I definitely became aware of how priviledged I am (and was to go to Brazil) when I became closer with students at the university I was teaching at. And, it was a rather uncomfortable realization.
For the most part though, students seemed pleased that York had chosen Rio Grande, and their school in particular, for an internship. It was of course to their benefit that they had a native English speaker to practice with and whom gave a course they could attend--so, in a way, they, too, were priviledged.
But, a question that English students often asked me was how they could do the same thing--go to Canada and teach a class about the Brazilian language and culture. I was at a loss of how to answer. It was difficult to explain that, sorry, the YIIP program is not a reciprocal one. And that, in response to their question ( although it was not directly to me) of why their school didn't coordinate such great programs, it was probably due to lack of funds. And how ironic it is that part of the program is to, presumably, encourage intercultural relationships--but only one side of the relationship benefits?
(I am not criticizing the program, by the way. Obviously there are complex factors in play, however I just want to represent the reactions I got in Brazil)
I gave students links to York's website for international students, and for scholarships, but it only served to disappoint them when they saw how much it cost and what kind of marks they needed. Already, a lot of students have full-time jobs in addition to going to school in order to make money (and not a lot of that). And, not to say that students did not do well at school, but work was a huge distraction for the majority of them.
A lot of students were really suprised to hear that York students have four months of vacation--they would look at me with confusion and scepticism. They had about a month between semesters for vacation. That was another reason why an internship in another country would be difficult--at least while they are in school.
When I found out that I would be teaching students of the third- and fourth-year grades, I felt very self-conscious--I had just finished my second year at York. Thankfully, students were very respectful, but it was odd to be teaching older students--in addition, there were returning students in my class, too, in their 30s-60s. But this was another thing that students asked me about--how I could teach at a university level when I didn't even have a degree yet. I felt uncomfortable thinking about how qualifications can differ--just because I am a native speaker, I was exempt from certain requirements.
Another huge issue I faced, more so with people outside of school, was explaining why I was in Brazil and what I was doing. They would ask me questions about how long it took to get a visa. I would tell them that because I had already bought my ticket, and had a letter from Brazil confirming my intership, that I got it in a week. They would be so upset and express their feelings about how unfair it was that Canadians got treated so well by Brazil but how the reverse was not true. I heard many personal stories about people trying again and again for visas to work, study or visit Canada (for example, to attend their daughter's wedding), but getting denied over and over again. They did not understand this, and I heard crystal clear resentment in their voices.
It is hard to know how to react in these situations--all I could do was listen and appreciate their point of view. At first, I felt guilty about being priviledged, but then I remembered talking about this at the YIIP orientation day. I remembered talking about how we should not only take from our experience, but that we should give. And I feel confident that I did give back--I made friends, I helped students with their English, I taught an informative course... I can only hope that many people benefited from my stay in Rio Grande, too.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Gender
In general, Brazil may be known as a country where "macho" attitudes did exist, or continue to exist. I was under the impression that this macho ideology was especially omnipresent in the Serra Gaucha (southern Brazil) due to the gaucho (cowboy) subculture.
There was also the fact that, honestly, I guess I had my own preconceptions in coming to Brazil. I was expecting a “backwards” society in the sense of a more conservative one, with men and women playing more conservative roles.
However, I was pleasantly surprised during my stay in Rio Grande. I met many older, independent women professors at the federal university who were strong characters, confident and sans men. One was a single mother, one was on her way to Haiti for a year to teach Portuguese and another was on her way to Canada to conduct post-graduate research. These women were women of the world, of modernity, of accomplishment. And, however impressive they were, I got the impression that they didn't quite fit in, in the context of Rio Grande--a very conservative, small town. One professor in particular would comment about she seemed to be out of place in the society. She told me that men often found her intimidating, which was why she was single.
I also met quite a few homosexual men--some more open than others about their sexuality. I guess that I had come with the preconception that homosexuality would be taboo in a small town in southern Brazil, but one man in particular proved me wrong. He was everything but the typical macho, beef-eating cowboy (the South is the largest exporter of beef, and God it is good!). He was openly gay, in his thirties, a vegetarian and an environmentalist. I loved him! I remember this one time that we went out to a buffet restaurant and the waitress told us that the price to eat for a woman was 12 reais and for a man it was 16 reais. He exclaimed, "But I'm gay! And a vegetarian!". It is almost as if it ingrained in their society, in restaurants, that men eat more, especially more meat--a typical macho attitude. The waitress certainly did not know how to respond to my friend, she simply chuckled and went on with her work.
I think that Brazil can be seen as in the midst of a transition towards more liberal attitudes, especially considering gender. I mean, progressive women are just one indicator of changing gender roles. But, at the same time, there are still some negative attitudes, for example towards homosexual men—the word “viado” is a derogatory term for a gay man that is used to insult all men, gay or not.
