Passing

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I had an interesting conversation with a Brazilian friend yesterday about his experience as an exchange student in Atlanta. He said that since he wasn’t out in the sun so much, he got white enough to pass for “American.” As it turns out, for my friend, passing for “American” is passing for white. I pointed out that whites aren’t the only Americans; plus, there’s a difference between being able to belong to the majority and being able to belong to a nation.

I, on the other hand, even though I spent the whole day at the beach today (ok, it was cloudy), will probably never have his experience. It is a little sad that genetics have bestowed me with hair and a complexion that, while oft-commented on by old ladies at church and at the mall, leave me irrevocably marked as, if not American, then at the very least não brasileira. Nobody will believe I’m from the country, period. Bizarrely enough, though, I got a buona sera once, and was then asked on another occasion if I was Italian.

I find it disheartening mainly because I love to feel completely incognito in places, to pass for a native, and it seems that that privilege will be denied me. Of course, there are Brazilians as pale as I am. One blond, Polish-descended PUC student admitted that he didn’t “look Brazilian.” Do people ask you where you’re from? “Well, no, when they hear me speaking Portuguese…” I heard the same of another student. ”She’s pale enough to be a foreigner, so people think she’s a gringa, but when they hear her speaking you can tell she’s a native.” So perhaps there is hope – hope, and lots of mimicking the sotaque carioca in my future. But one of the things my Atlanta-acquainted friend disliked most about Americans was their tendency to pre-judge people, to want to categorize them and put them into boxes. He said it seemed a very segregated society. I don’t think I’m equipped to judge the segregation of Brazilian society (or possible lack thereof), but I – and the other pale PUC students, no doubt – definitely feel pre-judged.

In any case, I think I’ll have to steer clear of tourist-ridden areas. Today in the Parque Garota de Ipanema, I walked past a table of men who started calling “Hello! Hello!” On another occasion, a few friends and I were standing on the sidewalk in Copa and a group of Brazilians walked past and yelled “Tudo bem?” When we didn’t respond immediately, they laughed. ”Oh, eles não falam.” ”Tudo bem!” responded my American friend, slightly indignantly.

While I was hanging out on Avenida Atlântica today, waiting for a friend, I tried to play “spot-the-American” with little success; even when I was fairly certain I’d spotted a tourist, I’d hear a snatch of perfect melodious carioca portuguese. Clothes play a large part, I’m sure. Earlier this week I wore a scarf (as a decorative accessory! eminently sartorially acceptable!) and noticed that nobody on the bus, unlike normal, addressed me in Portuguese. The tourist treatment is as follows: surly expression and explicatory gesticulation. Scarves: not Brazilian? I think I’ll stand my ground. Brazilians, scarves are wonderful, and, besides, you probably need them right now. For goodness’ sake, it’s only 70 degrees out.

Flora Thomson-DeVeaux

É escritora, tradutora, brasilianista e diretora de pesquisa na Rádio Novelo