MIRCI's 52 Windows gala was fantastic. It was lovely to see what the artists did with each of the antique windows donated for the project. You can check some out on their facebook page and mine is below.
I commend MIRCI for giving local artists the chance to show their work, raising money for a great cause, and saving the vintage windows from a landfill.
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| Forsaken Lives, Mixed Media 33"x33" 2012 |
Here's the unabridged—and edited (Imagine my fluency in English ten years ago, not good) version of Forsaken Lives (originally named Forgotten lives)
Dear Joana,
It has been many years since you left for the city looking for hope. I still remember when you used to tell me what you would do and how your life would be. And you did it. I want you to know I am very proud of you, my friend.
Here everything is the same, life in our arid area has never been easy; lately, it has been unbearable. Even for us, who have lived here since birth, each day is a test of fortitude and faith. I think these are the only things that keep us going. I pray God will have mercy, and I ask HIM why life has to be like this. Then, I stop, not wanting to be punished for my lack of conviction; but deep in my heart, I still hope to find an answer.
As you know, in this part of the country there are no seasons: only drought or rain. This year the drought has been harder than usual. It is depressing to look at the fields and see the soil cracking. You can’t see a green leaf anywhere, if any at all.
Sebastião, my husband, doesn't know what to do anymore. It hurts me to see so much anguish in his eyes, those for sure are not the eyes I met years ago. They used to have joy and hope, even dreams. He has always liked the life in the country and used to talk with joy about growing our own food and taking care of the soil.
He used to say, “Someday I will have my own land, and it will have a lot of banana trees.” It’s his favorite fruit. With time, he talked about it less often. Today, not a word.
When his parents died, they left us the house we live in today. It has a small backyard where we've tried to grow banana trees, but they died every year because of the drought. Sebastião used to replant them every time it started raining again. It has been two years since he has done that. It worries me.
Everyday he goes out looking for food; sometimes he comes back with nothing. When he brings back lizards the children get all excited and even want to help me with dinner. He will only have work when it starts raining again; so, we get excited about the lizards, too. Especially, because the sun still rises every morning brighter than the day before burning our skin and breaking our hearts.
I wonder how many people in the world have to go through this? How many parents watch day after day their children faces getting skinnier and their little bodies emaciated? Sometimes, I think Brazil is a forsaken country. But then someone tells me about the politicians, soccer, and Carnival, I realize Brazil is not forsaken: we are. The government sends us a basket of food once a month, but they never send enough for everybody. We share the food among the village and it is over in a couple of weeks. And we have to spend the rest of the month praying and hunting lizards.
At the end of the day, I cook beans. The jug is almost empty and we still have two more months before the rainy season. Sebastião and I don't eat at every meal, we watch the kids eat and we feel relieved but worried about the next day. Our children are nine and six years old, they have never been to a school. It's too far from here. Besides, they have to help us in the fields because if we do not work hard while is raining, we will not have enough food or money to make it through the drought.
I still want them to go to school someday, I wish they could have a better life—perhaps become teachers like I wanted to be. Then again, I had to help my parents, too, then my husband, and now I have to take care of my children. Being a woman never helped any. You know that, too, don’t you? My father always said: “You’re not leaving this house until you are married.” He always thought women had to be under the supervision of their parents or their husbands.
When you left, I was thirteen. You've told me when you arrive in the city, you would start studying again and work as a live-in maid. When you graduated, you would become a teacher and someday have your own home. My father never let me read the letters you wrote me. He tore them up and told me to forget you.
“If you ever think about doing something like that, I swear to God I will beat you to death.” He had hit me before and hearing him say it with so much anger stifled any thoughts I had about leaving.
When he died, I found one of your letters opened in his trunk. Maybe he had forgotten to throw it away, or perhaps he found himself not so sure anymore about having kept me here. The letter I found was the one you wrote me when you started your first job as a teacher.
I am sorry I read it almost ten years later.
My children always ask me things about the cities, the sea, and other things they hear other kids talking about in the fields. I make up stories to explain those things, telling them someday they will see everything for themselves because the rain will come every year and we will have money to go visit the city.
“I don’t want them to dream about things we will never have.” Sebastião always interrupts me and sends them to bed.
Maybe next year, if the rain comes early and the harvest is good, our dreams will start becoming true and my children can start school. To be honest, I fear that day. They will discover new things, learn new things, and they will be upset about our life. They still don’t know not everyone eat lizards.
God bless,
Maria
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