10 Ways to Feel Better... or, What 5 Weeks in Brazil Taught Me

1. Bake chocolate chip cookies from ultra-scratch... (as in, go out and get eggs from a real live chicken and make butter from fresh cream and all.)

2. Watch The Big Bang Theory and laugh till your ribs hurt (bazinga!)

3. Go out with all your cousins- the extended ones, the ones you haven't seen in ten years, the ones you forgot about! (this is what facebook is for!)

4. Read some Marian Keyes. I resisted it for so long, but thanks to my cousin Gugs, I finally gave in. I hardly ever read novels that are just for pure entertainment, and hers are by far the only ones that were worth my time.

5. Blast some really bad music- I'm talking Spice Girls, Britney, Backstreet Boys, Savage Garden. Dancing to bad music is a lost art.

6. Paint your nails the color of candy.

7. Wear a long skirt.

8. Watch "My Best Friend's Wedding". Cameron Diaz singing at karaoke, Julia Roberts talking into a giant mobile phone, and Rupert Everett acting straight are priceless moments. 90's rom-com at its best.

9. Go to the beach. Preferably a semi-deserted beach, and go in for a swim. You might not feel it right away, but the ocean will cleanse your soul. Do it at sunrise for extra mood boosting.

10. Make funny faces. If possible, photograph them and share it with others; it'll make them feel better too.

See?

Missing

I was so done with New York three weeks ago, when I left on my "vacation". I have been basking in my parents' home life. I had to extend my trip, for personal reasons, and thought it a gift from the universe. I was grateful to be away from everything for a while.

But today I missed sitting at a New York City diner and having a cup of bad coffee with sausage, egg, and cheese on a roll.

I missed waiting for the subway and listening to 27 different ipods blasting not-so-different songs.

I missed walking on the crowded streets around Union Square, debating whether to pee at Whole Foods or at Barnes & Nobles.

I missed my set of too-many-keys, my subway cards lost in my purse, the sounds of my cell phone, and my yoga mat.


I missed my life- the life I have constructed over the years, that I take for granted on most days.


And I missed him, too.

As a friend so aptly put it, there's a hole in me now. It occurs to me that after a while, a human being is full of holes. Gaping spaces where someone or something or someplace used to be. We learn, and relearn, and unlearn, to walk around with these voids, I guess. Filling them up or covering them up or maybe leaving them there, exposed, for a long time. The sense is that something is missing (verb of the day), that something is gone.

I can change my setting, leave the reminders, but I'm still walking around with a hole.

Something is missing, something is gone.

The Big Bikini: A Lesson in Being Larissa

Last week, I updated my facebook status with the following post:

"For the first time in 15 years, I wore a bikini at a Brazilian beach and, not only did I not feel fat, I actually felt GOOD about my body. Thanks to Alexandra for introducing me to affordable yoga at Laughing Lotus, Sarah for introducing me to Shaklee, and my brother for teaching me his work-out as well as living with me and buying me yogurt and soy milk. =)"

The post got a bunch of comments, likes, and private messages. A lot of so happy for you's and tell me more's. It was a true statement. I did feel good about my body, and it registered as a completely new feeling. I attributed it to the things I mentioned, but there was also a smaller factor that played a part in how I felt. It seemed like a little thing, but it was actually tied to something so big I decided it had to be a blog post rather than a facebook status update.

This small thing that made a difference in how I felt about my body was a big bikini.

When I planned this trip, it involved going to the beach with my then-boyfriend. As I thought about going to a beach in Brazil with him, I felt my stomach sink. Going to a beach in Brazil has always been a really intimidating experience. I was faced with not only my own insecurities about my body, but also the comparison to hundreds of near-perfect beautiful female bodies in tiny bikinis all around me. I hadn't gone to the beach here with a boyfriend in many many years, and now my insecurities tripled at the thought of it. So, when I was here in December, I went shopping for a bikini that might hide some of my cellulite and help mask my love handles. I always wore pretty small bikinis here (never thongs! just small), because that's what girls my age wore, and because I knew that most men thought smaller tan lines were sexier. Those small bikinis, however, tended to leave my cellulite exposed and cut at my waist-line, accentuating my love-handles rather than minimizing them. I figured that if I starved myself until March and had a bikini that helped me hide my "flaws," I wouldn't spend my whole time at the beach wondering if I looked like a whale next to all those model-like bodies, and fearing that my boyfriend would be turned off by my body. I was furious at myself for having these thoughts and insecurities, but I couldn't help it. They were bigger than me. It was actually easier and took less energy to try and "fix" them than to tell myself how absurd and unreal they were. I started losing weight and I bought a new bikini.

I never thought I'd actually feel good about my body. Feeling good about my body seemed like a far-off fantasy. A land I'd never ever reach. While I strove to reach my "ideal body," I always believed it would never be possible. I would never be thin enough. I would never feel good in a bikini. I only ever thought I'd feel less bad.

But I did lose weight. After my break-up, I lost my appetite, so it was easier. I dove into yoga, started a nutrition program, and focused on my body. It did feel good. When I got to Brazil a week and a half ago, I felt better about my body than I had in a long, long time. But if I had worn one of my tiny bikinis, I would still have felt uncomfortable. The realization dawned on me as I took my dress off at the beach. For the first time in my life, I didn't immediately start adjusting my bikini as soon as I was exposed. I didn't fuss with the top to make sure it covered my breasts in a way that didn't leave any fat hanging from the sides- this bikini was big enough to hold everything in. I didn't keep pulling the back of my bottom piece out in a futile attempt to cover up more of my butt- this bikini was already in place. And I didn't pull at the strings on the side to make sure they were as loose as possible so as not to cut into my sides- this bikini didn't have strings, and it didn't divide my mid-section into top blubber and bottom blubber. I was actually comfortable in this bikini. And I realized, This bikini is so me! All those other tiny bikinis weren't me! They were me trying to be someone I'm not, someone who's comfortable in small bikinis and exposing a lot of skin. I'm not comfortable with that! It's so simple! I just have to wear a bigger bikini! How amazing!!!