I did receive some negative sexual attention while I was in Brazil, especially so probably because I looked so different than most people--blue eyes, light hair and fair skin. A lot of older men would wink and try pick-up lines, which of course is gross, but which perhaps is not so foreign to me because I live in the Latin neighbourhood of Toronto.
Speaking of older men and younger women, this is one thing that really shocked me in Brazil--the fact that there were a LOT of mixed-age couples. I constantly saw beautiful, young girls with older, often not the greatest-looking men. And this was an accepted norm. I asked the friends I made in Brazil about it, and nobody really thought there was anything wrong with it. I didn't express my opinion about it because I didn't want to seem patronizing or close-minded, but the truth is that I do not feel comfortable with the idea of generation gaps in relationships. I may not be justified, but I feel that there is something "wrong" with older men dating younger women.
There was also the fact that, honestly, I guess I had my own preconceptions in coming to Brazil. I was expecting a “backwards” society in the sense of a more conservative one, with men and women playing more conservative roles.
However, I was pleasantly surprised during my stay in Rio Grande. I met many older, independent women professors at the federal university who were strong characters, confident and sans men. One was a single mother, one was on her way to Haiti for a year to teach Portuguese and another was on her way to Canada to conduct post-graduate research. These women were women of the world, of modernity, of accomplishment. And, however impressive they were, I got the impression that they didn't quite fit in, in the context of Rio Grande--a very conservative, small town. One professor in particular would comment about she seemed to be out of place in the society. She told me that men often found her intimidating, which was why she was single.
I also met quite a few homosexual men--some more open than others about their sexuality. I guess that I had come with the preconception that homosexuality would be taboo in a small town in southern Brazil, but one man in particular proved me wrong. He was everything but the typical macho, beef-eating cowboy (the South is the largest exporter of beef, and God it is good!). He was openly gay, in his thirties, a vegetarian and an environmentalist. I loved him! I remember this one time that we went out to a buffet restaurant and the waitress told us that the price to eat for a woman was 12 reais and for a man it was 16 reais. He exclaimed, "But I'm gay! And a vegetarian!". It is almost as if it ingrained in their society, in restaurants, that men eat more, especially more meat--a typical macho attitude. The waitress certainly did not know how to respond to my friend, she simply chuckled and went on with her work.
I think that Brazil can be seen as in the midst of a transition towards more liberal attitudes, especially considering gender. I mean, progressive women are just one indicator of changing gender roles. But, at the same time, there are still some negative attitudes, for example towards homosexual men—the word “viado” is a derogatory term for a gay man that is used to insult all men, gay or not.
I did receive some negative sexual attention while I was in Brazil, especially so probably because I looked so different than most people--blue eyes, light hair and fair skin. A lot of older men would wink and try pick-up lines, which of course is gross, but which perhaps is not so foreign to me because I live in the Latin neighbourhood of Toronto.
Speaking of older men and younger women, this is one thing that really shocked me in Brazil--the fact that there were a LOT of mixed-age couples. I constantly saw beautiful, young girls with older, often not the greatest-looking men. And this was an accepted norm. I asked the friends I made in Brazil about it, and nobody really thought there was anything wrong with it. I didn't express my opinion about it because I didn't want to seem patronizing or close-minded, but the truth is that I do not feel comfortable with the idea of generation gaps in relationships. I may not be justified, but I feel that there is something "wrong" with older men dating younger women.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Culture Shock Part 2: Dealing With It
I know this may come to some as a shock, since I am Canadian (so I stereotypically live in an igloo) and since I went to Brazil (mind you, a tropical country), but I suffered culture shock from how darn COLD it was!
I went to the very south of Brazil, to the state of Rio Grande, where the weather differs substantially from the climate that is shown in those lovely Carnaval photos that portray Brazil (i.e. mostly Rio de Janeiro).
I remember, at the end of my internship, that my supervisor recalled an e-mail that I wrote to her, in which I said "Don't worry, I love the winter!", in response to an e-mail she sent warning me about about the cold weather. Like I believed her! I had thought to myself: a Brazilian warning a Canadian about cold weather? Psh! My supervisor told me that the same thing--Canadians coming unprepared for the cold, and sceptical, too--happened every year that a new intern came. She had a good laugh about it--I had a good cry.
