Easter 1978

We painted 120 eggs and hid them at the Sitio Ens yesterday. We drove out there in the morning, the borrowed minivan having to make two trips to bring all the children. It was great fun. It was boiling hot and the children jumped directly into the swimming pool, 35 children romping, squealing and screaming in the water with Cido and I watching from above like hawks that no one went under.

Then there was a good nourishing lunch, for which we gave thanks with many songs. The children became less fish-like, said good-day, no longer threw everything on the ground and, more important, had something to give. Mrs. Ens was very impressed by the Brazilian songs we sang. Afterwards we went for a walk, during which the eggs were hidden. Then the seeking, the joy of discovery!

A birthday at Solange's

Solange came by early this morning. She wandered around, helped a little with the cleaning, did some leather work with Dona Raimunda. You could tee though, that she really wanted something else. Maybe our Godchild was ill or they had no money to buy food. Finally it came out: she wanted to invite us to Ademir's birthday party, who was three years old today. What she also wanted to say didn't come out though: that she wanted to bake the cake in our oven. At home they have only an open fire, upon which the cake was finally baked. A coal-black pot of dough was placed on a hot platter and on the lid, a piece of old tin, glowing coals. It was done four times until the four-tiered cake was finished. What a tiny, lop-sided cake it was, but it was decorated with much love by Solange and her oldest brother, Juracy. The birthday-child Ademir patiently watch the hours-long baking process from a "throne" until it was finished.

It was already dark when we finally lit a candle with the number 4 on it, which the boy had found somewhere. About twenty children were gathered to cut the tiny cake; some standing, some sitting on the only bed, all with glowing eyes. We sang Parabens (congratulations), "Happy Birthday" in English and finally "Hoch soll er leben". Everyone got a piece of cake and a sip of juice.

The mother said, "I'm ashamed that everything is so simple."

"But you shouldn't be ashamed, comadre, the children are all very happy. Many think that a party must be elaborate. But that's not necessary. Just look at how the Birthday-child is so proud to be the center of attraction. That's important for him -- to break up the commonplace with little festivities." That put her at ease.

I think this shows that a home is not so much the house as the atmosphere which reigns in it -- love, affection, togetherness, that makes life worthwhile. Children whose fathers have disappeared and whose mothers work and are never in a hurry to get home. The smaller ones even point out their houses with pride when, for example, we ride by in a bus. The older ones realize what a house they have and that they live on the edge of society.

As I walked up the hill towards home, I thought how sad it is that such simple festivities have been lost in the city. On television and in advertisements they see how the wealthy celebrate and think that's the only way. I'll never forget the obtrusive, revolution-provocating and for Brazil insensible advertisement: Natal de rico ‚ assim - Christmas for the rich, so -- and a huge ham and bottle of champagne stared at the poor every day during the pre-Christmas season.

And what nice people they are: Solange, Juracy, Joceni, Sirlane, Ademir, Claudemir, the mother and the father. After all the festivals in the escolinha they bring their mother something -- a piece of cake or a cookie saved for her.

When we went to the Represa Billings on a two-day excursion, I found a veritable hoard of bananas and bread, etc. under the pillow - para minha mae, for my mother. Recently I gave Juracy three cruzeiros so he could take the bus to work. He had to clean up a garden. When he returned he gave me the money back: "I didn't need it, the driver let me ride free." Such honesty! I hope he doesn't lose it in the battle for every cruzeiro. He, thirteen years old, goes every night with a group of other boys to Brooklin, where there are a number of expensive restaurants. They guard and wash cars to earn their cruzeiros and often come home after midnight. Juracy gives all his earnings to his mother, in contrast to many others who buy cigarettes and sweets and only give a part of it home. In the morning he is of course often tired and skips school. That's how the vicious circle begins: they must earn money and therefore school is neglected. School is neglected so they don't learn a trade. They don't learn a trade and are therefore poorly paid and find it difficult to escape from life in the favela.

Something good radiates from these children.

Claudemir is mine and Cido's godchild. We watch his health as though it were our own. Now that he is over a year old we give Solange fruit and vegetables for him in the hope that he will develop in a manner which corresponds to his age and doesn't acquire that calm, apathetic expression that almost all the favela children have between one and four years of age. They can sit for hours in a corner or on a lap without doing anything, without playing or saying anything, patient, not participating.