It was an amazing feeling, and it lingered for days. It seems like a small feat but it's actually tied to a much larger triumph. It was the first time I actually understood the overstated phrase, "Be yourself." Instead of wearing what I thought I should wear, I wore what I wanted to wear. I gave up caring if people would think I was conservative or had chosen a bikini that was more appropriate for older women. I gave up trying to get tiny tan lines that other people thought were sexy. In wearing this bikini that I was so comfortable in, I was being Larissa. I discovered that being Larissa meant wearing a bigger bikini, one that allowed me to move freely and enjoy the beach without the usual body-paranoia. I felt a huge relief.

What propelled me to buy the bikini was a desire to look a certain way for someone else. He never got to see me in my new bikini or new-found comfort and ease, though. And I never got to imagine that he thought I was attractive and hot anyway, even in comparison to other beautiful women at the beach. Instead, I discovered something about myself that was really important. It has inspired me to look at all of my actions and identify whether I'm Being Larissa or Being Who I'd Like To Be.

I've always been a person of particular and consistent tastes. My favorite color has always been purple. My favorite animal has always been the koala. I've always preferred solid prints. I've always liked the same music (folk and country), try as I have to adapt to modern tastes. I've never liked sports. I've always liked sad movies. I always loved sleeping in nightgowns. Still, with all this knowledge about what I most definitely like and don't like, I still tried to be someone other than myself, a lot of the time. I thought that holding on to what I know I like meant I wasn't open to new things. I thought it would make me grow as a person to live outside my comfort zone. Now I realize I actually grow the most when I'm true to myself. As soon as I found this bikini that made me feel so much more like myself, I was able to be present. Much like when I'm in a theatre, a setting where I feel instantly at home, I didn't have to worry about looking like I was comfortable and belonged. I simply was. The experience was exhilarating.

It's ridiculous that I was trying to hide my "flaws" from the person I was romantically involved with, and that I was trying to influence how he thought about me. People will think whatever they want to think, and there's very little I can do about it. I see that now, more than ever.

It isn't easy not to care about what other people think. It takes a lot of conscious effort to "be myself," and a lot of confidence to trust that that's what someone will fall in love with. The bikini was a big step for me and, even so, I discovered it because I was trying to project an image of myself that I thought would be appealing to someone else. I didn't really do it for myself, but it served me nonetheless. I learned something about myself, and now I can honor it.

Wear a bigger bikini. Be comfortable. Be Larissa.

Lesson learned.

There's No Place Like Home

The minute I step off the plane, there's a feeling of relief paired with unease. It is instantly familiar and it is also no longer a place that holds my daily life, my routine, my habits, and my adult life. It has been nearly eight years since I left my home in Brazil, and I have made New York into my new home. New York has the lifestyle I like to live by, it has my career, my friends, my yoga practice, my dreams, and my ambition.

Brazil has my roots. I can stay away for a year or just a few months, I can forget what it's like to be Brazilian, I can even stop thinking, writing, and overall communicating in Portuguese if I so wish. But as soon as I land, it sucks me in, grasping me by my feet and grounding me. This is where you began. I can change my life as many times as I want to and I can choose who I want to be, but I can not change where it all started. And it all started right here.

I had not intended to fly alone. It is not customary for me to come home more than once a year anymore. When I bought my ticket, this was a trip planned for two. It was a meet-my-whole-family-and-see-where-I-come-from ordeal. It was a get-away-from-New-York-winter-together thing. It was that much-awaited-first-extended-vacation-with-you event. It was a lot of things that involved someone else.

The relationship ended, though, as you may have gathered from previous posts. And so this trip so full of togetherness with someone I was no longer with loomed before me. Changing the ticket would have been a little expensive, but not impossible. Did I want to go on this trip alone now? It is home, after all. That means: mom, dad, all my family, my old room, my bed, a really good shower, mom, a pool, warm weather, amazing food, coffee, mom, nothing to think about, beach time, cheap and perfect manicures, a car, coconut water, and did I mention mom? But it also meant there was a possibility I would do nothing but think of him and what we'd be doing together if he were with me. That could be very depressing.

As the days went on though, New York started to become unbearable. The reminders were everywhere. I could feel his presence in the things we used to do together, and, perhaps more saddening, I could feel his absence. To top it off, the weather kind of sucked. One warm-spring-like day was followed by freezing temperatures, which set the whole city off into a spiral of disappointment. I was tired of wearing my gloves, hat, scarves, layers, and boots. I wanted to wear a dress and flip flops. I wanted- needed- to get away. I kept my ticket as it was.

Yesterday afternoon, I got in a cab to the airport. The cab driver asked me where I was going. "Home. To my mom." He smiled. The hours at the airports and in the airplanes were interminable. It was a long, draining trip. I sat next to a very nice old man for 9 hours, though, who was very chatty. Under normal circumstances, I would have hated that. But when I got off the plane, I realized I hadn't spent my whole plane ride sulking and moping, and I was grateful to have had that nice man distracting me with his stories.

I've been home for all of twelve hours now. I am jet-lagged, pmsing, tired, and full of thoughts. But I had an amazing cup of coffee today, and coconut water, and steak, and fruits. I took a long shower in my pink bathroom that, after living in new york spaces for years, feels like the largest, most luxurious bathroom ever. I can't believe I showered in this bathroom every day for most of my life and took it completely for granted. After my shower, when my bathroom was all foggy, I was reminded of how I used to write the names of the boys I had crushes on on my fogged mirror as a teenager. And how I curled up, so many times, on the pink tiled floor and cried. These memories warmed my heart. I have survived so many things. I can survive this.

Yes, I have thought of him. Of course I have. I've thought about how I'd show him my house, how I'd explain its rooms and their particular memories, how I'd let him see pictures of me in high-school when I was awkward and not-so-pretty, how I'd show him my neighborhood, how I'd introduce him to all the people who have been in my life since the beginning. I'm hit with pangs of regret and guilt and sadness which, though temporary, are very painful. I tell myself, It's okay. I can have these thoughts. I have to mourn what I've lost, and what I'll miss, in order to move past it.

It isn't easy, but I had to come here. I've lost touch with a lot of parts of myself- parts I like, parts I don't like, parts I repress, parts I celebrate- and I need to attend to myself, bit by bit. I don't want to ignore myself or my feelings anymore. I've learned that can have a very high cost, and I'm not willing to pay for it again.