I have realized that perhaps I don't "love winter" so much as "I love winter... in the warmth of my home". The thing is that buildings in Rio Grande were not equipped with heating systems. That meant that neither my home nor the school where I worked (or the bus which I took to get to school) was heated. And, you'd think that lack of heating wouldn't be SO bad, especially since it only got as cold as 5-10 degrees celsius. Except that, the town where I stayed was by the ocean, so the air was constantly humid--i.e. the cold would chill your bones. There was also a lot of rain on a daily basis. And, without sidewalks that we are used to in Canada, that meant travelling by shoe-sucking muddy streets. So, during the day I would get soaked, come home and leave my clothes out to dry--except that, in the damp air of my home, they never dried. Even my bedsheets, after drying them at a laundromat's, would be damp to the touch hours later just from being inside my apartment. At school, I would have to type on the computer with gloves, a scarf and a big jacket. I ended up spending quite a bit of money buying lots of big knitted sweaters to layer. It is true that there were plug-in heaters available, but they were expensive (for ony three months of use) and only kept you warm if you sat right beside it, with your hands hovering over it--not very practical for multi-functioning.
I know that I am being a big complainer and I hope I don't come off as snobbish. It's just that I have really never experienced cold weather that way before--in a way that it was impossible to ever get warm for more than a couple of hours at a time. And the only thing I have to compare it with is how we deal with cold weather in Canada.
And, like Larissa said, "The little things that you found charming about the culture...suddenly piss you off to no end". I mean, at first I thought, "This is so great..people drinking chimarrao to keep warm, people bundled up with beatiful hand-knitted scarfs, hats and sweaters. I won't be sweating in the heat and I don't have to worry about putting on a bikini".
I was indeed affected by culture shock. I became touchy, I ate more, exercised less and had more bad days in a row.
One day, I nearly broke down from frustration. My shower decided to spew freezing cold water and nothing but, all the lightbulbs in my apartment simultaneously burned out, and the gas tank for the stove revealed itself empty. I got so frustrated and, even though these things happen in Canada, I found myself attributing blame and negative thoughts to the town I was living in, and Brazil in general.
In the beggining, I thought the idea of living in a small town charming--after all, I grew up in a small town and I was looking forward to getting away from big bad cities. At first, it was so "cute" that the biggest attraction in the town was a 2-theatre cinema. Then, boredom set in and I found myself resenting the town.
School, too, became a source of frustration. There was always something that wouldn't work--the internet, the printer or even the computer itself sometimes. Photocopying materials for class was a bureaucratic operation that I won't get into details about--it's too painful. I would think to myself, "God these people don't know what they are doing".
Through this part of my internship (mostly during the middle), among my negative thoughts were feelings of guilt. I hated myself for looking down on the town and society, in the stereotypical Western-like portrayal of the arrogant white man (or, lady). I felt guilty about thinking in such an immature, unjustified way. But maybe other interns have experienced the same thing--you know it's not right, but you make excuses and let yourself complain, rant and bitch.
One way I dealt with my feelings was to chat with other Canadian interns at the school--to see if they were experiencing some of the same feelings, and what they did to overcome it. It just feels good to know that somebody else knows how you are feeling. My supervisor was also an important source of perspective for me. She had studied in Canada before, and she could relate to the culture shock that I was experiencing. I also forced myself to be social, to go out to dinner and go to the 2-theatre cinema--anything that would take my mind off my frustrations.
I went to the very south of Brazil, to the state of Rio Grande, where the weather differs substantially from the climate that is shown in those lovely Carnaval photos that portray Brazil (i.e. mostly Rio de Janeiro).
I remember, at the end of my internship, that my supervisor recalled an e-mail that I wrote to her, in which I said "Don't worry, I love the winter!", in response to an e-mail she sent warning me about about the cold weather. Like I believed her! I had thought to myself: a Brazilian warning a Canadian about cold weather? Psh! My supervisor told me that the same thing--Canadians coming unprepared for the cold, and sceptical, too--happened every year that a new intern came. She had a good laugh about it--I had a good cry.
I have realized that perhaps I don't "love winter" so much as "I love winter... in the warmth of my home". The thing is that buildings in Rio Grande were not equipped with heating systems. That meant that neither my home nor the school where I worked (or the bus which I took to get to school) was heated. And, you'd think that lack of heating wouldn't be SO bad, especially since it only got as cold as 5-10 degrees celsius. Except that, the town where I stayed was by the ocean, so the air was constantly humid--i.e. the cold would chill your bones. There was also a lot of rain on a daily basis. And, without sidewalks that we are used to in Canada, that meant travelling by shoe-sucking muddy streets. So, during the day I would get soaked, come home and leave my clothes out to dry--except that, in the damp air of my home, they never dried. Even my bedsheets, after drying them at a laundromat's, would be damp to the touch hours later just from being inside my apartment. At school, I would have to type on the computer with gloves, a scarf and a big jacket. I ended up spending quite a bit of money buying lots of big knitted sweaters to layer. It is true that there were plug-in heaters available, but they were expensive (for ony three months of use) and only kept you warm if you sat right beside it, with your hands hovering over it--not very practical for multi-functioning.
I know that I am being a big complainer and I hope I don't come off as snobbish. It's just that I have really never experienced cold weather that way before--in a way that it was impossible to ever get warm for more than a couple of hours at a time. And the only thing I have to compare it with is how we deal with cold weather in Canada.
