Tuesday, September 09, 2003

My dad loves the ocean. He can just sit next to the shore and watch the waves crash in for hours. It seems to both calm and excite him at the same time. On every family trip to Monterey or Half Moon Bay, he parks the car next to the shoreline and goes out there and sits on a rocky bluff meditating on the waves. He'll try to get the rest of us out of the car, but my mom, brother, and I will usually say no, content with the view from our seats.

He has told me that it brings back old memories of being at the beach with his own dad; clamming and smelt fishing with extended family and other Portuguese-American people. It is also a timeless reminder of something larger than our problems and our lives, something that’s constant and ever changing at the same time. Looking out into the ocean, life seems to make a little more sense.

The sea calls to him…and with a lighter tug, it calls to me too. We both could not fathom living anywhere too far from the ocean. His grandparents were from small volcanic islands out in the Atlantic, the Azores and Madiera. Some left the Azores for Hawaii, and all eventually settled in California…but never did they go too far from the sea. They kept their heritage with them; they adapted it to new places and times, but never forgot where they came from. American Azoreans, I’ve heard, have very sad music that’s filled with a longing for the place they once called home.

My dad and I talked about this long before I read the passage from La Maravilla that is typed in the previous entry, that so accurately described the way we felt. That’s why to both of us being categorized as “White” feels awkward and untrue. “White” feels empty. It means nothing. It was created as term to distance one class from the other on the basis of skin tone. Portuguese means something; it’s a culture and heritage that is real. Mexican means something; it’s an ancient word that was here before the Spaniards ever were.

~~~~

I am a Perry and a Perriera. I am also a Sias. I have the blood of the Morenos,’ the Lardizabals,’ and Goies’ running through me. I am a mix of a mixture. You could say I’m half & half but when you dissect those halves you find more underneath. I look at the photos of my very dark “Mexican” grandpa’s grandparents and I see a white man with a red moustache and a brown woman with the physical features of one who has always lived here. My skin color and facial features are the product of Portuguese and Flemish blood from the Azores, light-skinned Spaniards, dark skinned Apache, and some other unknown indios, maybe Aztecs, from Mexico. Who knows what else? I am all those things and none of them at the same time.

What I know is that I am from here, a native son of California. But part of me came here from halfway across the world. Another part only recently came from the copper mines of New Mexico. And although it’s likely neither part wanted to leave the place they came from, I cannot look down upon those who are here from somewhere else…if they are here for the right reasons.

But nevertheless, some percentage of me has been here in the Americas for thousands of years. Maybe it is that part of me that grounds me… that makes me care so much for the place I was born. No matter where life takes me, although I doubt I'll ever let it take me too far, my heart will always be here.

~~~

On a trip to San Francisco earlier this summer...I found myself pulling a "dad." I forced my cousins and brother to park at the shore of the Golden Gate in the Presidio so I could take some pictures from the wharf. I didn't actually take any photos. I just went out to the shoreline and then on to the fishing pier, taking in the wind, the waves, and the fog rolling in from under that great bridge while my cousins and brother waited patiently near the car.

~~~
See them depart
the young and the old
in search of fortune
in other parts
in other breezes
among other peoples
the young and the old

See them depart
with moistened eyes
and saddened heart
pack on the back
hope in the hilt
and golden dreams
see them depart
with moistened eyes

They'll return some day
rich or not
telling stories
of far off lands
where sweat
was made bread
They'll return some day
Or not

(An Azorean Song by Manuel Freire)

(Translation by Adiaspora.com)



(a very long post, for the end of the first year of this blog)

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