A little while ago, I wandered into my mom's room and, mid-conversation about a totally unrelated topic, I burst into tears. My mom didn't ask any questions or give me any cheering talks. She hugged me, the way only a mother can, and I knew that this was why I had to come here. I needed to remember that there are people in my life who believe in the best of me and love me, for better or for worse, unconditionally. Whatever wrongs I have done, I am always worthy of forgiveness and love in their eyes, even if I think otherwise. This is a place where I am safe to be Larissa; good, bad, nice, mean, pretty, ugly, mature, childish, happy, sad, accomplished, failed, and everything-in-between Larissa.

This is a special place. This is my home.

7 years ago

While looking under my bed today for a lost sock, I found a box of old diaries. I opened one of them right on a page that was written exactly seven years ago. It was my last night at home before I left for New York. I didn't know that it would be the last time my parent's house ever really felt like home, and that I wasn't just going off to college, I was going off to the next part of my life and the person I would become. I didn't know how hard that first year in college would be, and how well I would get to know loneliness and longing.

August 24th, 2003

Hi Beth, (I name my diaries)

Well, yesterday I went to Ibiza (a club in Sao Paulo) with G* and I got drunk and I kissed F* and then today I had a hang-over, and so last night was fun and not that fun at the same time. Tonight is my "last" night, tomorrow I'm off to college, wow. We just had dinner at the Outback. I'm not ready to leave Sa yet Beth. And my room.... so much... But I'm excited about college. Real excited! I'm nervous about having roommates and all that. I also talked to B* today. He's so nice. And he likes me a lot Beth. And J* wrote me an email. But I'm still into T*, who's stopped emailing me, and dealing with the end of things with R*, who's still contacting me every day. How confusing. And my friends are still kind of mad at me and siding with R*, which is messed up. I can't wait to leave it all behind. Will there be any boys at Sarah Lawrence? Like, datable boys? I'm so in love with my tattoo. I can't believe I got a tattoo. I'm glad I have a tattoo as I go to college. I'm currently obsessed with Cyndi Lauper and American Dreams. I miss Spain. Europe was so fun. Well, I'm tired and I wanna sleep a lot... Good bye Brasil, college here I come!

Good night,

La

Throughout the next couple of years, I would find datable boys at Sarah Lawrence, I would forget about most of the boys mentioned, I would get three more tattoos, I would stop watching television, I would miss home terribly, I would make many new friends, I would miss my old friends, I would drink a lot, I would travel to Europe a few more times, and I would make New York my home.

Me, in college, with my long hair dyed orange at the tips, writing poetry on the grass.

The First Kiss

Age 13: My first time at a night club.

Club K. My mom called it Club Cu. Translation: Club Asshole.

I had fought with her for about six months until she let me go. Her argument was that Sao Paulo was too dangerous and I was too young to go clubbing- (I totally agree with her NOW, by the way. But back then, I thought she was being way over-protective and paranoid). She finally let me go, because all my friends had gone a bunch of times, and every time they went, I locked myself in my room and blasted Sheryl Crow songs. I think she was afraid I was going to start doing drugs or cutting myself or something, so she let me go.

My curfew was 1:00am.

At 9:00pm I met up with my friends. We all wore some variation of the same outfit: tight black pants, heeled boots, and a sparkly or see-through-ish shirt. We met up at someone's house. They told me how it would all go down. The hardest part was getting in. The club was for 16-year-olds, and we were 13. So they taught me how to "look 16". Darker lipstick. Don't smile (I wore braces). Talk about our boyfriends while standing in line (we didn't have boyfriends). It was starting to sound nerve-racking and I expressed my concern. They assured me I'd be okay because I was tall and had big boobs. The next most important thing (the whole reason we were going to the club) was getting boys to kiss us. Well. I had never been kissed. I asked them what I'd have to do. "Basically," one of them said, "A guy will grab your hand if he wants to kiss you. Or he might try to grab you by the waist from behind on the dance floor. Take a look at him, and if you're not interested look at one of us and we'll save you. If you're interested, smile at him but pull away. He has to try at least three times before you let him." I took in what she said. But I didn't think she had understood my question. What do I do once I "let him"??? I had no idea how to kiss someone. I was dying to do it, I couldn't have been more ready, but I didn't know much about technique. Seeing my puzzled face, another friend said, "Listen, your first kiss might feel a little gross. You might not like it. Just let him do it. You'll learn instinctively. Let it be short and sweet and then move on. It'll take a few kisses to get the hang of it." Okay.... I was not at all clear on the subject, but I was too anxious to keep talking about it. We had to go.

At 10:00pm we arrived at the club. It was packed. We stood in line for what felt like an hour, but was probably just fifteen minutes, before we got to the bouncer. This was the moment. I tried to look "16". I tried to look like I didn't care. Meanwhile my stomach was fighting to keep itself from falling out of my ass. He didn't card us. We got in. Victory.

We walked in to the huge club with its green and red lights, and the rush was immediate. The rush of freedom, of rebellion, of being somewhere dark and forbidden. For these couple of hours, we were independent and free. We had to do two things: go to the bathroom, and then go to the bar and drink "FlashPower" (the drink before Red Bull). We went to the bathroom, checked ourselves out. We ran into some of the cool girls from school in there, and they totally talked to us like we were cool too. I felt so cool.

On our way to the bar, a guy already grabbed my hand. I looked at him, as instructed, and checked him out, could this be the guy to give me my first kiss? His nose was huge. No. I looked at my friends, they intercepted, pulled me away, he let me go, and we proceeded. I loved it. I felt so wanted. It was going to be a special night. We made it to the bar, got our energy drinks and hit the dance floor.

Uh-oh. They definitely failed to tell me that this club only played techno. And I had absolutely no idea how to dance to this kind of music. I had hippie parents who had raised me on folk music. At the very least, I thought a song had to have someone playing the guitar in order for it to be called a song. This techno stuff felt like someone was beating the club up with a hammer the size of China. I looked at my friends. They were basically pulsing their torsos. I tried to follow suit. And just as I thought I was getting the hang of it, a guy cut into our circle and stood in front of me. Uh... they had not told me about this approach. He took both my hands. He was taller than me and he had green eyes. That's about as specific an image as I have for him. He asked me my name. I told him. He said I had a beautiful name. I smiled. He told me his. And then he asked if he could kiss me. At this point, I'd forgotten all the rules. I just looked him in the eyes and my face must have said, yes, you're the one, kiss me, because then he kissed me. And it didn't feel gross or weird at all. I liked it right away. I wanted to kiss him forever. I put my arms around his neck and he pulled me really close to him. Everything in my body was responding in a new way to this experience, telling me I was no longer a child, I was now an almost-adult. I couldn't tell you what song was playing, I don't know how long it lasted (my friends said it went on for a really long time- they were shocked), and I don't remember what thoughts went through my head. At some point, the kiss ended. We danced around each other a little bit. And then my friends and I decided to go to the bathroom again. I looked at him, said good-bye, and went off with my friends, never to see the boy who gave me my first kiss again.