And, like Larissa said, "The little things that you found charming about the culture...suddenly piss you off to no end". I mean, at first I thought, "This is so great..people drinking chimarrao to keep warm, people bundled up with beatiful hand-knitted scarfs, hats and sweaters. I won't be sweating in the heat and I don't have to worry about putting on a bikini".
I was indeed affected by culture shock. I became touchy, I ate more, exercised less and had more bad days in a row.
One day, I nearly broke down from frustration. My shower decided to spew freezing cold water and nothing but, all the lightbulbs in my apartment simultaneously burned out, and the gas tank for the stove revealed itself empty. I got so frustrated and, even though these things happen in Canada, I found myself attributing blame and negative thoughts to the town I was living in, and Brazil in general.
In the beggining, I thought the idea of living in a small town charming--after all, I grew up in a small town and I was looking forward to getting away from big bad cities. At first, it was so "cute" that the biggest attraction in the town was a 2-theatre cinema. Then, boredom set in and I found myself resenting the town.
School, too, became a source of frustration. There was always something that wouldn't work--the internet, the printer or even the computer itself sometimes. Photocopying materials for class was a bureaucratic operation that I won't get into details about--it's too painful. I would think to myself, "God these people don't know what they are doing".
Through this part of my internship (mostly during the middle), among my negative thoughts were feelings of guilt. I hated myself for looking down on the town and society, in the stereotypical Western-like portrayal of the arrogant white man (or, lady). I felt guilty about thinking in such an immature, unjustified way. But maybe other interns have experienced the same thing--you know it's not right, but you make excuses and let yourself complain, rant and bitch.
One way I dealt with my feelings was to chat with other Canadian interns at the school--to see if they were experiencing some of the same feelings, and what they did to overcome it. It just feels good to know that somebody else knows how you are feeling. My supervisor was also an important source of perspective for me. She had studied in Canada before, and she could relate to the culture shock that I was experiencing. I also forced myself to be social, to go out to dinner and go to the 2-theatre cinema--anything that would take my mind off my frustrations.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Recycling à la Rio Grande
My placement was at a federal university, which, due to its location, allowed me to see firsthand the juxtaposition of the two major realities of the Brazilian society in which I was living, in Rio Grande. The school was located away from the centre of the city of Rio Grande and behind the university was a "villa", which my students explained to me was a poor neighbourhood that was "almost, but not as bad as, a favela".
The two societal groups were, let's say, "better off" and "worse off", and I mean those relative only to the society of Rio Grande and not to what we, as Canadians, consider "well off" or "poor" (for example). So, the "worse off" lived in this villa while the majority (not all) of students who attended the university were "better off".
One lasting image that I remember is walking on the campus early in the morning, fog in the air, and I saw that three of those big green bins that held the collected grabage and recycling from around the campus had been completely ransacked. I mean, the black garbage bags had been ripped open and trails of garbage leaked out and were scattered across the lawn where the bins were stored. To be fair, stray dogs were also responsible for some of this ransacking, but the truth of the matter is that the worse-off people depended on what they could find in this garbage. And, just imagine, stray dogs and these worse-off people were looking in the same place for food.
I was impressed though at how conscious the students were about recyling and how the university worked to promote recycling around the campus. Every builiding had a line-up of bins, sorting paper from plastic from glass from organic materials. The bins were well labelled and they were efficient; students respected what each bin was for. In the cafeteria, no student failed to take up their plate to the bins and sort out the food leftovers from the plastic cup, right down to the toothpick (which, yes, can be recycled). The cafeteria also used real plates and cutlery, so that they could cut down on plastic waste, too.
I remember one time that a fellow teacher actually told me off because I didn't put a plastic coffee cup in the correct recycling bin. I was impressed when this teacher told me that she takes pride in the fact that Brazil is one of the best countries for recycling (statistically, she noted). She herself takes care to recycle as much as she can and even saves all of her at-home recycling to give to the worse-off people that come to collect the recycling from households and then bring it to facilities where they can make money from it. She told me that not only was she helping the environment this way, but that it made her feel good to help the worser-off.
I saw many the "carroça" when I was in Brazil, which is a horse buggy, accompanied by at least one stray dog, driven by a worse-off, or maybe two worse-offs (usually males), that drive along the side of the road or on the beach, looking for anything they can collect. These people have the creativity to use what they find (others' garbage and whatnot) in exceptional ways. Taking the bus that passes a worse-off strip of homes speaks to this, as a bus passenger can witness how and for what these people use the resources that become available to them by recycling "junk".
The two societal groups were, let's say, "better off" and "worse off", and I mean those relative only to the society of Rio Grande and not to what we, as Canadians, consider "well off" or "poor" (for example). So, the "worse off" lived in this villa while the majority (not all) of students who attended the university were "better off".
