I got up, on the verge of pouncing on her and knocking out all her teeth, but I just said, “You’re going to regret saying that.” I turned on my heel and started walking away from her and her clique.
“I guess you’re looking for an ass-whooping, huh?” she yelled after me, and they all laughed.
I was so mad, so sad, and so disappointed in my mother. I heard the matron talking to all the children and grown-ups gathered in the backyard. She was standing on the stage and explaining that we children had put together a play and that we were going to perform it now. Ugh, I just wanted to run away and hide! But I knew I couldn’t do that. That would just give Gabriela and her clique more to tease me about. The last thing I remember about that evening was walking up onto the stage.
I kept my promise to myself. As soon as I saw Gabriela, I jumped her. A lot of kids saw this happen and quickly formed a ring around us. I was glad that so many people were watching, because I wanted as many people as possible to see Gabriela’s humiliation. As I pummeled her, I yelled, “I’m going to kill you! I’m going to kill you!” And for the first time in my life, I felt like I really meant it.
“Are you mad because I called your mother a whore? Why are you mad about that? Because that’s exactly what she is!” she taunted me.
That did it. There was no stopping me now. I jumped on her again and pushed her down onto the cold, hard floor. Somewhere in the background, I heard children yelling and cheering. I didn’t care. We lay there, wrestling on the floor, and I knew that no matter what happened, I was going to win. I managed to get her lying on her back, and I was straddling her stomach. She was kicking and trying to twist me off her, but I was too heavy. I was holding both her hands and managed to get her left arm under my right knee. I held her other arm and swung my free arm into the air. I remember the fear in her eyes. I assume what she saw in me was pure hatred. I punched her in the face. Blood spurted from her nose, but I didn’t care. She screamed loudly, and I hit her again, as hard as I could. I managed to get in one more blow before one of the staff members grabbed me from behind and pulled me off Gabriela. I was kicking and thrashing and screaming that I was going to kill her.
“Just you wait! When you least expect it, I’m going to come kill you!” I roared.
What would eventually frighten me, when I got a little older, was the fact that I didn’t know whether I would have stopped hitting her if that woman who worked at the orphanage hadn’t dragged me off Gabriela. I was so filled with hatred and at the time so blinded by it that I had no thought other than killing her. Every single cell in my body wanted to see her suffer, wanted to see her eradicated from the surface of the earth, wanted people like her to be annihilated. I had encountered so many mean, spiteful people, and I felt forlorn. I’m glad that orphanage lady got there when she did.
She held me, and I calmed down a bit. I looked at Gabriela and felt better. There was blood everywhere, and a sense of satisfaction spread through me. The woman asked who had started the fight. She hadn’t decided yet which of us to punish. Gabriela lay there bleeding. She looked awful, but the woman knew that the person who started the fight was the one who needed to be punished. It was always like that. The staff would make an example of whoever started it to scare us kids away from breaking the rules. She asked again and reminded all the kids that if they didn’t tell her who’d started the fight, everyone would get a beating.
Total silence.
All the kids standing there were afraid of me now. They knew that whoever blabbed was going to get it from me. But I also knew that if I didn’t step forward and say it was me, the kids who got punished would hate me. So I did what was smartest. Not because it felt right, but because I had calculated that this would keep kids from being punished and then they would be grateful. It would show that I wasn’t afraid of the employees and was brave enough to take the pain. And I knew that people would think twice before messing with me.
Gabriela was taken away and bandaged up. I knew what awaited me. A lot of kids had gathered around, not just the younger ones but the older ones, too. The woman who’d stopped the fight asked me why I’d started it. I didn’t answer. She asked again, and this time her voice sounded ice-cold. I didn’t answer. I held my head up high as best I could.
I was trying to show that I wasn’t scared and that I was proud. I wasn’t planning to answer her question. I knew I was making my situation worse by being defiant and not answering, but I was ready to accept the consequences. I wasn’t about to repeat what Gabriela had said about my mother, not out loud in front of all these kids. Even if they didn’t dare tease me, they would still whisper about it behind my back. I refused to say things about my mother that weren’t true.