When we got to the bathroom, they wanted to know everything. I wanted to look at myself in the mirror. I wanted to see if I had changed. Something had to have changed- I just felt so different. I finally knew what it was like. I had finally been kissed. But I looked the same, and my friends wanted to talk more than they wanted to hear what I had to say. They told me what it looked like to them, "You totally knew what to do with your head, it was impressive, " and "His hands were pretty low on your back, I thought he was gonna try to feel your butt." We analyzed it for a while, and then went back out to the dance floor so the other girls could find boys to kiss too.

When I got home, I could barely sleep. I replayed the night over and over in my head. I smiled for about a month after that.

For a while, I thought my first kiss had happened all wrong. It was just too unromantic. I had been kissed in a nightclub? By a complete stranger who I never saw again? Why didn't it happen under a starry night, with a boy who'd courted me for years? Had I fucked up something I could only do once?

Eventually, though, "first kisses" got upstaged by other "firsts", and I stopped thinking about it too much. The memory faded over the years, until all I could remember of his face were his eyes.

I look back on it all now, and it makes me smile. The sweetness of those 13-year-old girls with raging hormones, feeling so incredibly powerful and free for a few hours at a nightclub. The outline of the boy's face and how he looked at me and let me know with his eyes that I had been chosen.

It wasn't a perfect first kiss. It didn't set the bar too high for romanticism. It wasn't like the movies. It was very "real life-y". And that's okay.

It remains as a sweet imperfect memory of a time that was as torturous as it was precious.

Oh, adolescence.

image from here.

The World Cup

So, I don't really care about sports, but once every four years, I go crazy. I care deeply and passionately about the World Cup, as some of you have picked up on in light of my recent highly-emotional facebook updates. I learned at a very young age that, as a Brazilian, I must care about the World Cup, I must watch every game, I must cheer against Argentina, I must hate France, I must know every player's name, I must scream when Brazil scores, and I must cry when someone- anyone- scores (or almost scores) against Brazil.

It is because of the World Cup that the world knows where my country is.

Around the world people have said to me, "Oh, Brazil! The kings of soccer!" And I always reply, with a warm smile, "Yes, that's right. No one loves soccer more than Brazilians." And it's true. It's the country's sport. And if you go to Brazil, you better understand that Brazilians believe it is our sport. (Also- just a head's up- if you happen to think that some Argentine can be compared to any Brazilian, you better keep your mouth shut. Actually, you better not go to Brazil.)

After Brazil's somewhat unnerving game with North Korea today, I tried to talk to some American friends about the World Cup. Big mistake. They were like, "So what? It's just a sport." Well. Not a cool thing to say to a Brazilian. You see, soccer is not just a sport for Brazil. It's all we have. Other than big butts in thongs on the beach and our red meat, it's all people really know us for around the world. And it's the only thing we're all really proud of. There's dignity in being known as the champions of a sport that the world competes in. There's pride in knowing we are a legend. There's immeasurable joy in seeing our country making history happen.

Most of the time, I regret to admit, I'm not that proud to be Brazilian when I'm outside of Brazil. I have a couple of Brazil t-shirts, and I never wear them. I used to wear them when I first moved here, I thought it would be a good conversation starter. And it was- except the conversations were usually started by males and, at some point, they would say, "So is it true all Brazilians have a Brazilian wax?" or "Wow, you're Brazilian? That's so hot." Which, hard as it may be to believe, is not exactly what I wanted to hear.

One time, I got a job babysitting for an American woman and once she found out I was Brazilian she gave me a really evil stare, and then proceeded to tell me that a Brazilian had stolen her husband. That's the other thing we're known for. Stealing husbands. Great.

At one point I was complaining about all this to an American friend who had done quite a bit of traveling herself, and she said, "Well at least people don't think you're ignorant, rude, and bad in bed. Don't you think it's better that people assume you're sexy and good in bed?" I didn't quite know how to explain to her that no, it was not better. Our cages were shaped differently, perhaps, but they were cages all the same.

So I stopped saying I'm Brazilian. I didn't want the profile that came with it attached to me upon first meeting people. I didn't want them thinking "Easy", "Good in Bed", "Husband Stealer", "Super Waxed", etc. It took too much energy to try to re-educate people, and I certainly wasn't interested in pretending to be a boring nun so as to not be associated with the usual stereotypes. They just didn't have to know. Case closed.

But then there's soccer.

The World Cup rolls around and I proudly sport my Brazil shirts, bandanas, sunglasses, nail polish, flip flops, flags, and, most importantly, spirit. It's the one time, every four years, when I'm super proud to be Brazilian. When it doesn't matter what else people think of me or my country or the women in my country, I'm still part of a nation that has won five World Cups, the leading country in soccer, the legend of the game. I walk around knowing I am part of something important, something that makes people pay attention to our talents, not just our asses. For just a little while, the world looks at Brazil in awe. We are worth their time. We deserve their respect.

It is the most watched sporting event in the world, bigger than the Superbowl, the U.S. Open, or the Olympics. It's impossible not to be proud of your country when they win a game. The world is watching, and we know it.

The first world cup I remember watching is the 1994 one held in the U.S., which Brazil won. I was 9 years old, and I remember very little of it, but what I remember most is how the whole city stopped to watch every game. There was no one on the streets. People were excused from work. You couldn't even get a taxi cab. Every single Brazilian was gathered in front of a TV screen, crying if Brazil lost, crying even harder if Brazil won.

So yeah, I take the World Cup seriously. I've seen its power to unite and bring light to a nation. I'm gonna watch every game I can. I'm gonna cheer for my country and against the countries that threaten our title (or even just the ones we're notorious for not liking...). I'm gonna write about it on facebook- all. the. time. I'm gonna wear my Brazil t-shirt everywhere and paint my nails green and say "Woo Hoo!" when people yell out "Yeah Brazil!" at me on the street. I'm gonna let the world know I'm Brazilian, because this is a time when I'm proud of what my country has achieved. I'm proud to be part of this country that draws millions of people together to watch our legendary team play. I'm proud to represent excellence and achievement.