The two children Dona Ella has taken in are completely different. They observe everything with a wide-awake look, play, laugh, cry, react normally. In contrast the favela children brood within themselves, without reacting to what comes to them from outside. Well, and that's what Claudemir looks like. Why is it so? No stimulation and, probably, despite our efforts, not enough vitamins; probably in his case lack of stimulation is more to blame -- always the same gray walls of the tiny room in which family life takes place. No toys, no pictures, no color. But love, yes. Solange takes care of him, the boy rocks him, the mother feeds him, all in narrow confines and in the same bed.

When he arrived at the crawling stage there was no room to crawl. The approximately 5 by 5 feet space in the room (= house) not taken up by the only bed, the chair, the suitcases and the wood-burning stove, are dirty or dusty. The floor is of trampled earth which is always crumbling. So he hardly crawls and thereby misses an important stage of his development, as is the case with many Brazilian children. Now at fifteen months he angles around the edge of the bed a bit. It's touching how Solange and Sirlane support him from both sides so he can take a few steps -- a picture of care and dedication.

Antonio

Another new child! When I came home from school he stood next to the wash basin with his pale triangular face and huge black eyes. Fourteen years old. I said hello and asked him in. His mother had already disappeared, happy to have gotten rid of him. The other children were already eating supper. "Come and eat, Antonio." "No, I want to wash my pants first."

Finally I talked him into it. He sat at the table, ate something and peered furtively from one to the other with his large eyes. After eating we played Mikado. Then Rubens and Marcia went to bed and I read them a fairy tale, hoping that Oticio, who has been here for a week, and Antonio would also listen. They did, and with great interest. How good, I thought, for in this way they can recuperate part of the spiritual formation they missed as small children. Later Antonio said that fairy tales are lies and nonsense, but he always wanted more. Then we prayed the Our Father. The two new ones said it with us, Antonio somewhat hesitatingly. Probably he had never really prayed before. How good that the small ones are here to help give the older, spiritually starved ones, nourishment. That way it's a matter of course and not at all forced. How can you bring a fourteen-year-old to absorb substance, to pray, to open himself to the beauty of the world, who until now wandered the streets at night, hung out in bars, smoked and often went home at dawn from some kind of party?

After a week he lost his timidity and anxiety. At table he dominated the conversation and we all laughed at his jokes and anecdotes, mostly having to do with how you can fool someone. Sometimes he had to be asked four times what he meant because we couldn't understand him with all his stuttering, mumbling and giria (slang). Later he prepared a lexicon for me with every new giria expression he used. I studied it, but the use of giria gradually died down. It was too much trouble for him to write down every word.

I'm getting to know him a bit better every day, especially Sundays when he's often home alone with me. Once we went to Mrs. Alps' who has adopted several babies. On the way back we waited a long time for the bus. He began to talk about himself and I hoped the bus wouldn't come too soon. It all bubbled out of him confused and humorously (gallows humor). When he was seven, he said, he lived with a family in Assia, Province of Sao Paulo.

"One day I left to look for my mother. I walked and walked, outside the city, just following my nose. Finally the police found me and brought me back to my foster family. Soon I was put with a different family."

"And your father?" "I don't remember much about my father. I can only see him beating my mother. When I was three or four he got sick and died. My brother thought he was only sleeping, but I knew he would never stand up again. I'll never forget that, not till the end of my life."

"And how was it in Londrina?" "Last year I lived with three different families. One woman in Londrina didn't even give me a bed; I slept on a mat on the porch."

I was shocked by his story and thought I must tell him that I would be his last "family". I must take away the fear of continually going from one to the other without a home and security.

"And with another foster family," he continued in his stuttering, merry manner, "I had to sleep in a tree."

"In a tree?" "Yes, on a branch that grew over the wall, that's where I slept. But don't tell anyone else."

"And what did you do the whole day?" "I went to school, made some money sometime at the market; mostly I just hung around. In one family I had to help slaughter oxen. I was pretty much a malandro (scoundrel), never obeyed, was always on the go, baguncar, no one could stand me for long. Later on I lived with Dona Isaura. She was nice and good to me. But I did a lot of nonsense with her son, Luis. We stole things and the police caught us once. Luis was in jail for a day but I got away. So Dona Isaura's husband, Seu Mouzart, didn't want me around anymore. Just imagine, sometimes Dona Isaura secretly let me sleep in her house, and often she went looking for me to bring me something to eat."

I thought: "That woman has nothing herself, I give her used clothing, but she has pity for the boy and does what she can for him without talking about it."