The woman asked me to remove my T-shirt and pants. I stood in front of all the kids in just my underpants, and she held one of my hands so I stood with my back to her. In her other hand she held a belt, which she whipped my back and legs with. I tried to run away from her, but her grip on my hand let her pull me in closer. This resulted in my just running around and around and around her while she whipped me with the belt. I tried to jump out of the way, to run away. I tried to duck from the blows, but it was useless.
It hurt. A lot. I couldn’t sleep on my back that night. I couldn’t even sit down. My whole body was swollen. I had open wounds on my back and legs that burned, and some of them were oozing blood, but I didn’t regret a thing. I had this sense that my mother would not have approved of what had happened, that she would not have been pleased with my behavior, but I didn’t care. Why should I? She had let me and Patrique down. She hadn’t come to see us even though she promised. She’d left me, which she had promised never to do. I cried quietly to myself. The woman had told me to ask for forgiveness, to say I wouldn’t do it again, but I refused. It wasn’t because I was too proud at that moment. Believe me, the whipping hurt so much that I would have done almost anything that she asked. But she’d asked me to apologize for hitting someone who deserved to be hit. I was supposed to admit that I had done the wrong thing and that my mother was everything Gabriela had said, but I refused to do that. I thought Gabriela deserved the beating she got.
My opinion on this has changed over the years, and I no longer feel anything but sorry for her, and for Christiana. We both lived in a world where such strong, hateful emotions were part of our everyday lives. Children should not grow up like that, and I would give so much now to learn what Gabriela had been through before she ended up in the orphanage. No child can live with so much hatred and so much rage without a reason. I should know. If I’d had a little less rage and frustration in me when I was eight, as an adult I wouldn’t have wondered if my eight-year-old self would have ever stopped pummeling that girl, had no one intervened. A girl who, like me and all the other street kids, deserved so much more, so much more love and so much more of life.
Later, in my life in Sweden, I met a Brazilian woman who asked me where in Brazil I was from and where I’d lived. I replied that I’d lived in the slums and was a street child. She looked at me, smiled, and said, “Oh, street children are so happy. They have a genuine enthusiasm.”
What do you say to that? She wasn’t wrong. There is incredible joy in these children, but there are also unbelievable pain and sorrow.
Why Can’t I See Mamãe?
After that big fight with Gabriela, the matron summoned me to her office so I could explain what had happened, why I’d started the fight.
I didn’t lie. She listened and when I was done, she just said that she understood that I’d been angry, but that my behavior was unacceptable. She said that she never wanted to hear that I’d behaved that way again. Then she said that I would not get to see my mother anymore, that she was no longer welcome to come and see me and my little brother. The reason Mamãe hadn’t come to see us that Sunday was that she was no longer welcome.
I couldn’t understand what she was saying . . . What? I mean, Mamãe had come to see us every Sunday, just as all parents were allowe
d to do. I knew that Mamãe wanted to come see us. Why wouldn’t she come see us anymore? Had I done something wrong, something bad? Did the matron know that I’d picked avocados from the trees outside and hidden them in the fridge in the kitchen? Was she punishing me now for taking the avocados? My little brother wasn’t going to get to see Mamãe because of me. I was so upset. I tried to hold back my tears, but it was hard. As usual when I tried to keep from crying, a tear ran down my cheek. I was forced to ask if I’d done something wrong.
“No, Christiana. You haven’t!”
“But why are you punishing me and my brother? I’ve tried to be nice, and I’ve tried to help out. I’ve been doing my best at school. Why can’t I see my mother again?”
“I’m not punishing you. I’m trying to help you!”
“So, my mother does get to come see us again?”
“I didn’t say that. You understand, Christiana, your mother is sick. She’s very sick.”
“My mother didn’t tell me she’s sick! She’s doing well! She has a job, and she buys me things.”
The matron was quiet for a moment. She seemed to be thinking. She took a deep breath, sitting there behind her desk, then pulled her hand through her straight, black hair. She usually wore her hair up in a ponytail, but today it was down. She was wearing a white blouse and a light matching skirt. She said my name, but I scarcely heard it. She had said that Mamãe was sick. Why would she say that? Mamãe always told me everything, and she had hardly ever lied to me. I heard my name again and looked up.
