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 English Corner |
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English Corner |
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As we know, Azorean traditions have made some of us into a superstitious lot. So much so that there's hardly a Portuguese-language newspaper in this country that does not have a palm reader, or a card reader advertisement. Ask most old timers and they'll tell you how at one time or other they were the vicitims of "feitiços", "quebranto", etc., and that, if it hadn't been for a "benzedeira", they would have had to go through life's hell unprotected. Some of those traditions have been passed on to our children. I know an American-born person of Azorean background living on Orswell Street in Fall River, Massachusetts, who at this moment is in desperate straits simply because her "benzedeira" died. All of which leads me to an old Fall River story. A young woman and her father were quite close. Unfortunately that was not her case with young men, with whom she had wanted to be even closer - but in another way, of course. One day, taking a page from her mother's book - a rare thing in a Fall River Azorean house since most elderly Azoreans were illiterate, and books, therefore, were the last thing they'd ever think of, the girl decided to visit the "benzedeira" who lived down towards Tiverton, Rhode Island, a woman who also PUNHA CARTAS (Read cards). "Nossa Senhora, Mãe de Deus," said the woman as she looked at the girl's cards. "I see nothing but tragedy this Tuesday. First you will rip your best blouse as you try to put it on. Second your radio won't work and you won't know about the weather for the day. You won't know how to dress for the shop where you sew names on military uniforms. And finally, worst of all, your father will die." The girl went home - not believing a word. On Tuesday, however, the radio was broken as predicted. This was before TV came to Southeastern Massachusetts. No weather report. No way to pick the proper dress to wear down at the mill. The girl reached in the closet. As she pulled a blouse, part of it got caught on a hereto-unseen nail and was badly torn. Then the decision came to what else she should wear. It was then that panic set in. She had no guidelines. Will it be warm in the mill, or cold... She did, however, put on what finally suited her, motivated in part by hearing her father's voice somewhere in the kitchen. Nevertheless, she did look closely at him as he sipped his morning coffee - and he looked very much alive to her. Thus, with a relieved heart, feeling that what the "benzedeira" had predicted about her blouse, the radio, and the weather was only coincidence, she felt happy, pretty much her father's daughter. She smiled as he drank the coffee. Suddenly a loud thud shook the peacefulness of the small apartment, indicating that something had fallen out on the porch. The girl moved quickly towards the front door and opened it. Outside, the Irish milkman lay stretched out. Dead. All of which reminds me of an old Azorean peasant refrain: OS FILHOS DA MINHA FILHA MEUS NETOS SÃO. OS FILHOS DE MEU FILHO SERÃO - OU NÃO. Translation: My daughter's children are my grandchildren. My son's children ..... Perhaps. Manuel L. Ponte St. Louis, Missouri, July 28, 1998 mlp@fclass.net |
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