"So I had to move on and came to a family where I had to help slaughter cattle. I was supposed to drive a knife into the steer's heart. I didn't want to do that, so they sent me away. I gathered my things in a plastic sack and then...where to? The only one who didn't send me away was Dona Isaura. She gave me food and let me sleep in her house, but only when her husband was asleep and didn't notice. One day she told me about Dona Ute. And that's how I got here."

The bus finally came, we pushed our way in and the talk ended. I had to wait weeks before I learned more about his life. He didn't seem to miss his mother, in fact he gave the impression that she was a stranger to him. He talked more about Dona Isauara, wrote to her and wanted to visit her without fail during the July holidays. On Mothers Day he wrote a poem and gave it to me with the words: "tenho dó da minha mae". (I have two mothers?)

As with all the children, I treated him on the basis of trust. But I soon realized that he consistently abused it. He lied, stole, and you never knew if he really went where he was supposed to go. I think he sold a pair of our shoes to buy cigarettes. He was always disappearing for a quarter, half or a full hour.

"Where were you?" At Daniel's, Leo's, playing football.

Once I saw him from the window bent over looking for something at the bus-stop. Cigarette butts, which he smoked in the bushes. Once we went to the theater. He found a piece of half-eaten candy on the floor. He put it into his mouth and sucked it to the end. Another time he found a stepped-on pie on the way to school. He appetite is huge (his face is no longer triangular) as is his lack of self-control while eating. Seeing, taking and eating are all the same to him. Nothing is safe in the refrigerator.

"Antonio, more children live here. I bought these three avocados for seven people, and you have already eaten one."

"E a lei da sobrevivencia." - "That's the law of survival."

Once we were invited to Dona Barbara's to swim. Pears and apples lay temptingly on a dish.

"Give me the pears." "They're not mine." "Give me the pears." How can I give them to you when they're not mine?" Then he found a grapefruit. "I'll put the grapefruit on the plate and eat the pears."

Life has taught him many subterfuges. Where will this lack of self-control lead when his sexual appetites awaken? His body occupies him in many forms. Now that he feels at home here he passes wind from both ends with relish. I didn't find that so terrible, but finally it became so exaggerated that I threatened to give him an essay on the digestion system to write. After the next farting concert he had to write it after all.

He shot up in length and breadth. "I'm becoming a man," he announced at least ten times a day and counted the hairs in his armpits - 19, 20, 30! Finally he gave it up, but the problem worried him and, thank God, it was possible to talk about it because of his frank remarks.

His attitude towards women is appalling. Men are everything, women nothing. His head is full of theories and prejudices. Men are strong and courageous, etc., women weak and fearful.

"Who's stronger?" Boom! Maristela gave him a shove and he went flying onto the floor. Elizete took on Oticio. Both "men" lay on the floor and the women put their feet triumphantly on their chests.

"Courageous? Who will go to the farthest corner of the garden in the dark?" No one was very enthusiastic, but finally Maristela mastered herself and went. Thus we indisputably disproved a number of prejudices about masculine superiority. Now the boys are braver and sleep alone in the shed in the back, despite the cats having recently visited and stared at them with their glowing eyes. But how will such a boy treat his girlfriend and wife if he's never known love? And he is looking hard for it and will look for it soon in early love-affairs. Lei da sobrevivencia! How can he be shown that there is also a lei do amor, when he has never known anything like it.

Once when he did something he shouldn't have, he wrote to me: "I don't want to leave. I like it here a lot." Probably because he senses that I like him. Sometimes he hangs on me like a small child on its mother. It's touching and disturbing at the same time. When I was ill he brought me huge sandwiches, pots of tea with "a little sugar" and looked constantly into my room to see how I was. When Rubens came in, his whole being expressed care and consideration; Antonio was ungainly and wooden, as though he had never done anything good for someone.

Daily dialogue:

"Did you practice your typing?"

"No."

"Do it."

"Did you wash yourself?"

"No, tomorrow."

"Put your pajamas on, like a civilized person."

"I can't find them."

"Go get the blanket for the night."

"No, later."

"You'll disturb Rubens and Marcia then."

"What's that to me?"

"Wash the supper dishes."

"I'm not a slave!"

"Neither am I."

"What will I get for it?"

"Nothing. You've eaten."

Scraps of dialogue. Revolt. Keep calm. But alongside these negations there is also light. He paints a picture and is happy doing it. He reads a story and tells it to the others, puts a flower in the vase. Or asks: "I'm improving, aren't I?"

