Philip Graham
Spends a Year
in Lisbon.
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Philip Graham, a writer who teaches at the University of Illinois, will be spending a year in Lisbon, Portugal. He will be reporting to us from there.
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D I S P A T C H 13
Another
History Lesson.
By Philip Graham
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I stop reading out loud, because I've made The Mistake, again. Though I try to back up, my daughter, sitting beside me on the couch, is already drawling her affectionate mudslide of reproach: "Daaaaaaad." Then she explains for the trillionth time that e, the Portuguese word for "and," is pronounced like the English letter e, while é, the Portuguese word for "is" (at least—sigh—in second person, present tense) is pronounced like the English letter a. Or they're supposed to—I keep mixing them up.
I take my medicine with the proper humility, since her correction is all part of our Study Session Fair Exchange Program. I read aloud from Hannah's history textbook (sixth-grade Portuguese is about my reading level) and cobble together on-the-spot rough translations into English, in preparation for her upcoming test. Meanwhile, Hannah has the last word on my attempts at pronunciation, since she has down pat the music of Portuguese from the back and forth of her classroom and playground. Recently she informed me that sometimes, when I think I'm inquiring about peixe (fish) in a restaurant, instead I seem to be referring to pés (feet). Though I might also have expressed interest in the tastiness of pais (parents), país (country), or paz (peace).
For her previous history test, we'd drilled and drilled in both languages about the fall of the Portuguese monarchy in 1910 and the following struggles and stumbles of the First Republic until the names, dates, and places became permanent folds in her brain. She aced the test, and now she's determined to go two for two, because Hannah, with her usual enthusiasm, has plunged into the life and challenges of her classes (and once again I think of João and Caterina, friends who helped bring about our daughter's midyear entry into her new school—if they were ever to ask, "Oh, Philip, could you please walk through hellfire and back for us, just this once?" I'd do it twice).
Right now we're slogging through the 40 long years of Salazar's fascist regime, and I'm impressed how the textbook lays out the case against the dictator with a firm but quiet honesty. When we come to the page about the government's propaganda in the 1930s, I read out slowly the slogan "Deus, Pátria, Família: A Trilogia da Educaçao Nacional," trying to hit all the right points of stress in each word. This tactic also gives me time to work up an English version in my mind, and I come up with "God, Country, and Family: The Three Pillars of National Education."
Hannah nibbles on her favorite snack of frozen raspberries in a bowl, and we examine a poster of the time, displayed in the book, that illustrated these words: a father returns after working all day in the fields (though it appears he first stopped and got his clothes washed and pressed) to his waiting, happy family and a rustic home more squeaky clean than any rustic home ever was. I'm struck by the similarities with the Photoshopped family values of America's right-wing Christians—all glistening goodness, at least as they prefer to present themselves, but these are the folks who carry around wallet portraits of Jesus as a Dorian Gray monster who's A-OK with their war-mongering and gay-bashing.
Hannah looks up at me, wondering why I've paused, and so I plunge ahead: "Por não haver partidos politicos, a oposiçao política era considerada ilegal, sendo assim mais facil"—I stop, place the stress on fácil back where it belongs, on the first syllable, and when Hannah nods approvingly, I continue—"mais fácil a prática de abusos por parte do poder."
Sometimes it's a hurdle to squeeze English out of Portuguese, but I give it my best try: "With no political parties allowed, political opposition was considered illegal, which made it easier for the ruling party to abuse power." Again, I can't help but think of home, where essentially single-party rule gave Bush free reign to screw up the world. I could say a few choice words about this, but Hannah is fascinated by a political cartoon in the section on "actuaçao da censura" (instituting of censorship): a wide-eyed woman labeled "Imprensa" (the Press) is sitting in a chair gagged with her hands and feet tied up. Xs are inked across the picture, probably the work of some political functionary of the time, and Hannah and I talk about the irony that this protest against censorship was itself censored.