One lasting image that I remember is walking on the campus early in the morning, fog in the air, and I saw that three of those big green bins that held the collected grabage and recycling from around the campus had been completely ransacked. I mean, the black garbage bags had been ripped open and trails of garbage leaked out and were scattered across the lawn where the bins were stored. To be fair, stray dogs were also responsible for some of this ransacking, but the truth of the matter is that the worse-off people depended on what they could find in this garbage. And, just imagine, stray dogs and these worse-off people were looking in the same place for food.
I was impressed though at how conscious the students were about recyling and how the university worked to promote recycling around the campus. Every builiding had a line-up of bins, sorting paper from plastic from glass from organic materials. The bins were well labelled and they were efficient; students respected what each bin was for. In the cafeteria, no student failed to take up their plate to the bins and sort out the food leftovers from the plastic cup, right down to the toothpick (which, yes, can be recycled). The cafeteria also used real plates and cutlery, so that they could cut down on plastic waste, too.
I remember one time that a fellow teacher actually told me off because I didn't put a plastic coffee cup in the correct recycling bin. I was impressed when this teacher told me that she takes pride in the fact that Brazil is one of the best countries for recycling (statistically, she noted). She herself takes care to recycle as much as she can and even saves all of her at-home recycling to give to the worse-off people that come to collect the recycling from households and then bring it to facilities where they can make money from it. She told me that not only was she helping the environment this way, but that it made her feel good to help the worser-off.
I saw many the "carroça" when I was in Brazil, which is a horse buggy, accompanied by at least one stray dog, driven by a worse-off, or maybe two worse-offs (usually males), that drive along the side of the road or on the beach, looking for anything they can collect. These people have the creativity to use what they find (others' garbage and whatnot) in exceptional ways. Taking the bus that passes a worse-off strip of homes speaks to this, as a bus passenger can witness how and for what these people use the resources that become available to them by recycling "junk".
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Where in the world am I?
Once again, I am late on this blog, so I’m finding it difficult to remember those feelings of culture shock in the beginning. Since I am now at the end of my three-month stay in Brazil, I have had the opportunity to adapt to and become familiar with “the way things works here”. The culture shock has lessened to a buzz in the background, at most.
The strategy I took in coming to Brazil, since I tend to be a very anxious kind of person, was to not think about what I was doing. If I thought about how I was going to be in Brazil for three months, in a country that I basically know only stereotypes about, whose language I don’t speak and whose big cities have ¨quite¨ dangerous reputations, I would freak out. So, instead, I packed my bags and got on the plane to Sao Paulo without really acknowledging that, oh my God, I am going to Brazil!
When I arrived (from Sao Paulo) in Porto Alegre, which is in the most southernmost state of Brazil, I was still on numb-mode. Two people from the town where my internship would be met me at the airport so that we could take the 4.5-hour bus ride to the town, Rio Grande, together.
We had time to kill before taking the bus, so we decided to walk to a nearby food market. The bus station was, unfortunately, in the most dangerous part of the city and not at all reflective of the city as a whole.
As we were walking, we passed a man sprawled face down in the middle of the sidewalk, a sidewalk that was crowded with people walking about. Further on, there was a heavy woman with ragged clothes, spots on the black skin of her round face, wandering eyes and frizzy hair that stood on its ends, standing and rocking a baby in her arms, talking aloud to herself. Then we passed by a building with a window, whose ledge extended out about 10 inches and was surrounded by tall bars, in which a person was curled up and sleeping. It was at this point that I woke up and realized, okay Lidia, you are in a different country now.
What has caught my eye during my stay in Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil? For one, people walk around with chimarrão as they do with a watch on their wrist. Chimarrão is a drink that is made of herbs and hot water, like tea, except that the people drink it from a hollowed out gourd with a metal straw. In one hand they have the gourd and in the other, a thermos of hot water to refill their gourd.
The habit of drinking chimarrão kinda reminded me of the Canadian habit of drinking Tim Horton’s—in the car, in the grocery store, walking on the street, etc! It was funny to see even in class the students passing around the chimarrão to share.
Also having to do with the “gaúcho” culture in the south of Brazil is the way people dress. It gets really cold here in the winter months of May-July, and people dress for it, with ponchos and some really great hand-made scarfs, hats, mitts and sweaters. There is no heating in Brazil—not at home or at school or anywhere. This was a huge cultural shock for me—having to sleep with a hat and mitts and at least four blankets at night. I remember thinking to myself, am I really in Brazil, a tropical country? When I go back to Canada without a Brazilian tan, my friends are going to laugh me out of the country!
Anyway, most of the girls here wear these fantastic super-platform boots, which I guess is passé in Canada. Along with men, they also tend to wear tight clothes, something that caught my attention because I realized quickly that people would stare at me if I wore sweatpants.
