Borderless Voices

Indian Summer

By Regina Camargo 9/21/22

The cherries are long gone

So are the cold, long and foggy days of mid-summer

Bay Area weather is an eternal paradox

Autumn announces itself slowly:

Soft golden light, long shadows on the sidewalk

Red, yellow turning brown leaves rustling under my feet

Indian Summer:

The heat, the dried leaves, lingering thoughts

Nostalgia, longing for what is not yet gone

The figs are bursting out of the tree

The strong scent makes the mouth water in anticipation

Persimmons and pomegranates arrive next

Burnt orange and deep red

A last splash of color before Winter.

I carry opposing seasons in my soul

A diagonal line connecting North and South

Autumn in the North, Spring in the South

Outono no Norte, Primavera no Sul

Minha mãe diz: “é meia estação”

“Half seasons,” says my mother

Seasons between seasons

Red maple and yellow ginkgo leaves

O amarelo escandaloso dos ipês anunciando o verão

O roxo intenso do manacá da serra

Bright yellows and deep purples announce summer

Saudade, vague impressions

A collection of snapshots

The memory insists on not forgetting

The cherries are long gone

I learned to anticipate the fruit that comes with each season in the North

I can only remember jaboticaba in the South

Jaboticaba, like my eyes, olhos de jabutica, someone once said

My soul finds solace in the blue skies

The blue sky is the same in the North and in the South

So am I

Más Amor, Por Favor

Sou da América,

América Latina

Latina, Latine, Latinx

La-ti-na soa bem mais bonito que Hispanic

Labels, boxes on government forms

But what happens when you don’t fit in box?

Serei eu Latina, Other, both?

Latina que fala português, que aprendeu espanhol

Portunhol

América Latina e Caribe: 33 países

Cada um com suas próprias culturas

Mas aqui somos todes latines

Abracei o manto da latinidad

Um manto que me cai bem

Manto da Virgem de Guadalupe e de Nossa Senhora Aparecida

Um manto que projetam sobre mim

Um manto que me protege quando estou junto com outras mujeres y mulheres

Antes eu era apenas paulistana, brasileira

Gostava de música americana 

Assistia seriados dublados:

Produto do imperialismo cultural

Casas com lareira e sem muros

Trilha sonora de Burt Bacharach:

What the world needs now, is love, sweet love!

Ella Fitzgerald, Shaft, Soul Train, a elegância dos negros americanos que sabem ser cool

Aqui somos todes latines

“Más amor, por favor,” estava escrito em uma camiseta na Target

A herança latina virando produto

Orgulho à venda uma vez por ano

Histórias compartimentalizadas:

September is our month

Califórnia era também México

Só restou Baja California

Mas la raza segue forte

La frontera is blurry

Imigrantes carregam suas tradições nas costas

Antes, eu só conhecia Finados, a tristeza dos cemitérios

Cheiro de velas derretendo

Mas aqui descobri que a morte também pode ser uma celebração

Calaveras enfeitadas

Marigold, palo santo

Every year we honor the ancestors from here, there and everywhere:

Dia de los Muertos

Aprendi a fazer as pazes com a morte e os mortos com os Mexicanos

Dos salvadorenhos, pupusas

Dos cubanos, a música

Dos peruanos, ceviche

Dos venezuelanos, sua alegria: chévere

Dos argentinos e uruguaios, o seu “j” que soa como português

Como não celebrar tanta riqueza?

Soy latine, latina-americana, brasileira, paulistana

September 27, 2022

I was born with a wondering heart

Thousands of miles away

In a city that never sleeps

Where you cannot see the horizon

But you can buy flowers at three in the morning

Millions of people coming and going

I can easily remember names of airports

Even though they always feel the same

I like watching the long list of destinations go by

Home is just a state of being

I belong to many places

My roots spreading all over

I strive for a world borderless

I have learned to mistrust flags

While stretching my heart

https://kaieckhardt.bandcamp.com/track/wandering-heart-2

Because not all that glitters is gold

Because not all that glitters is gold even in the Golden State. Because I didn’t speak English, you were still learning Portuguese and some things were lost in translation. Because while I was growing up in Brazil orange juice was a treat and the frozen orange juice from Safeway in Rockridge tasted so fresh and sweet. Because I had watched too much American television dubbed in Portuguese and it felt like being in an endless movie driving up and down the streets of San Francisco. Because there was not a single cloud in the sky and the clean air filled my lungs and the long summer days were so lonely. Because everything was new and there was hope. Because I had to make pizzas and sandwiches, wait on tables, clean houses, and change diapers with my journalism diploma: the price of becoming an immigrant. Because I was learning a new language and trying to reinvent myself. Because going back home was not an option or so I thought. Because going back felt like admitting defeat. Because I was becoming an immigrant even before I knew it. Because I was a young Brazilian and people thought my accent was cute and I even learned how to dance samba. Because I felt there was no future in Brazil and because I was born with a wandering heart. Because I grew up watching French and Italian movies on an old television my parents used to call the “soap box” late into the night until the television would sign off the air overnight and all there was left was static.  Because I always traveled through other landscapes in my mind long before ever boarding an airplane. Because watching existential German movies at the Goethe Institute in São Paulo matched my restless and inquisitive mind. Because learning other languages expanded my mind and filled my heart in unexpected ways. Because I stayed in California, but Europe came to me as an Afro-Deutsche: a black German. Because my children were born here and claim three passports. Because life happened. Because I became an immigrant, Latina, racialized, a person of color. Because I stand in solidarity. Because seeing children in cages and immigrants treated as criminals breaks my heart in tiny little pieces. Because I have been called “fucking immigrant” by someone who ran a red light and almost hit me. Because I was called a “fucking Mexican” in front of my children at a café by an insane person. Because the people who hurled insults at me were people of color themselves it hurt more because I expected them to know better. Because of Skid Row in Los Angeles and the Tenderloin in San Francisco. Because of endless rows of tents and people losing their minds and dying from an overdose. Because of people with serious mental issues who roam around like lost souls. Because gun worship in this country has reached cult proportions. Because people value their freedom to own guns more than they value the lives of children. Because no one is safe. Because the word freedom has lost its meaning.  Because this is not America. America is plural: a vast continent with many countries, languages, and cultures. Because the United States needs to grow up, self-reflect and learn how to be humble. Because I have become of world citizen, and I carry many places in my heart. Because the only way out is forward: one day at a time. May, 2022

Intraduzível

desejo désir deseo desire verlangen

tento em vão traduzir o intraduzível

i should have warned you

é impossível me conhecer numa só língua

i can experience longing in English

mas saudade profunda só em português