I'm proud of Brazil.

I'm going to scream every time we score. Listen, and you'll hear screams around the world.

Leaving

leave —Synonyms
1, 2. abandon, forsake, desert; relinquish. 9. forbear, renounce.10.

ignore, forget. 11. bequeath, will; devise, transmit.

(www.dictionary.com)

I thought today about the day I left Brazil to move to the U.S. for college. I had only packed two suitcases. I didn't want a lot of things. I was ready to leave. I was eager for change. I had been in a relationship for a year that had worn me out completely and had resulted in some strains with friends and family members when it ended badly on account of an infidelity on my part. I was tired of Brazil's sexism, danger, and lack of support for the arts. I had been in the same school for 14 years and I had never lived anywhere else. I wanted to get away, I wanted new friends, I wanted to act, I wanted my own life. With all this in mind, I thought it would be easy to leave.

When my dad said, "Ok, time to go to the airport," I ran to my room to get my bags. And then, as I looked at the room I had grown up in, with its purple pillows and white clouds painted on the blue ceiling, an understanding of what I was about to lose started to dawn on me. I took a deep breath and turned away from my room, not quite willing to get sad, but then saw the living room, with the big blue couch that my brother, my cousins, and I had sat on to watch movies thousands of times, always arguing for half an hour before deciding which film would win that day. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the guest room, where my brother and I slept (we each had our own rooms, but we liked to stay together at night, so we slept in the guest room because it had two beds and less mosquitos- I know, it's the cutest thing in the world). I couldn't fight the sadness away anymore, and I stood there for a few minutes taking it all in, and then my dad called me and said we had to go, so I whispered, "Good Bye" to my home, ran down the stairs and out the front door.

I sat in the car with my parents and my brother, my aunt and cousins in the car behind us, watching my city go by a little at a time, struggling with these feelings I hadn't expected to have.

The next thing I knew I was getting ready to board and was saying good bye to my family. I looked at my darling cousins, Ga and Toca, whom I had spent my life with, and as I hugged them I felt a part of myself being left behind. Then, I looked at my brother. My best friend and my favorite person in the world. What would Ferret do without her Waldo? We were two pieces that made a whole, we were Bu and Zu, Ferret and Waldo, La and Sa. I fell apart, and so did he. As we hugged and cried, and our whole family around us cried as well, we knew we were losing a part of our hearts. I touched my nose to his nose and said, "I love you little one". I turned around, my parents and I boarded, and I looked back only once, to wave good-bye and see them there, standing and waving, watching me go.

Snap. I felt my roots being cut from beneath my feet. I'd have to grow new roots now.

I cried the whole plane ride to New York. I had left my home and my family in a different continent. I wouldn't be there for their birthdays anymore, I wouldn't see them on the weekends for movies and milk-shakes, I wouldn't be near them when I was sick, I wouldn't hear my brother's voice before I went to bed every night, I wouldn't be able to share in their every-day lives, and, on a lighter note- but not that much lighter- I wouldn't be watching the World Cup in Brazil with my family and friends anymore.

My life was about to change, which was what I had thought I wanted.

Leaving Brazil was one of the hardest things I ever did. There was a loneliness that came with leaving that stayed with me ever since. Like a plant that has been moved from the earth on which it first grew, I have been able to grow new roots, but I have never forgotten where I came from and what my life was like then.

It's hard to leave home. It's hard to leave people. It's hard to leave our old selves. We are left a little bit more alone every time- making space for the new, but still knowing that in that space there used to something or someone else. I left that day knowing I would next return as a visitor in a place that held old memories but where I no longer created new ones.

The Pain of Others

I had a unique, if not unsettling, experience with loss (change doesn't seem like the right word here) of identity when I moved to the United States. I was 18 and I had lived in Sao Paulo, Brazil, all my life. I had attended the same school for 14 years- Graded- a school for the wealthy elite of Sao Paulo, which means it was predominately white and, as we used to joke, a "bubble" all of its own. And all my life I had identified as "white". I checked the box "Caucasian/White" in my college applications. I never even considered, for a moment, that in another country, in the eyes of others, I was not "white" at all.
Words like "racial minority", "person of color", "white privilege" and "passing" were not part of my vocabulary. Of course I was aware of racism, of prejudice, of the horrors of white supremacy and the constant struggle of non-white people to fit in to a society whose history rejected and oppressed them. And while I acknowledged those issues as human problems, I always thought that I would never truly be able to empathize with people who suffered from racism because, well, I was white. I believed it would be offensive for me, a white girl, to say that I really understood racism on a personal level. Racism was, to me, the pain of others. I didn't exactly see this as a disadvantage ("white guilt" doesn't seem to exist in Brazil), I simply took it as one of the cards I was dealt at birth. I was white. This was not just an understanding (or a misunderstanding, as some of my college friends would see it), this was my identity, my truth, my root.
So you can imagine how confused I was when a college friend of mine, who was black (that is how she preferred to be called, I hope I'm not offending anyone by not using a more politically correct term), asked me how I felt as a person of color- an international one, nonetheless- at Sarah Lawrence, also a predominately white school. I was so confused that I don't think I even answered her properly, I said something like, I have no idea, and dismissed the subject. It perplexed me- but I thought maybe she was just confused. Then, not long after, in a conversation about racism with a white friend of mine I started saying something along the lines of, "Because I'm white..." and she interrupted me, saying, "But you're not white." Well, now I wasn't just confused, I was getting angry. My reaction to her blunt statement shames me now, but I have to forgive myself for not knowing any better at the time. I was starting to sense that those people (Americans) did not want me to be white, and I thought it was because they thought I wasn't American. Well, I argued, I was an American. Legally, I was an American Citizen (my father has American Citizenship), and for all intents and purposes, I could consider myself an American if I wanted to- I spoke the English language better than most of the Americans I had met in fact, and I had been thoroughly educated in American History and Culture. Moreover, I lived there, legally, and was attending higher academia as an American. So why couldn't I say I was white? I wasn't trying to prove or deny anything, I was just trying to identify myself the only way I knew how.
It was my friend's turn to be confused and on edge now. She had absolutely no idea why her stating the fact that I was not white had offended me. She started to say, apologetically but still perplexed, "Well, I guess you can pass for white, but you're not actually white..." and I interrupted her, "Pass for white??? What does that even mean???" That was a truly new idea to me. People passing for white? Was she really accusing me of wanting to be white, but not really being white? And did people actually do that, so much so that there was a term for it?? Like most people who have never been and never thought they would be considered a racial minority, I didn't quite grasp why someone would want to pass for a race that was not their own. My friend tried yet again to explain, "Well, you can say you're a Latina, a Hispanic maybe, or a Person of Color, and you might even feel white or dress white or sometimes look white, but you're not white."
The questions burned through my mind at the speed of lightning. My vision started to blur. My heart was racing and I was experiencing so many different feelings that I'm not sure anything I said from that point on was even coherent. In fact I think I sat in paralysis for quite a while, my friend not knowing what the hell was wrong with me. I didn't know it at the time, but my body was physically manifesting the experience of undergoing what was about to be one of the great Paradigm Shifts of my life.
It would be a long road from there. There would be extensive conversations with people of different races, with people from different countries, with teachers, with counselors, with my family, and with myself. There would be a lot of reading and writing. There would be loss of friendships. There would be long heated arguments in college kitchens with friends of vastly different backgrounds. All of it as I tried to understand how, for most of my life, I had been given one identity, and then suddenly, in a different country, that very identity, with all of its privileges and prejudices, could be taken away from me.