Sometimes, you can catch a glimpse of a gaúcho (a “cowboy”, although this is an inadequate translation) dressed in a poncho, typical pants which have puffy pockets and which are tucked into knee-high boots, with a colorful cloth around his neck, tied in a knot, and a flat hat on his head or hanging on his back by a string.
I’m trying really hard to find things that are similar to home, but everything here has its quirks that make it even a little bit different than from home. Simple things, like buses or convenience stores are different.
For example, in Brazil, when you get on the bus you don’t pay the driver but rather pay a man who is seated in the middle of the bus who will then allow you to pass through a turn style; the seats before this turn style are for the elderly.
Another example is every time you enter a convenience store, you will be given a paper that you must present before you leave the store and which on it will be recorded what you bought; if you lose that paper, you have to pay a fine.
Even something as simple as milk is different; here, it doesn’t come in bags but rather in a cardboard box that you have to cut a corner off of.
I’m not saying that everything is different, but it is hard to think of something significant in Brazil that is surprisingly the same as in Canada. Actually one thing I can say is that Brazilians talk loudly on their cell phones in public places just as Canadians do!
The strategy I took in coming to Brazil, since I tend to be a very anxious kind of person, was to not think about what I was doing. If I thought about how I was going to be in Brazil for three months, in a country that I basically know only stereotypes about, whose language I don’t speak and whose big cities have ¨quite¨ dangerous reputations, I would freak out. So, instead, I packed my bags and got on the plane to Sao Paulo without really acknowledging that, oh my God, I am going to Brazil!
When I arrived (from Sao Paulo) in Porto Alegre, which is in the most southernmost state of Brazil, I was still on numb-mode. Two people from the town where my internship would be met me at the airport so that we could take the 4.5-hour bus ride to the town, Rio Grande, together.
We had time to kill before taking the bus, so we decided to walk to a nearby food market. The bus station was, unfortunately, in the most dangerous part of the city and not at all reflective of the city as a whole.
As we were walking, we passed a man sprawled face down in the middle of the sidewalk, a sidewalk that was crowded with people walking about. Further on, there was a heavy woman with ragged clothes, spots on the black skin of her round face, wandering eyes and frizzy hair that stood on its ends, standing and rocking a baby in her arms, talking aloud to herself. Then we passed by a building with a window, whose ledge extended out about 10 inches and was surrounded by tall bars, in which a person was curled up and sleeping. It was at this point that I woke up and realized, okay Lidia, you are in a different country now.
What has caught my eye during my stay in Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil? For one, people walk around with chimarrão as they do with a watch on their wrist. Chimarrão is a drink that is made of herbs and hot water, like tea, except that the people drink it from a hollowed out gourd with a metal straw. In one hand they have the gourd and in the other, a thermos of hot water to refill their gourd.
The habit of drinking chimarrão kinda reminded me of the Canadian habit of drinking Tim Horton’s—in the car, in the grocery store, walking on the street, etc! It was funny to see even in class the students passing around the chimarrão to share.
Also having to do with the “gaúcho” culture in the south of Brazil is the way people dress. It gets really cold here in the winter months of May-July, and people dress for it, with ponchos and some really great hand-made scarfs, hats, mitts and sweaters. There is no heating in Brazil—not at home or at school or anywhere. This was a huge cultural shock for me—having to sleep with a hat and mitts and at least four blankets at night. I remember thinking to myself, am I really in Brazil, a tropical country? When I go back to Canada without a Brazilian tan, my friends are going to laugh me out of the country!
Anyway, most of the girls here wear these fantastic super-platform boots, which I guess is passé in Canada. Along with men, they also tend to wear tight clothes, something that caught my attention because I realized quickly that people would stare at me if I wore sweatpants.
Sometimes, you can catch a glimpse of a gaúcho (a “cowboy”, although this is an inadequate translation) dressed in a poncho, typical pants which have puffy pockets and which are tucked into knee-high boots, with a colorful cloth around his neck, tied in a knot, and a flat hat on his head or hanging on his back by a string.
I’m trying really hard to find things that are similar to home, but everything here has its quirks that make it even a little bit different than from home. Simple things, like buses or convenience stores are different.
For example, in Brazil, when you get on the bus you don’t pay the driver but rather pay a man who is seated in the middle of the bus who will then allow you to pass through a turn style; the seats before this turn style are for the elderly.
Another example is every time you enter a convenience store, you will be given a paper that you must present before you leave the store and which on it will be recorded what you bought; if you lose that paper, you have to pay a fine.
Even something as simple as milk is different; here, it doesn’t come in bags but rather in a cardboard box that you have to cut a corner off of.
