The Old Country Comes Alive
The Azores are an archipelago of nine islands off the west coast of Portugal, named for a breed of hawk that lives there. The largest island, St. Michael, is where my grandmother grew up, and where her husband's family lived. Last week, my Uncle Mike and his family returned from their first trip to the islands. They are the first members of our family to ever go back to "The Old Country," so it was a pretty big deal.
My uncle and cousins had always been curious to see where the Portuguese side of our family had come from, so they traveled to St. Michael and visited Villa de Franca, where my grandmother grew up on a pineapple plantation. There, they found the house where she was born, and were only marginally surprised to find that we still had close relatives living there. Although they spoke no English and my uncle only small bits of Portuguese, they managed to communicate across the identity of my grandmother, whom everyone remembered. With the connection made, they took my uncle's family under their wing, and gave them a tour all through the greenhouses and the family farmlands. They even showed them my grandmother's bedroom. It must have been so surreal. Just looking at the pictures I couldn't imagine it.
She was only a teenager when she ran away alone to the United States in 1945.
Apparently the two families spent quite a bit of time together after that; they all went to dinner and to the fire lakes - huge volcanic craters now filled with hot springs. The little towns were amazing as well; they were miniature time warps with narrow cobblestone streets surrounding the Catholic Church (of course), little old ladies wearing their black shawls, horses pulling carts, and, who could forget - the Holy Ghost Festival. It was Grandma in a nutshell, minus perhaps the garlic to ward off vampires.
I've always wanted to visit the Azores myself, and looking at all the photos and things Uncle Mike had brought back - including a giant pineapple from my grandmother's plantation - I just want to go so badly now.
When Mike and the cousins returned, we all went up to visit Grandma, and show her the photos. We were curious to see if she would remember anything. Amazingly, the images managed to spark her long-buried memories, especially those of her house. Upon seeing those, she broke out her Portuguese, which I hadn't heard her speak since I was a kid. Back then, she often yelled at us in Portuguese, because when she was angry she would forget what language she was speaking. Even more surprising was when they showed her a photo of Villa de Franca from above, she remarked, "I've never seen the whole town." We were humbled to realize that Uncle Mike and his family had probably seen more of the island in their two week trip than she ever had in her entire lifetime.
It was such a strange experience watching her look at the pictures. I felt like I was witnessing somebody being pulled out of time, of stretching across it, and being frightened by it, conflicted.
"No more pictures," she finally said. "It was not so pretty when I was there."
When I went home and wrote this about the experience:
THE OLD COUNTRY
Her son fresh
from the airport shoves a book
glossy photos
into her hands saying look
Ma, why did you leave
everything so pretty
pretty flowers hydragneas
everywhere lilac buds thriving
climbing up mountainsides swimming
in volcanic mouths lipped in fire
spilling purple blossoms like spring wine
why did you leave
everything picturesque old ladies
hunched in black shawls walking
stone streets smiling towards home
old homes falling bright white
in the sun pineapples swaying
ripe until rotten
in the greenhouse young girls
in white dresses wait outside church
to meet their men unchosen first time lips
breaking black beneath their eyes
heads crowned in flower bells ringing
wild the Holy Ghost laughs singing
Enough,
she says, slamming memories shut
between her hands it was not so pretty
before it spoiled itself sweet.
posted by Jess @ 1:46 PM
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