“Christiana, your mother has a mental illness. Do you know what that means?”
I had no idea what that meant, but I’d heard of it before. My mother had explained to me that I had two older brothers, twins. One was named Humberto, and I can’t remember the other one’s name, but I’ve always called him Gilberto. My mother had said that they’d been born a little “funny,” that they had a mental illness.
I’d asked her what that meant, and she had said that they were just a little different. But she loved them, too.
Now here sat the matron, telling me that my mother was “funny.” But Mamãe wasn’t “funny.” I knew my mother, and she wasn’t “funny.”
“Christiana, we’ve decided that she isn’t good for you, you or your little brother. We’ve decided that she can’t come to see you anymore. We’ve already explained this to her.”
I couldn’t take any more. I was furious with the matron. How could she do this to me? I always helped out—in the kitchen, with the babies, with the laundry and the cleaning. All of it so they would like me, and yet she was still punishing me. Life was so fucking unfair. The rage grew in me until I practically exploded and screamed.
“My mother is not ‘funny’! You can’t decide if I get to see her or not! You’re the devil, and I hate you! I hope you burn in hell forever!”
The matron stiffened. She looked surprised—she’d never seen me act like this. Every single time I was punished for having started a fight or misbehaving in some way, every single time they beat me, I had accepted it. I screamed when they beat me because it hurt, but I refused to cry. Many of the children screamed in pain and cried when they were beaten. To me, crying in front of other people was a sign of weakness, and I had learned that showing weakness didn’t get you anywhere in this world. People were just even nastier and would abuse and exploit you if you showed them you were vulnerable. I wasn’t going to let anyone see me that way. My pride wouldn’t allow it. And I was not planning to give the people beating me the satisfaction of knowing that they’d hurt me.
Here I stood now in the matron’s office, being punished for no reason. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and still I was being punished. Did she think I was just going to accept their taking my mother away from me? I’d already lost so much that I loved. Just then, I detested her more than anything else. I screamed again how much I hated her, and opened the door and ran out of her office. I heard her calling my name and asking me to stay, telling me to come back. But I just ran as fast as I could.
When I got angry like that, I had a tendency to black out. It wasn’t until I calmed down that I could think again. In the middle of the rage, I felt nothing but hatred. That part of me frightened both me and other people when I was little, especially when I moved to Sweden. Sture, my Swedish dad, once told me, “Christina, you have unbelievably beautiful eyes. But when you’re mad, they turn completely black, like a witch’s. It scares me.”
Maybe it’s not so unusual that I couldn’t control that part of myself when I was little. I was carrying around so much that was so tremendously painful. I had no one to talk to who could help me deal with the pain, the grief, and the bitterness, feelings that can be hard enough to deal with as an adult. Instead, I would curl up in some corner where no one would see me, and cry. I let the pain run out of me, and then I sat there, silent and snotty-nosed and teary-eyed, and lost myself in my dreams.
I dreamed myself away into some of Camile’s fairy-tale worlds, where we rode horses or won soccer games. Where we could talk to the animals and eat however much candy and food we wanted. I dreamed that Mamãe and I were sitting on a cloud somewhere in the sky, gazing down at Brazil. We would fly around and get up to a ton of mischief, the way we used to out in the woods. I fantasized about living with the angels and the peace and beauty of their country.
