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Elizabeth Santos
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-11-08
Posts 9269
Pennsylvania

0 posted 2000-02-27 10:58 AM


(A first attemot at prose)

Laws of the Land

      It is the law of the land, the unwritten laws of the turf. It is the survival of the fittest, the quickest, and the best protected. It is a daily challenge to stay alive, so by all means, don’t go wondering into the other neighborhoods alone. Don’t go walking out past the school on Papagaio Square or down past the ship yard. They don’t know you there. And you being American, well, you’re just a target. But here you’re safe. Everyone knows who you
are. They know you’re my friend. Anyone here would give their life for you. Thats just the way it is.
        These were such numbing words coming from a young dark skinned beauty, my new companion, my sort of lifeline in this strange sea of humanity. So lovely and graceful she was, and tastefully dressed, with a shining gold bracelet against her black arm, which you noticed as soon as she came into view. And her white sandals always so clean, even though they stepped over miles of dusty dirt every day. Bernadette was in fact, a specimen of femininity at it’s most glorious. And I was entranced by her piercing black eyes, her graceful walk and her constant smile , even through all the hardships and drudgeries of the day.
         I didn’t really know her well, and yet I was pulled to her like a magnet, for she was one who could teach me the ways of the slum, the nuances of the culture, the laws of the turf. But she was in my eyes a model of womanhood, and as much as I wanted to learn her culture, I wanted more to learn the secrets of her intrigue. And every day that passed she presented one more alluring trait that I admired.
         And it seems she was equally intrigued with me, though I never knew why. We became best friends, however, and spent those hot tropical days always in each others company. But her life was not my life. I was always a visitor to her realm. I never felt the pain and fear behind the smile. I wasn’t living in poverty, but rather was merely a visitor to poverty. But the wide chasm between our cultures didn’t seem to matter in our friendship.
           She said I was her teacher, and I was a teacher of sorts, always tutoring her in her school work, trying to convince her to finish high school. I even took her to the public library, which she never even knew existed. In fact, she knew of very little that existed beyond the  perimeter of the slum. But in reality, she was my teacher. She taught me the laws of the turf, the unwritten laws of a society unto itself, this community of poverty,
built upon the mud flats.
          And there were several slums just like it along the peninsula that jutted out into All Saints Bay. It was a village of wooden shacks built on stilts high above the mud flats, so that when the tides came in the water remained just below floor level. They called it Itaparica. It was a raw  and desperate site full of squalor and ugliness and stench. But at the same time, I always found beauty there. It was picturesque, in a way, those tall stilts reflecting in the still black waters, which gleamed orange at the hour of sunset. The women swaying gracefully over the wooden bridges, which in turn swayed with their bodies as they balanced heavy jugs of water on their heads. The silhouettes of little children dancing against the backdrop of the bonfire on St. John’s holiday.
            But the sights and sounds of the slum were only part of the reality, and Bernadette quickly tutored me in the unwritten laws, the squatters rights, she called them. These laws
were instituted by the people, and carried out by the people and the people made sure they were obeyed. And those who came in from the Sertao in northeastern Brazil to escape the drought, which occurred every year, quickly learned the laws of  this slum on the outskirts of the city of Salvador, the city they call Bahia. They learned the laws or they paid with their lives. For if a squatter came in and placed his posts into the mud, that spot belonged to him, even though he may have to wait over a year for his stilts to settle in the mud. They needed time to accumulate the debris of sea animals, silt, garbage and algae which helped hold the stilts stable enough to build a house. Anyone else who tried to claim that spot was killed, not by the owner, but by neighbors who were watching it for him. It was an honor system and the laws may as well have been written into the constitution, for they were strictly adhered to. But the squatter also lost his rights to the property if he failed to start building within a given time frame, and after that , anyone could start building on his stilts .
     There were many such unwritten laws in the slum, and they varied from slum to slum. But there were also unwritten social norms that one must learn when entering any foreign society, and Bernadette gave me a hard poke with her elbow whenever I was out of line and  saved me from disgrace on many occasions. She gave me one of those piercing jabs in the ribs one day when a neighbor lady had said good morning to me, and I didn’t respond in kind. The fact was, I didn’t even hear her or see her, so consumed was I with trying to cling onto the swaying walkway. Bernadette said my rudeness would have been an insult for life. Bahians never miss a “good morning”.There’s no excuse for it. They know what’s going on around them in every direction at any given moment of the day. It’s one of those self defense mechanisms which is bred into them, one of those survival skills that I had to learn.
         But Manoel was the one who taught me the most bitter lesson of all, and I never really knew him. He was a father of a lot of children with a lot of women, and I had heard his name mentioned many times. Bernadette said he had sticky fingers. Things disappeared when he was around. And that’s just what I was to find out. Manoel was a painter by trade and had just painted my bedroom. I didn’t hire him for the job. It was the owner of the house who hired him and thought he would surprise me when I was out of town for a few days. I was so happy with the surprise, but distraught at the fact that my rent money was missing from the suitcase under my bed. It wasn’t really that much money to me. It wasn’t that important. I didn’t blame Manoel, for I knew he was an alcoholic and was desperate.
       But I made a big mistake. I told the owner of the house about the incident that night. The next morning I heard about Manoel’s death. They told me it was a heart attack, but I didn’t believe it. I had a wrenching feeling in my stomach that it was in retaliation for stealing my money, which in my mind was never a proven fact.
        I had to talk to Bernadette immediately but couldn’t find her. I met Nelson in the street. He was Brernadette’s seven year old godson and he would know where she was. He quickly disappeared among the gray planks and shacks and within minutes she gracefully appeared from around a corner, her gold bracelet reflecting in the morning sun. I asked her about Manoel and she confirmed my fears. She said that he deserved it and that his death was totally justified. And everyone was happy that my honor was saved. I was shocked and angry at myself and angry at her. She had forgotten to tell me about this law of the slum. She forgot that I wasn’t born there. She had said that anyone would give their life for me, but I didn’t know they would take somebody else’s. I didn’t know that stealing was a capital crime. I wasn’t born into poverty. I was born under different laws. I began to feel the cultural chasm between me and Bernadette. And I felt an unrelenting guilt that I had spoken up about my rent money, and that has haunted me for many, many years.
          But that was thirty-five years ago. I was the ignorant one. I was the outsider, the foreigner. And now after many years, with distance and time between us, I find that Bernadette is still one of my best friends. She is still the pinnacle of courage and  strength, of womanhood and motherhood, and she is still the graceful and gracious black-skinned beauty who taught me the ways and the laws of poverty.