Then come the gloomy days again. "I'll dig my grave." Such thoughts are associated with self-pity. One evening I read the children a story, they said their prayers and went to bed. After a while Antonio got up, sobbing, and wrote and wrote and laid the letter on my night-table. "It's hard to live without a mother. I've lived in ten different houses."

What to do? Love him. Show him that he now has someone he can trust. Give him support and protection. Praise him when it's at all possible as counter-weight to the many admonishments and to the consistency with which he must be handled. His days must have a rhythmic element. We get up at five-thirty, now without grumbling. Mornings he works with Oticio in the Waldorf School printing-workshop. From there they both go to the 'grupo escolar'. At five in the afternoon they come home, relax, eat, play and practice typing. Supper at seven o'clock. Then we usually sit in the living-room painting, rehearsing a play, doing handicrafts, playing, talking, reading, etc.

At eight I put Rubens and Marcia to bed, tell them a fairy tale, say their prayers with them. Then I usually read something to Oticio and Antonio. It's the hour when I'm alone with the boys and they ask questions.

"Are there black people in Germany?" "When was Germany discovered?" "What is methane gas?" "How are children born?", etc. They say their prayers, then I hear them talking and giggling for a while and soon they fall asleep."

Such a daily rhythm gives support. On week-ends he is relaxed; we visit someone, go out to a sitio, go to a movie or theater, to the hippie-market or something similar. His narrow view of the world and his hardened way of judging people must be broadened. Tell him about strange lands, watch folk-dances, observe a flower, go to a museum, Terco - pray the rosary with Cido, see new scenery in the vacation colony or in Monteverde, meet other people, theater, watch slides, read books, paint water-colors, draw geometric forms, make flowered Christmas cards for the bazaar, etc. One tries a thousand things. Does it help?

The most difficult thing is his mask: revolt and falsity. I realize gradually that goodness and trust are stupidity in his eyes. He doesn't understand because he isn't used to being treated with strictness and consistency and immediately afterwards with love. Once I gave him a thrashing so he'd understand that I refrain from hitting him not because of weakness, but because I want to educate him through love and trust. "Life is stupid", he said once. "You have to do so many stupid things in life."

Dancing, pinga, smoking, playing, football, girls, cars, music. That's life. How is he to be given the feeling that life can also be other things? Recently we watched slides of my travels. Aha, that's nice. I'll go with you to Germany next time." "Yes, you may, but first you have to learn a trade." "O.K., I'll do it."

Give him an objective. Enrich his view of the world. The world looked to him as follows: families with many children who, as soon as they are ten, eleven or fourteen earn some money to buy sweets and cigarettes and give something home; the red earth of Paraná, the dull classes in the grupos (state primary schools) with little respect for the teachers; bars, pinga, etc.

Therefore: like him, show him a path and help him to overcome the indifference and pessimism instilled in him by having been rejected.

May 1978

Here we're all healthy and lively, sometimes too lively. When all six children have attacks of liveliness at once you think you're in a madhouse.

Most likely I'll begin to build again -- and finish this time, I hope. The prefecture is lending us a 1,400 square meter lot near the favela for the youth center. All that's lacking are: money, workers, building materials and time to find them all.

When the youth center is finished we'll build an out-patient clinic in the favela. We'll find space to do it despite the terrible crowding there. With such plans I have little time to relax. And I'm already 40! If I were a man I'd be at the height of my creative powers.

June 1978.

An unexpected one-sentence letter came from a lawyer I know, Dr. Luchterhandt: if I can use 8,000 to 10,000 marks. This donation came like a gift from heaven. I wrote back: yes, I can use the money, I'll build a social center with it. Wonderful, now to work!

An architect from the school drew up a plan, Mr. Blaich worked out how much wood and so forth will be needed. I learned something about which I had no idea: how to build. During the July vacation I went to Paraná  and, with the help of the former prefect, bought the wood. Buy materials, watch the construction, ask Mr. Blaich if it's being correctly built, buy cement again, look for used materials. Is the mason doing what he should?

September 1978:

I went by the construction and saw the carpenter sawing something on the roof. The whole house shook. Something must be wrong. He assured me that it wouldn't fall down. I spoke to Mr. Blaich: No, that won't do. I thought I could entrust the construction to the tradesmen, but no, the more it advances the more I must watch them, like a lynx.

Another time I climbed up to the loft. We especially wanted a usable loft where one can move about without difficulty and where someone could eventually even live. What a disappointment! It was so low that you had to crawl around on hands and knees. OK, do it again. That's how it is with everything. But when everything is finished, or at least something like a house stands there, like now, I show it proudly to the visitors.