Ode à Maré

Today, Dona Marta scolded Jazzmin and me for not speaking Portuguese. Why, she asked, did we come all the way to Brazil if we were going to speak English the whole time? Of course, she ignored the fact that I'd just had a conversation (in Portuguese) with the director of the favela youth program we were visiting, and the fact that every one else was speaking in English. I'm also not sure that speaking Portuguese with people whose (shaky) grasp of the language isn't any better than my own (equally shaky) abilities is really an effective learning strategy.

But chastising aside, Marta had a valid point: why did I come to Brazil?

To be perfectly honest, it was one of the most off-handed decisions I've made. I knew almost nothing about Brazil, had no real affinity for the country, and assumed Portuguese was just Spanish with a strange accent. So maybe the answer to that question isn't what's important here. I'm discovering that the reasons why I came to Brazil are drastically different from the reasons that I want to be here, the reasons that this place and its people fascinate, challenge, and captivate me.

The Vila Olímpica da Maré is a community center for the favela of Maré that specializes in after school programs for youth. As the name would suggest, a lot of their programming involves sports and athletics; however, the Vila Olímpica has a host of academic and artistic programs: ballet, capoeira, "street dancing,"and classical and folkloric music. Our time in the favela itself was limited to the three-minute drive from the highway to the Vila Olímpica, so I don't feel in anyway that I can speak to what life there is like, and I won't try.

What I can talk about are the amazing teachers and students I met--incredible people committed to finding a way of improving their community. The kids were incredible; from the adorable four-year-old ballerinas, to the six-year-old capoeira drummers, to the awkward preteens doing gymnastics, all of them were insanely talented. I have no doubt that they'll all accomplish great things with that talent, in whatever ways they can.

The moment that has stuck with me the most, and probably will stick with me for a long while to come, was a short recorder recital. The semi-circle of children, ranging in age from maybe five to thirteen, smiled shyly at the group of gringos assembled before them and began to play. I remember turning to Jazzmin and saying, "This is probably the most adorable thing I've ever seen." But once they started to play "Ode to Joy," I was literally holding back tears.

Maybe it's the song, maybe it's the message that I've attached to that song, or maybe I was just overly emotional today, but watching these children--who come from a place where drug dealers wield more power than elected officials and street signs and basic plumbing are rarities--watching them play that song meant so much to me. I started to sing along, quietly and to myself, and when they got to the line, "Alle Menschen werden Brüder. All men become brothers," I knew that this day would be one that I don't think I'll ever forget.

That sentiment, that assertion that, yes, we do share a common humanity, and, yes, that human family actually matters--that is what I'll take away from my time at the Vila Olímpica. I'll take away from this day what I learned from the dedicated individuals who bring that place alive: the knowledge that rising above poverty and oppression doesn't mean forgetting where you came from, and the firm belief that people, working together, can affect change in their own lives and in their own communities.

So, Dona Marta, I may not be speaking Portuguese as much as I should be, but believe me when I say I'm learning.