Elizabeth Santos





[This message has been edited by Elizabeth Santos (edited 02-27-2000).]

© Copyright 2000 Elizabeth Santos - All Rights Reserved
Rex Allen McCoy
Member Elite
since 2000-01-30
Posts 2863
Sippin a Timmy's in London
1 posted 2000-02-27 11:12 AM



Elizabeth ... Good grief ... I had to push my jaw back up into position when I finished reading your story
makes me want to delete mine

Rex}<{{{{o>

Pepper
Member Elite
since 1999-08-19
Posts 3079
Southern Florida
2 posted 2000-02-27 01:46 PM


I couldn't tear my eyes away from the page Liz ....  May I ask if this is a true story ? Knowing that you did infact spend time in Brazil ...
Very good job ... are you sure this is your first prose ?  'S'

Poet deVine
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-26
Posts 22612
Hurricane Alley
3 posted 2000-02-27 03:17 PM


This is wonderful! I was enthralled... more please!!!
Elizabeth Santos
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-11-08
Posts 9269
Pennsylvania
4 posted 2000-02-27 03:31 PM


Rex and Pepper
Thank you both for your responses. Gosh, I'm overwhelmed with your comments. My opinion about this piece after reading it, is that the ending is rather weak. I would like someone's opinion about how to end it. I can easily rewrite the last paragraph. Does the last paragraph even need to be there?
Pepper, to answer your question, yes this is all true. You know me, I have no imagination, and could never write anything that wasn't true. Bernadette and I still talk every 2 months or so. Her daughters are like my own. I was supposed to meet Bernadette at her daughter's house in Spain this July, but I think that trip will have to be postponed. But she continues to teach me about life.
Thank you both again for reading and commenting
Liz

Elizabeth Santos
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-11-08
Posts 9269
Pennsylvania
5 posted 2000-02-27 03:52 PM


Thank you, PoetdeVine, for your enthusiasm. I appreciate the comment
Liz

Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049
California
6 posted 2000-02-27 04:18 PM


Liz, this is very well written and so interesting a journey into life so far..so real..and frightening in difference from what I know.  I think your last paragraph sums things up nicely and brings us back to the present.  Well done!!!
Grandma Jo
Member
since 2000-01-02
Posts 51

7 posted 2000-02-27 06:35 PM


A wonderful look into another culture! Very well done.
Dusk Treader
Moderator
Senior Member
since 1999-06-18
Posts 1187
St. Paul, MN
8 posted 2000-02-27 10:14 PM


Elizabeth, let me welcome you to Passion's in Prose then!  I'll be your tour guide in this wacky mixed up land of prose...LOL

Really enjoyed your story, and excellent addition to prose and a very good first attempt!  I really hope we'll see more of you here as this was definetly an intriguing piece, though I can't think of anything to change in the ending.



 A writer's soul is on paper etched.

In flames I shall not be consumed, but reborn. --
Abrahm Simons



Denise
Moderator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-08-22
Posts 22648

9 posted 2000-02-28 10:52 AM


Excellent writing, Elizabeth! I was carried along effortlessly from the first word through to the last!!

Denise

LoveBug
Deputy Moderator 5 Tours
Moderator
Member Elite
since 2000-01-08
Posts 4697

10 posted 2000-02-28 04:25 PM


And this from the woman who said she can't write prose!!!!!!!

I was amazed, Liz! You're far too modest! And as for the last paragraph, I think that it fits in nicely with the rest of the piece! I'm looking forward to seeing more prose from you!!!  

 "To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world"

Marilyn
Member Elite
since 1999-09-26
Posts 2621
Ontario, Canada
11 posted 2000-02-28 05:25 PM


Elementary this is NOT, Liz. It is a wonderful story and well written. It is a true pleasure to have you in our forum.   Please join us again soon.
Elizabeth Santos
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-11-08
Posts 9269
Pennsylvania
12 posted 2000-02-28 07:14 PM


I am so surprised with all your wonderful comments on my first piece of prose. For I am one who never even liked to write a letter.In fact I never wrote anything at all until last summer, and now poetry has become a hobby. Well, if I get an inspiration , I'll try another. Thank you so much for your kind comments.
Liz

Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296
Purgatorial Incarceration
13 posted 2000-03-08 09:51 AM


Do try another Liz! I was captivated throughout the entire piece. I felt as if I were actually there wit the characters. Bravo!
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