Today was a special day. It’d be my grandma’s 93th birthday. She passed away last November. I was thinking about a way to remember her, but in a happier way, no crying, no flowers.  She always said that the world could end in pot pie (Empadão, a Brazilian kind of pot pie with chicken or palm heart stuffing), ice cream and beer. So I decided cooking would be the best way to celebrate her.  I was drinking beer while cooking and had another one when we’re eating. Woo-ha! The ice cream will be eaten later today, no worries. She’s too important to me to make this a sad day. Her life wasn’t easy and her last years were rough. But she’s kind, polite and geez, I loved seeing her smiling with her bluish loving eyes.  She lives in my memory. Cheers, Grandma!

sau·da·de

souˈdädə/

noun

1. a feeling of longing, melancholy, or nostalgia that is supposedly characteristic of the Portuguese or Brazilian temperament.

One thing that I miss the most in these days is to call to my grandma and talk to her. No, she is still alive but in no condition to talk as we used to. I think if she could choose live like that or be star stuff, I have no doubts that she would be star stuff, but this is another complex subject…

I used to call her almost everyday, you know, for chit chat. Sometimes I wanted to tell her something that have happened to me, or something funny that I knew she would laugh a lot or sometimes I was feeling sad and just talking to her would lift my mood instantly.

Frequently now I have this urge to get the phone and call her and have just some chit chat, hear her voice, hear her laughing and tell her how much I miss her and how much difference she made in my life. But you know, sometimes our brains are douche-bags, I just feel that “I’ll call Grandma” and one second after I remember that I can’t do it anymore.

Some days, after a voice call with my son, I keep thinking that I wasn’t that bad at all. He always shows me that expected part that we all received from our parents, but he added some brand new things, that most of times, amazes me. Oh of course we had some bad moments, but even they are part of our life, these moments help us decide (in the hard way) what we want to be, open our eyes.

For a long time I worried because I didn’t raise my child to be a good Christian. I raised him to be a good person, a good human being. Mostly because how could I teach my son about the unquestionable truths of God if even I couldn’t believe on it myself?

I tried, really, I had good religious friends and family and some of them opened opportunities that I could learn more about theirs religion. I studied in a public school most of life, and in that time, everybody should learn Catholicism. Few teachers had balls enough to teach about other religions, and they were not seen as good teachers by the school. Dark age? No, no, mid 80’s and 90’s. I saw a little bit of everything and nothing could really makes sense to me, even the Flying Spaghetti Monster seemed to be a better choice.

Well, I gave up. I can’t remember the last time I went to a church, and none was by my will, someone died, someone married, or something like that. Everything is so theatrical that I had problems to hold back laughter.

So, I never could force my son to these things. I always said to myself that when he became a grown up he could choose, and he did. But he didn’t wait for the religion to say what was right or wrong, what he could or couldn’t do. He used all his background to decide all these things. He doesn’t hide behind any religion to make his decisions or defend his point of view.

He is young, and so, he has that burning passion, that faith where everyone should be respected, despite gender, sexual orientation, politics, race, religion or hair color, and being that way when you were born in a place with so many social differences, prejudice, misogyny and corruption, after all, is a triumph.