I need to explain here that one of the reasons my experience was so unique was because I was at Sarah Lawrence, which is historically known as a boiling pot for political and civil activism, and these topics were not taken lightly at all. In addition, Sarah Lawrence is next to Bronxville, a very upper-class, and very white, small conservative Westchester city, where a "person of color" easily stood out. The kids at Sarah Lawrence said Bronxville was a scary place, the kind of place you imagine secret KKK meetings still took place, but for me it was no different than what I had known all of my life: a bunch of rich white people who lived in their own little bubble, and if anyone knew what they were really like, they'd laugh to have ever felt threatened by them.

One particular argument on one particular night in my second year in college sticks out in my memory. I was living in the multi-cultural house and there were a bunch of people in the kitchen one night, most of whom were not white, all of whom were activists for racial equality. And they started saying pretty horrible things about a white boy who up until then everyone in that room had called a friend, and whom I'll call Edgar here to protect his privacy. Edgar had apparently said something about how he had never done laundry before going to college, which gave away his wealthy background, and they had presented him with their lecture on white privilege, to which he didn't seem to respond in the "right" manner (which I think would have been to apologize for being white and ignorant of his privilege). So now they were in the kitchen outraged, calling him all sorts of names and saying they no longer considered him a friend. I wasn't looking to start trouble, I just wanted to understand something, when I said, "How come you guys don't get mad at me and lecture me on white privilege?" The agitated room went silent. One of them finally said, "You're not white, Larissa. Not here. It's different." To which I responded, and until this day I still don't know where my courage and clarity at that moment came from, "No, it's not. Where I come from I am white. I am just as much of an ignorant spoiled white brat as Edgar. The only reason you are 'forgiving' me for it is because in your eyes I'm not white, but my background is the same as his, and if you think about it, I am no different, the only thing that's different is your perspective of me. I never washed a spoon before I came to college, just like Edgar never did his own laundry. The reason I never washed a spoon is the same as his, because I thrived on my white privilege unknowingly. So you should be lecturing me on white privilege and ending your friendship with me too." No one knew what to say to that. We discussed it for hours, but no one was really able to respond to the problem I had just presented them with. They understood what I was saying, they had attached a profile to me when they met me: Not White, therefore it was okay for me to have money, because I would never be able to take advantage of any white privileges, and since I was a person of color, I must have struggled with racism throughout my life. When they learned that they were mistaken, they didn't really know what to do- it was an entirely new issue.
A new set of questions would present itself. Could they be friends with someone who was a person of color in their country but did not - could not- identify with their struggles and pains (or at least not at that point)? They thought they could, but in the end, sadly, I lost most of those friends. They wanted me to be as angry as they were at white people, and I wasn't. They didn't want me to present the perspective of a white person, and they certainly didn't want me defending rich white people. I tried, I really did, to understand them then and salvage those friendships. But they were young and they were angry (rightfully so, I would later understand their worlds), and they were not looking for mere friendships, they were looking for allies. And I wasn't willing or even capable of being one.

I have now lived in the United States for seven years and see things that I didn't see then. I noticed, for example, that when I went into a store like Prada or Chanel, I was often followed, or at least watched, by a security guard. I thought it was because I was young, and maybe in some instances it was, until I went with my mom and the same thing happened. I started paying attention, and when I noticed that none of the white women and men in these stores were ever followed or watched, I started to feel a chill crawl up my spine. The same sort of thing happened if I went to a fancy restaurant- the treatment seemed different. These little things that I had once thought either didn't exist or existed only in the minds of paranoid people turned out to be very real, and very cruel.
I grew up thinking I would never personally experience racism. No one taught me how to handle it. I wasn't prepared. And when, as a young woman fully capable of understanding exactly what was happening, I actually felt it, right there on my own skin, it seemed like the world as I had always known it had been a complete farse. How would I ever find anything beautiful again in this world where people were capable of treating others as inferior to themselves because of the color of their skin?
The parameters of my reality have changed a lot because of this experience, and I am grateful for it. When I see or hear about people of color being treated differently than white people I identify with their pain, because it could be me. What I had always thought I was safe from is now something I deal with constantly. When Barack Obama was elected president, I was elated that history was forever changed, and now every black child in America would grow up thinking they can be president one day if they want to- a thought I probably wouldn't have had seven years ago. I notice now when campaigns and ads use mostly white people, or only white people, and I am aware of how often (or should I say how rarely?) people of color are cast in leading roles. The list goes on and on, unfortunately.

Knowing what I know now is beyond measurable value, because there is no greater lesson in life than empathy, I think, and my absolutely unique experience expanded my vision of the world and my understanding of humanity, leaving me with a truth I'll share with you here. I carry it daily in my heart and on the surface of my skin, and maybe some of you do too...

The pain of others is our pain as well, and if we think it is not, life will teach us otherwise.