I did eventually calm myself down after my outburst at the matron. When I came back to reality, I found myself sitting on a toilet lid with my arms around my legs. I had picked up my legs so no one would see that I was in the stall. I had locked the door and sobbed in silence. I remember that I was exhausted, completely drained of energy, and that life felt hard. I remember that I didn’t want to exist. I wanted to be like the stars in the daytime—there, but not visible. I didn’t want anyone to see me or talk to me. All I wanted was to be with my mother and my little brother. I wanted to be in the woods where I could play, climb, run around, and swim. I don’t know how long I sat there. Every now and then, I heard a child come in and use one of the other toilets. I sat completely still and held my breath. Gradually my brain started working again. I tried to digest what had happened, what had been said. And even though I had meant every word I’d said to the matron, I understood that it hadn’t been very smart of me to lose my temper that way. Then I started thinking. There must be a way for me to see my mother again. Maybe I could run away. But the walls were too high to climb over, and the gates were always locked. The only time they let us out was when we went to the school, which wasn’t very far from the orphanage. I might be able to run away while we were at school, run as hard as I could before anyone noticed. As I sat there plotting my escape, I happened to think of Patrique. I couldn’t just leave him behind. Mamãe wouldn’t forgive me. Who would take care of him? I totally loved him, so how could I leave him behind? He was just a baby who couldn’t run, couldn’t think. How could I run away and bring him with me?
I became frustrated. The plan I had come up with wouldn’t work. I couldn’t leave the orphanage without Patrique. And I had no idea how I could bring him with me. Even if I managed to sneak out of my room and get him, what would I do then? I could try to steal a couple of keys. I was quite good at picking pockets. I could enlist a few of the other kids, the ones I trusted, to help me. They could distract some of the employees while I swiped their keys. But they would surely discover it before they left for the day. I could talk to Patricia about it, and we could come up with something together. Maybe she could come along and live with me, Mamãe, and Patrique. I felt my brain kicking into overdrive. I would get some food, enough for several days. I would keep doing my best in school. I would act like nothing was going on, and when they least suspected it, Patrique and I would be gone.
I came out of the bathroom, walked back to the matron’s office, and knocked on her door. I heard her yell, “Come in.” I opened the door, bowed my head slightly, and let my shoulders fall forward. I probably looked like a dog with its tail between its l
egs. I walked into her office and apologized for yelling at her, and I also apologized for running off. I said it was just that I missed my mother.
The tears came, and I was mad at myself for not being able to hold them back.
The matron came around from behind her desk and gave me a hug. She said she understood that I missed my mother but that everything would be good again, everything would be much better now. My only thought was that if I’d had a knife, I’d have stabbed her in the back.
Then I went up to see Patrique and picked him up out of his crib. I held him tight, and he didn’t really seem to like it, so I loosened my grip a little. I held him in my arms and rocked him back and forth. As I rocked him, I whispered, “Patrique, I’m going to find a way for us to get out of here. We’re going to see Mamãe again. I’m going to think of a plan, because you have a smart sister.”
What I didn’t know, what it was impossible for me to know, was that the matron already had plans for me. These plans included my leaving the orphanage, but not to go back to Mamãe, not to return to my world. I never got the chance to try to run away, and maybe that was lucky. As a child, I never understood how much the matron cared about me, how good her intentions toward me and my brother were. When I got older, Lili-ann and Sture told me that the matron had called them numerous times to check on how we were doing during the five weeks we stayed in São Paulo while arrangements were being made for the adoption and our departure for Sweden. It made me happy to hear that. Despite everything, I had many nice memories of my time in the orphanage.
With Thirty Boxes of Chocolates in My Arms
2015
Rivia and I walk out of the hotel and get into the car that’s going to take us to the orphanage. If I’d been sitting in this car ten or fifteen years earlier, there’d have been quite a bit of rage left in me. Now I don’t feel it; I haven’t felt it for a very long time. We sit in the car, knowing that the trip will take about an hour, depending on traffic. With twenty-two million people living in the greater São Paulo area, you can always expect heavy traffic. We’ve asked the driver to stop at a candy store close to the orphanage. I am not planning to show up empty-handed. Back home in Sweden, I wavered for a long time about what to give the kids at the orphanage. In the end, I decided to give them each a box of chocolates. I settled on that after thinking about what had made me happy in the orphanage. I will never forget the box of Bon O Bon brand chocolates Mamãe brought me when she came to visit. I was so happy! I know that a box of chocolates won’t change the children’s lives or their futures, but maybe they will feel the same joy in the moment that I did as a child.
Never Stop Walking_A Memoir of Finding Home Across the World Page 12
