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 Eventually, Dulce was appointed Ministro da Cultura
fulfilling her dream of working for racial equality.
In spite of her busy life, Dulce and her family
have managed to share in several joyous reunions with us
under the Big Dipper as well as the Southern Cross.
By Mary Rosina Baer
For Christmas, 1999, my husband and I gave each of our grandsons a few reais
(re’ALs, Brazilian money) for a present. "Looks like play money," Marcus,
14, commented.
Nick, 17, asked, "How much is it worth in dollars?"
"You’ll find out when we get there," grampa Joe answered. "Now
you’re ready for our trip to Brazil this summer."
"Thanks for the money, Papa Joe," ten-year-old Lucas said.
Joe put on his winter jacket. "Brazilians speak Portuguese. ‘Thank you’
in Brazil is obrigado. And if someone says that to you, you can say de nada.
It means, ‘you’re welcome.’"
"Whatever, gramps," responded Marcus.
Over the holidays we brought up different subjects with the grandkids. "Didja
happen to notice the moon last night?"
"Yea. I saw the new moon from my window," declared Lucas
"That moon will look different in Brazil."
Our middle grandson smiled, "Sure, gramps, I bet!"
"No. Really, it will. See, we’ll sort of be seeing things in the sky as if we
were upside down. It’ll really look different!"
"Pops, you’re just kidding, right?" Nick said, chuckling.
I interrupt. "I’m sure you know it’ll be winter there when we
arrive," I say. "But it will be warm—like our summer."
"Yea, I learned that last year in fourth grade," Lucas claimed.
I added, "And the water will go down the drain clockwise."
"Gee. I’ve never noticed it here in Wisconsin," said Marcus.
"Well, look next time." Joe stood up from the table.
"And look at the stars," I chimed in. "You won’t see the Big
Dipper. My favorite constellation is the Southern Cross."
"I like the Big Dipper." The youngest one said, as we headed for the door.
Later in the spring, their mother, Kathy, taped a new Portuguese word every week at the
kitchen window the boys faced while eating.
Joe and I prepared to visit Dulce Maria Pereira and her family by focusing on
reservations, visas, passports, shots and vaccinations for some eleven of our clan.
Dulce lived with us in South Milwaukee, Wisconsin, for a school year in 1972-1973 as an
A.F.S. (American Field Service) exchange student from Brazil. She has Indian, African,
Brazilian and Portuguese roots and came from a middle class home. Her father was a male
nurse and worked extra hours as a bookkeeper. Her mother stayed at home, providing for her
family of four children.
Before she came, I worried about Dulce’s adjustment. The South Milwaukee High
School represented our white community; no other black students were enrolled at that
time. Just 17 years old, Dulce attempted to meet everyone in school by eating at a
different table each lunchtime, charming the curious students and befriending many.
Several times a week, Dulce’s homework required clarification and discussion,
especially the English Literature course. She was up quite late one night reading "Of
Mice and Men" and I struggled to keep my eyes from closing. As she looked up from her
book, she said to me, "Mom, what’s a ‘nigger’?" I paused.
"Dulce, move over." We sat on the couch and talked for an hour.
Before she came, I also worried how our family would adjust to a new member. When our
shy 12-year-old son, Mike, sat on her lap and shared the events of his school day, or when
Kathy and Dulce raced, giggling, up the stairs to their bedroom, I knew our family was
growing to love her. Our two sons in college managed to come home more often after Dulce
arrived. Mary, our eldest, working and living independently, came for dinner weekly. I
needn’t have worried about Dulce’s adjustment or our family’s acceptance.
After Dulce returned home, we corresponded but did not see her for several years.
During that time, she earned advanced degrees in Brazil. Surviving a period of political
unrest and even imprisonment, Dulce became an advocate for all races. In time, she came to
the attention of a new administration, resulting in a series of increasingly important
positions. Eventually, Dulce was appointed President of the Fundação Cultural Palmares
under the Minister of Culture, fulfilling her dream of working for racial equality. In
spite of her busy life and important government position, Dulce, her husband Agilson, and
teen-age sons, Augusto and Amilcar, have managed to share in several joyous reunions with
us under the Big Dipper as well as the Southern Cross. Since e-mail has no continental
limits between Brazil and the U.S.A., we keep in touch weekly.
In August 2000, President Cardoso of Brazil chose Dulce to be the Secretary General of
CPLP (Comunidade dos Países de Língua Portuguesa—Community of Portuguese-Speaking
Countries), requiring her to move to Lisbon, Portugal. Fortunately, the family’s move
to Portugal occurred after our planned visit to Brazil.
In late July 2000, we landed in Brasília. Dulce and her family met us with warm hugs,
"hi’s" and "oi’s" (hello). After resting a day at her
home, rich with solid Brazilian furniture, a pool and servants, we toured the modern and
beautiful Foreign Affairs building of the Brazilian capital. The next day we flew to
Salvador, Bahia, on the East Coast of Brazil. Between the two extended Baer and Pereira
families, 21 people invaded the resort… Dulce’s family of four, plus her mother,
father and three nieces. Joe and I arrived with our two daughters, their husbands, the
three grandsons, plus a son (the very one who sought to sit on Dulce’s lap 28 years
ago) with his new wife. Before we unpacked, we handed out flashy red, white and blue
U.S.A. tee shirts to each, young and old.