The Doctrine of Vanity

Let's talk about superficial things.
I was twelve years old when a completely bizarre problem presented itself in my life. Louis Vuitton launched a $700 back-pack, which was totally revolutionary. $700 for a bag was a lot of money then, even for Louis Vuitton, which was never as expensive as brands like Prada or Chanel. No brand of its caliber created products for young girls to wear to school. Moreover, the bag was completely unpractical- too heavy, oddly shaped, difficult to open, and, well, too expensive for a teenager.
But in Sao Paulo it sold like water, and soon enough half the girls in my school had one. And that's when I started having a problem. I didn't know if I wanted one, but I knew that everyone else wanted one. I didn't know if I was a "patricinha" (the word attributed to the Brazilian gossip girls of the 90's), but I knew that if I wore that bag I would immediately be one. I couldn't buy one and not wear it if I didn't like the profile attached to it. You couldn't un-buy a Louis Vuitton bag. Even if you sold it or gave it away, once you bought a Louis Vuitton bag you were forever someone who had bought a Louis Vuitton bag. It would mean I was part of a group- and there was a certain power attached to being part of that group- a group that was rich and fashionable, and therefore untouchable. Appealing thought for a 12-year-old. But if I didn't buy one I was also part of a group- the group that rejected fashion and money. The latter was a bit risky, though- someone who rejected fashion and money might be really cool, but they might also be super losers. A huge risk for a 12-year-old to take.
I didn't know whether I wanted it or the profile attached to it, but I didn't know who I was otherwise either. I hadn't defined a "personality" yet (and what 12-year-old has??) and I was scared of what might come up if I didn't make something up soon. I still hid in my closet to play with my Barbies, and I kept waiting to "grow up" but had no idea how to do it. Where was my personality, I wondered?
I didn't want to be a loser-hippie who only had one friend. I didn't want to be a nerd- that would require knowing a lot about computers, which was simply never going to happen. I didn't want to be an athlete- I hated sports, I couldn't even have been a cheerleader. There weren't a lot of options.

I bought the bag.

The reactions were subtle, but it was done. I was someone who spent $700 on a bag that hundreds of other girls had. I was someone who spent $700 on a bag I didn't even know I wanted. People would look at me and think anything ranging from, money to futile to luxury. And I was okay with it. It started to feel kind of nice. I started to embrace the life-style. I kept on buying ridiculously expensive accessories and doing my best to "look the part".
I kept it up until I went to college, where I experimented with myself over and over again, trying to figure out what was my style, what I liked, who I was. For a while I wore long skirts and hand-made bags I bought from street vendors, for example.
In the end, I found high-fashion again, but with a clearer mind, and without feeling trapped in it. Now I like Louis Vuitton because that back-pack is still in perfect condition, after 12 years, and I know it will remain so for at least 30 more years. Now I choose Prada shoes because, well, they have my size, and they are also immortal. I like Chanel hand bags because they're classic and elegant- and it so happens that I enjoy everything that's classic and elegant (although it took rejecting all of it to figure that out). And if I see a $5 bag that I love, I'll buy it and wear it as I would a $1200 Balenciaga bag. I love H&M and Old Navy and Zara as much as I love Dolce & Gabbana and Marc Jacobs. I'm clear now about what I like and what I don't like, and I see that elegance and style have very little to do with the material things themselves, but rather with the person wearing them. I like to know what different designers are defining as fashion, but I don't buy or drool over anything I don't like, or that doesn't feel like me. Next to my Ms. Magazine there's usually a Vogue, and next to my Converse sneakers there's usually a pair of Louboutin's. And the truth is that what "feels like me" changes all the time- it can even change several times on one day, and I just have to learn to respect that.
That might just be the key to style: self-respect.

Sexuality of a Woman

Gandhi wisely said, "Be the change you wish to see in the world."
For someone who loves arguing as much as I do, it is not always so simple to follow his advice. Although I choose my battles as carefully as I can, there are some things that I can't just sit back and watch or listen to- I feel an immediate overpowering desire to fight it. One of those things is the repression of women's sexuality. As soon as I hear the words- usually coming from a man, but you'd be surprised how often they come from women- "There are two types of women in the world, the ones you marry, and the ones you fuck," or, "A woman who sleeps with a man too quickly is a slut who has no self-respect," I can feel the blood rush up to my head.
I'm in Brazil right now, where, in my opinion, this happens much more often- but maybe people just say it out loud more often, who knows, and last night I went out to dinner with some friends, among them an ex-boyfriend, and a huge discussion regarding this topic exploded. The aforementioned statements were presented as truths and, although the men at the table agreed that it was a cultural imposition of a sexist nature, they still believed in them. It did not end well, and I was very upset by it.

I wish the sex education I received in my life had told me that I would enjoy sex. That I would enjoy it a lot. That I SHOULD enjoy it, and that if I didn't, I should figure out what was missing, I should get to know myself sexually. Although sometimes in magazines I would read about how masturbating was healthy and sex (safe safe safe sex) was wonderful, that information paled in comparison to how rigorously I was taught that I needed to worry about pregnancy and STD's even before I took my clothes off with a guy, that I had to make absolute certain he was the right guy, the perfect guy, and that I shouldn't ever ever be too "easy". The equation was simple- if I turned into one of those girls who was "easy", I would never have a boyfriend again, I would not have many girlfriends, my parents would disown me, I would get pregnant and maybe even die.