I’m not saying that everything is different, but it is hard to think of something significant in Brazil that is surprisingly the same as in Canada. Actually one thing I can say is that Brazilians talk loudly on their cell phones in public places just as Canadians do!
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Culture is like a muscle; it is strengthened by use
Well, today is June 11th and I am finally writing my first blog. Oh my I feel so guilty! It´s not like the blogging assignment was difficult, but, for some reason, it has taken me a month and almost two weeks to sit down and write this. I was actually one of the first people to arrive at my internship, too; I arrived April 25th. So then, what is my excuse?
I think I was intimidated. Not by setting up a blog and not by the idea that people would be reading my personal and private thoughts, but rather I was intimated by the prospect of defining my culture. Culture is scary. I feel like I won´t be able to do my culture justice. I feel self-conscious about the whole matter; inferior, perhaps.
I read some other peoples' blogs in May and I remember thinking to myself, wow, these people know what they are talking about. I feel silly thinking about it now, especially becase it is not like culture (or being able to talk profoundly about one´s culture) is a competition. I know too that culture is relative, and that the unfamilair can seem superior to the familiar. But there are definitely feelings of inferiority that I think are responsible for my hesitation to bare my culture (and my thoughts therein) to the York Internship world.
If you can't tell, I tend to make things more stressful for myself than they need to be. These blogs are supposed to be fun, aren't they? I don´t need to be such a downer. I may be a perfectionist, too, but culture can´t be judged on a scale of perfection so screw that! Right?
Anyway, on with the culture. So, my culture, eh? What can I say....
I was born in Newmarket, Ontario. I grew up in King City with two older sisters. My mom is Canadian, with parents from Holland, and my Dad is Italian. My mom never had a close relationship with her parents so I grew up in a Canadian-Italian context. I just wish that I didn't have such light features (blue eyes, fair skin), because I would love to look Italian! God, Italians are beautiful people.
I was raised Catholic, like a good Italian bambina, and I ¨chose¨to be confirmed (I kinda had to go along with the confirmation thang because the rest of my Grade 8 class was getting confirmed), which means I took the responsibility of my faith in my own hands. In other words, I didn´t go to church the very next Sunday or any other Sunday after that, in fact, and neither Mommy nor Daddy could force me to go, either. Thanks to this unsuccessful religious upbringing, I am constantly plagued with feelings of guilt; from my experience, Italian Catholics (or failed ones) tend to cling to guilt like it´s a rope that they can use to escape from hell.
I have a Nonna and a Nonno who give me a $5 dollar bill everytime I see them so that I can buy something nice and they speak a broken English mixed with an Italian dialect from a pipsqueak of a rural Italian town. My Nonna works magic in the kitchen and my Nonna works his in the garden. Thanks to their influence, I love eating and I can appreciate the significance or fresh vegetables from the backyard. I also owe my strong work ethic to them, they both worked hard to immigrate to Canada and they continue to work hard, even on pension.
I come from a broken family; my parents are divorced and they ¨dislike¨ eachother. Everybody lives in a different town, everybody has something against the other and nobody remembers what happened in the first place. To this I owe, ironically, my apreciation of family; I admire successful families and I love to be invited over to dinner at friends´ houses.
When my family lived together in my childhood, we lived in a rather big home in a rural town. Now, I live in a small apartment in the big bad city of Toronto and I drink lots of Starbucks and I eat at Tim Horton´s three times a day (when I would really rather eat Nonna´s hand-rolled gnocchi). I also push people to make sure I get on the TTC bus that I have been waiting 15 minutes for.
I have international friends and multicultural friends; Brazilian, Mexican, French, Quebecois, Chinese-Canadian, Italian-Canadian, Portuguese-Canadian, etc. I am able to practice my French, Portuguese, Italian and Spanish on a weekly basis. I am bilingual in French and English (perhaps a minority in a bilingual-on-paper-and-on-the-cereal-box country). My passion is language and literacy. Perhaps I owe this to my Mom, who made me have reading time-outs when I was acting too hyper as a kid.
I am dating a Brazilian who talks to me in Portuguese and who likes to watch the soccer game on Sunday and who, as manly as he is, likes to watch Brazilian soap operas every day. We get together with Brazilian friends on the weekend and eat arroz and feijao and listen to Brazilian funk music.
It´s funny, it seems so odd to be writing this now, now that I have been in Brazil for more than a month and now that I have adapted to and adopted the ¨gaucha¨ culture of the South. I´m already drinking chimarron daily (a type of herb that people drink from a ¨bowl¨ with a metal straw).
More than that though, I feel like a different person. I am not the same Lidia that lived in Toronto a month ago--I could go without Tim Horton´s and I would be O.K. (kidding; a) I am simplifying and b) I really want a Timmy´s). So, what´s my culture now?