Located just north of Salvador in Itapuã, the modern, well-equipped hotel worked out
very well for us with separate apartments. Just a block away from the ocean, it also is in
sight of an operating lighthouse and in hearing of the South Atlantic surf. The hotel was
once the house of Vinicius de Moraes, the man who wrote the lyrics of Girl from Ipanema.
Picture this… Dulce’s tall, dark son, Amilcar, greets me at breakfast with a
kiss on each cheek and a, "Good morning, gramma!" I answer, "bom
dia" (good day) with a warm hug. The tables are full of our blended families,
planning when to swim, to shop, to hear each other’s CDs, or just to roam the beach.
Dulce’s other son wanders up to our table, smiling. Last night he watched us play
cards. Now he is holding our cribbage board and a deck of cards, asking us to teach him
how to play. "Right after breakfast, Augusto," I promise.
We eat the bountiful breakfast of new to us foods: manioc, baked bananas, purple sweet
potatoes, with a variety of breads and cakes, and juicy fruits, papaya, mango, pineapple
and melons. Now and then, our grandsons seek out more familiar food at the nearby
McDonald’s.
We don’t see stars or the moon often in Salvador as it pours warm rain frequently,
but the wet weather doesn’t prevent us from touring special landmarks and shopping
malls. One rainy day, the whole group piles into two small buses. Fortunately, the showers
ease as we walk around the Farol da Barra, an important historical lighthouse on the bay.
Clearly, any ship entering Salvador’s waters would be visible from that point.
Later we visit downtown Salvador, packed with picturesque buildings from the 16th
century. It is divided into upper and lower districts. From the upper district, we take an
elevator down to the huge Mercado Modelo (a model shopping center), four floors of
booths in one huge building, jammed with Brazilian handicraft products. The families take
off in different directions. The salespersons greet Joe and me with offers of special
deals on embroidered linens, masks, jewelry, clothes, paintings, and musical instruments.
A hesitation or a second look from us encourages the seller to be very persistent.
As a result, Joe and I feel uncomfortable and escape to a sit down snack area. While we
drink our favorite Brazilian fruit drink, guaraná, we watch a series of young men
demonstrating capoeira, something similar to kickboxing. Accompanying the wheeling
summersaults, backbends and flexible kicking, was a one-string, bow-shaped instrument, the
berimbau, which twanged along with the dry rattle of a gourd.
Our courage restored, we return to the mall. At a nearby kiosk, Dulce’s sons and
two of our grandsons, all in the U.S.A. tees, are bargaining hard for one of the
string-drums. They end up at another booth with hats decorated with a berimbau
symbol instead.
Later in the bus, our grandsons show their purchases made with the Brazilian Christmas reais
. . . tee shirts, slacks, caps and CDs.
After touring Salvador, a restful day at the beach appeals to all. Dulce had scouted
the area earlier and recommended the third hut from the lighthouse. She claimed it was the
best spot to relax, watch the waves, and search for shells. The owner, Mario, had chairs
and tables and a varied menu from fried manioc and chilled coconut milk (served in its
original container) to french-fries and bottled soft drinks.
Joe and I wander over before lunch, scuffing the warm soft sand as we walk. A row of
similar beach huts made of wood and covered with palm branches edge the sand. It’s
easy to find the right hut since Dulce’s mom and dad relax in Mario’s chairs. Mamãe
(mother) is wearing her typical dress and sweater, and papai (father) rises to meet
us in his freshly ironed shirt. We greet each other with a kiss on each cheek and a smile.
"Bom dia."
With her deep brown eyes smiling up at me, Mamãe chats softly in
Portuguese, which I do not understand, but I read body language. I answer, "Yes, mamãe,
I love you too. In fact, all of you here."
The kids gather with towels and swimming suits and leap into the waves. Others arrive
and set off on beach walks and search for shells. In time an imported volleyball net is
set up and a competitive game develops between the Brazilians and USAers. The kids, a few
adults and even some beach strays join the sandy contest.
During a time-out, a few of the players, perspiring and thirsty, order drinks and food.
When Marcus pays Mario for his fried chicken, Mario says, "Thank you."
Our grandson answers, "De nada."
The following morning none of the teenagers are at early breakfast. "We’re
missing a few teens," Joe comments as he sits down.
"They’re eating later," Kathy explains. "All nine of them went to a
mall and danced until 2 am. Had a great time and took cabs back to the hotel." She
smiles.
"Hey, gramma." Lucas calls. "I saw the moon last night and it does look
different here. But I couldn’t see anything that looks like a cross…um, a South
Cross? "
"I’ll show you tonight," Dulce says. And she does. That night a group of
us stand on the windy roof balcony as Dulce points out the constellation and planets above
the swaying palm trees.
Our visit comes to an end all too soon. After checking the accuracy of e-mail addresses
and promising to keep in touch, the blended families from two different hemispheres
part—the Brazilians in their U.S.A. tees and our family in Brazilian ones. Of course,
there are tears, smiles, and promises to meet again mixed with "obrigado’s,
thank you’s, and de nada’s " with more "ciao’s"
(good-bye) and hugs.
When will we meet again? Will it be under the Big Dipper or the Southern Cross?
Perhaps, this loving family from two continents will, someday, meet on that upside down
moon. Who knows?
End
Author notes: Married 53 years to the same guy. Six children plus one
Brazilian AFS daughter. Seven grandchildren: six grandsons and one princess. An avid
traveler and camper, an intermittent, uninspired cook, a compulsive sketcher, a hopeful
writer, a sometime poet, and a closet guitarist who lives each day fully. Each day is a
bonus. e-mail: rojobaer@juno.com
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