So here's what happened. I turned 13 and started going to parties and kissing boys in dark corners, and it felt so good, I mean it felt so so good, that I found myself terribly, tragically confused. I was suddenly having thoughts like, "I hope he touches my boobs," and then when the boy tried I knew I had to slap his hands away and scold him otherwise I would be labeled a slut. I did my best, I did my very best, to be a good girl. To be the kind of girl guys want to marry. But it didn't make any sense, it felt like a complete lie, and I was secretly terrified they would find out how, in my head and when I was alone, I was not a good girl at all.
At 16, I met the guy I mentioned earlier (whom I had a huge discussion with last night- go figure), and he full-heartedly believed I was a good girl. He became my first serious boyfriend, and I figured he was the right guy to lose my virginity to. I played the part of the good girl to an exhausting extent- making sure to set limits in our sexual progression so that he wouldn't lose interest in me. At 17 I lost my virginity to this boyfriend who loved the good girl I had projected. The people I told seemed to approve. No one asked me if I was having orgasms, if I was enjoying the sex, if I was in love with him, if I felt good about it. They asked me if I was being safe and told me it was a good choice, he was the right guy to do it with.
The next phase came in college, when I tried to reject the good girl mask as much as possible. I was living in the U.S. now and attending Sarah Lawrence, so it was easier- maybe, again, who knows. But something wasn't right. I didn't want to treat men like they were disposable and I didn't want to be treated like I was disposable. I wondered why a guy thought he didn't have to respect me because he was "just" having sex with me. I was still confused, but felt a little less repressed than I did as a teenager in Brazil.
Then I started a fling with a wonderful man who seemed to get it (he was raised by a feminist and went to Sarah Lawrence after all); there are not two types of women. Every woman wants to fuck and every woman wants to get married! It was a gift. Through his understanding of women and sexuality, I started to understand myself as a woman and my own sexuality. Although we were monogamous, we were causal. And although we were causal, we were respectful. I could explore my sexuality with him without him ever disrespecting me or for a moment thinking I was not "worthy of marriage". He came into my life at the right time, and when he left, I met another man and I fell in love. Things got confusing again, because although I was in love with him, he and I never made love, and although he was much older than the other guy, he was way inferior in bed.
But that's just part of life. I see now that what I had to learn from him had nothing to do with sex. I would, later on, experience making love with someone I was in love with, and would learn that people in love can also fuck like pornstars and still want to spend the rest of their lives together afterwards. I met several more men who "got it" and treated me with the respect I demanded and deserved, whether we were in a relationship or not, while allowing me to be as sexual and impulsive as I wanted to be. I am always grateful to the universe for sending me these men.
But there are still a lot of men, and women, who don't get it. Last night I couldn't help myself and I tried, in vain I think, to shift the consciousness I was dealing with. I know that it's not up to me to change people, though, and I can only hope that one day life will teach them that repressing a woman's sexuality serves no one. Women can not be categorized. Women may be complicated, but in this area I present you the simplest equation, the "... us" equation:
Love us, Free us, Hold us, Fuck us, Need us, Marry us, Make Love to us and, above all, Respect us.

Divine

I'm not a fan of diary-entry posts, but the past 24 hours have been so delicious, I want to write of nothing else.

It started last night, when I couldn't sleep. I didn't fall asleep until 7am this morning, in fact. For those of you who know me- that doesn't happen all that often. For many, insomnia is torture, and I understand that, but every once in a while, I think it's a gift. I think there are places our brains and hearts go to at night that they won't go in daylight, and every once in a while, it's vital that we visit those areas. As soon as I realized my mind wanted a night to itself, I didn't resist it- I gave it the whole night. I tossed and turned when my mind went over everything it's angry about, I cried when my sadness surfaced, I smiled when my fantasies played out in my head like movies, I hugged my pillow and hid under the sheets when my fears took over, I chased a mosquito around when I was too agitated to lie down, and I sat up in bed and stared at the shadows in the dark when my mind was empty.
I fell asleep around 7 and woke up at noon, feeling completely refreshed. After my mind had spent the whole night thinking everything it wanted to think about, it was free of its clutter and noise. It was quiet, and my heart was peacefully open.
I danced downstairs to the kitchen and started cooking- one of my absolute favorite things to do. I don't know why chopping vegetables fills me with such joy, but it does. I made soup for my family and went out to meet my friend Marina.
A word about Marina: She and I have been friends since we were four. Marina knows I love to tell people about how she is my oldest friend, about how we've known each other for 20 years. She is a friend I hold dearly in my heart and soul, and, being a fellow artist, she was the perfect person to spend this day with.
We went to MASP, a small museum in Sao Paulo. I love small museums more than anything. The beautiful MASP had three exquisite exhibits. One was of photographs by Walker Evans- which I found to be completely delicate and sensitive in their portrayal of America in the 1930's. Another was of Greek Mythological art- which I'm obsessed with so, needless to say, I loved it. And the last was of the history of 'the Portrait', which was fascinating in showing how the portrayal of a face has evolved from being photo-perfect to being a complete dismantling of realism.
How rare to go to a museum and love everything you see- I felt truly privileged.
Then we went to FNAC, a huge book and media store. I love huge crowded bookstores about as much as I love small empty museums. I'm strange like that. We sat at the cafe, I had two cappuccinos, then we wandered around, I bought two books and felt like I'd won a trophy. Books have that effect on me.
My day ended with a glass of red wine while watching a movie with my dad. Perfection never tasted so good.
As you can see, the past 24 hours have been a real gift- the first half dedicated to clearing my mind, and the second half to filling it with things I love. My brain is yet again filled with excitement about life, my soul is soaring, and I am smiling, which is, forgive me for boasting, absolutely divine.

Nostalgia

A 24-year-old feeling nostalgic is, at best, pretentious. But it can't be helped when one goes back to a childhood place- in my case my mother's hometown, a small town built around a church in the countryside, deep in the state of Sao Paulo, a five hour drive from the city- a place where I spent all my holidays growing up. I just got back from spending five days there and, as expected, memories sat waiting for me to find them at every corner.

The first memory greeted me at the front steps into the house my grandfather lived and died in- the house we now stay in when we go back there.

A delicious memory: I'm ten or eleven years old, sitting on those steps with my little cousin, eating my favorite fruit: a peach, so ripe its juices stream down my arm, its insides matching the sunset that surrounds us. Children don't usually appreciate sunsets- in fact that time of day is associated with the end of fun and the nearing of a dreaded time: bedtime. But on this day I am happy to see the sun go down because it is unusually hot. And as we sit there doing nothing but eating our fruits and waiting for the air to cool down, I say something that I couldn't possibly have understood at the time, I either heard it on television or- and this is my preferred explanation- my older self interfered with my childhood and spoke these wise old words simply because they were absolutely true: "This is the happiest day of my life."

I recall nothing before this moment on that day or after- I don't know what we did earlier or what we ate for dinner- my memory has kept only these few minutes in which I experienced the perfection of life without knowing it.

Re-living this memory now, it is still a mystery to me how I, at such a young age, was able to appreciate the simplicity of a childhood summer in the country, and I still question if I had any idea what I was talking about. But the memory sat there on those steps waiting for me all these years, knowing I would find it when I needed it. And I did need it, I need it always- that child's wisdom and the perfect sweetness of a time that so often feels like a lifetime ago, but is actually always available to me, with its lessons and its truth, whenever I need it.