It´s one thing to write about my culture on paper and it is quite another to see it in action. I have the same experience when I teach students here about Canadian Culture--I find it so hard to define the Canadian culture. I can talk about it all I want and write about it as I want to, but what is culture? What is my culture?
Culture is transient; stopping it midstream to take a snapshot doesn´t seem to capture anything.
I think I was intimidated. Not by setting up a blog and not by the idea that people would be reading my personal and private thoughts, but rather I was intimated by the prospect of defining my culture. Culture is scary. I feel like I won´t be able to do my culture justice. I feel self-conscious about the whole matter; inferior, perhaps.
I read some other peoples' blogs in May and I remember thinking to myself, wow, these people know what they are talking about. I feel silly thinking about it now, especially becase it is not like culture (or being able to talk profoundly about one´s culture) is a competition. I know too that culture is relative, and that the unfamilair can seem superior to the familiar. But there are definitely feelings of inferiority that I think are responsible for my hesitation to bare my culture (and my thoughts therein) to the York Internship world.
If you can't tell, I tend to make things more stressful for myself than they need to be. These blogs are supposed to be fun, aren't they? I don´t need to be such a downer. I may be a perfectionist, too, but culture can´t be judged on a scale of perfection so screw that! Right?
Anyway, on with the culture. So, my culture, eh? What can I say....
I was born in Newmarket, Ontario. I grew up in King City with two older sisters. My mom is Canadian, with parents from Holland, and my Dad is Italian. My mom never had a close relationship with her parents so I grew up in a Canadian-Italian context. I just wish that I didn't have such light features (blue eyes, fair skin), because I would love to look Italian! God, Italians are beautiful people.
I was raised Catholic, like a good Italian bambina, and I ¨chose¨to be confirmed (I kinda had to go along with the confirmation thang because the rest of my Grade 8 class was getting confirmed), which means I took the responsibility of my faith in my own hands. In other words, I didn´t go to church the very next Sunday or any other Sunday after that, in fact, and neither Mommy nor Daddy could force me to go, either. Thanks to this unsuccessful religious upbringing, I am constantly plagued with feelings of guilt; from my experience, Italian Catholics (or failed ones) tend to cling to guilt like it´s a rope that they can use to escape from hell.
I have a Nonna and a Nonno who give me a $5 dollar bill everytime I see them so that I can buy something nice and they speak a broken English mixed with an Italian dialect from a pipsqueak of a rural Italian town. My Nonna works magic in the kitchen and my Nonna works his in the garden. Thanks to their influence, I love eating and I can appreciate the significance or fresh vegetables from the backyard. I also owe my strong work ethic to them, they both worked hard to immigrate to Canada and they continue to work hard, even on pension.
I come from a broken family; my parents are divorced and they ¨dislike¨ eachother. Everybody lives in a different town, everybody has something against the other and nobody remembers what happened in the first place. To this I owe, ironically, my apreciation of family; I admire successful families and I love to be invited over to dinner at friends´ houses.
When my family lived together in my childhood, we lived in a rather big home in a rural town. Now, I live in a small apartment in the big bad city of Toronto and I drink lots of Starbucks and I eat at Tim Horton´s three times a day (when I would really rather eat Nonna´s hand-rolled gnocchi). I also push people to make sure I get on the TTC bus that I have been waiting 15 minutes for.
I have international friends and multicultural friends; Brazilian, Mexican, French, Quebecois, Chinese-Canadian, Italian-Canadian, Portuguese-Canadian, etc. I am able to practice my French, Portuguese, Italian and Spanish on a weekly basis. I am bilingual in French and English (perhaps a minority in a bilingual-on-paper-and-on-the-cereal-box country). My passion is language and literacy. Perhaps I owe this to my Mom, who made me have reading time-outs when I was acting too hyper as a kid.
I am dating a Brazilian who talks to me in Portuguese and who likes to watch the soccer game on Sunday and who, as manly as he is, likes to watch Brazilian soap operas every day. We get together with Brazilian friends on the weekend and eat arroz and feijao and listen to Brazilian funk music.
It´s funny, it seems so odd to be writing this now, now that I have been in Brazil for more than a month and now that I have adapted to and adopted the ¨gaucha¨ culture of the South. I´m already drinking chimarron daily (a type of herb that people drink from a ¨bowl¨ with a metal straw).
More than that though, I feel like a different person. I am not the same Lidia that lived in Toronto a month ago--I could go without Tim Horton´s and I would be O.K. (kidding; a) I am simplifying and b) I really want a Timmy´s). So, what´s my culture now?
It´s one thing to write about my culture on paper and it is quite another to see it in action. I have the same experience when I teach students here about Canadian Culture--I find it so hard to define the Canadian culture. I can talk about it all I want and write about it as I want to, but what is culture? What is my culture?
Culture is transient; stopping it midstream to take a snapshot doesn´t seem to capture anything.
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