As I explored my new home, I noticed that these houses were by the beaches, on top of mountains, and in perfect places for houses to be located with amazing views. Everywhere I go, there is always a white boxed house with beautiful details. They all begin to look the same to me. A house that I used to admire so much now became so common, basic, and identity-less.

Modernist architect designs became popular after world war two. It was a form of design to embrace the beauty of simplicity, function, and rationality that utilized the new materials and advanced technology. These modern designs reject old, traditional, historical ideas and styles, and ornamentation. These designs were meant to improve the standard of living for all by using industrial ideals.

The inspirations drawn by modernist architecture is to make the home more functional, rational, and improve the quality of living. When you look closely to those who live in these houses and how big they are, you begin to question these intentions. The people who live in these types of houses already have access to wealth and a great quality of life. The homes that are made in this style takes up so much space for usually a family of four. Due to the fact that this style rejects the old, traditional, and historical ideas, it looks out of place, especially when it is planted in a city that has a lot of historical context such as Florianópolis. In my perspective, these houses fail to appreciate the culture and historical context of where they are built. The style is so different from those before it that it seems as if they don’t want to acknowledge the history of the land. The intention of the modernist design is to improve the home for people throughout the world, but the impact doesn’t correlate with the intention. This is because only those with access to wealth have access to this design, because it takes up more room than it needs, and it is a clear display of wealth and power. The modernist home design is a beautiful design that has great intentions to improve society, but fails to deliver the impact.

I appreciate these homes for their intention and beauty, but after seeing what the impacts are, I am beginning to question that appreciation. Architectures are a great part of history and culture of a location. When you implant something so different and it doesn’t relate to the culture, like modernist architecture, it seems as though the culture and history of that location was not acknowledged, creating ignorance and division between the new and the old.

Sources:

Larkin, Maggie. “A Brief History of Modern Architecture and Design.” Daily News, The Associated Newspapers of Ceylon Ltd., 22 July 2013, http://www.dailynews.lk/2013/07/22/features/brief-history-modern-architecture-and-design.