Again, comparisons spring to mind: A bovine American mainstream media chewing the welcome cud of administration talking points, the censuring of scientists over global warming, and the breathtaking chutzpah of outing a CIA agent in order to enforce omerta. I'd say all this to Hannah, but she looks tired from the past hour of studying, so we decide to take a little break of volleyball and basketball in the garden of our apartment complex.
The long, grassy stretch is lined with palm trees, cedars, and a number of lush bushes, whose flowers will soon be working overtime. This space's feeling of privacy is illusory, since four floors of windows look out over the garden, and maybe that's why it's almost always deserted. Even though there's a perfectly fine bench in an isolated corner, I seem to be the only one who's ever sat there.
We shoot a few hoops, but volleyball is Hannah's sport, and she wants to practice her serve. Then she gives me tips on how to improve my own, but this is not so successful—the ball flies from my hands in all directions. At least she's getting good exercise chasing my mistakes. I try my best, but I'm still distracted by the too-close-for-comfort implications of Hannah's history book. Sure, the Democrats have finally taken over Congress, but the Lyin' King seems to believe the election was a mere trifle he can shrug off. Some days I've been glued to the Web, following the sordid progress of one scandal after another, and the open sore of Iraq.
While Hannah runs after my latest bobble, I catch the tang of sautéd chicken, and I turn to the open window facing the garden and see Alma moving pots and pans on the stove. This year I've been the family cook, chopping, marinating, and simmering during the off moments of my writing, but today Alma—who's usually the homework maestro, in charge especially of math and science—is taking over in the kitchen. Which reminds me, that history textbook is waiting patiently for us back in the living room. I can't say I'm looking forward to the next section, on Salazar's political police, but, hey, studying is studying.
"Esta polícia tinha por funçao," I read, once Hannah and I are settled again on the couch, "perseguir, prender, torturar e, por" (and I pause, in order to nail the tricky shush sounds in the next word) "vezes, matar aqueles que se opunham ao regime." Then I give a go in English: "This police unit had the job to persecute, arrest, torture, and, at times, kill those who opposed the regime." Just 10 years ago, I could have smugly tutt-tutted my way through a chapter like this, but now it has the stink of my own country's shit: the illegal spying on American citizens; the knifing of habeas corpus; and the "enhanced interrogation techniques"—a creepy euphemism that echoes the apple-polished Gestapo term for torture—at Gitmo and Abu Graib. How low we've sunk.
At the sound of some polite throat-clearing, I turn to see Hannah's stare. She's waiting for me to return to port from wherever I've been sailing. Well, here I am, sea legs a little wobbly, and finally it hits me: Why not be as honest as this textbook? An old studying trick is to put gobs of information into proper perspective, and we are, after all, a family that often grinds our teeth in synchronous outrage at the politics of the day. So I clear my throat and proceed to give my daughter another history lesson.
"What Salazar did was a lot like what Bush is doing now," I say, and run through the details of our country's current walk of shame, talking about the parallels, the differences between the two regimes, and soon I can see in Hannah's eyes that the glue of context is working, that this textbook's story from a distant era is finally clicking into place for her.
It's something of a relief when Hannah and I turn the page and finally arrive at the April 25 revolution of 1974. When the fascist government didn't listen to its generals and refused to end the seemingly endless and deeply unpopular colonial wars in Africa, the military finally stepped in. Normally, you don't want to cheer a coup, but in this case the Portuguese military did the right thing—they set up a constitutional convention that established the Second Republic, restored democracy, and in less than two years granted independence to all their African colonies.
My Portuguese friends can display an automatic tick of shame at the mention of Salazar's dictatorship. But the nearly bloodless 1974 revolution is an entirely different matter, because after a couple centuries of hard knocks and awful luck the Portuguese still found the strength to find the best within themselves and make it stick. Over 30 years later, they're still enjoying a noisy, messy, healthy democracy. It's the country's great achievement in the 20th century, something the Portuguese are justly proud of. Next month, there will be a huge party of a parade down Lisbon's Avenida da Liberdade, celebrating the revolution's anniversary. I intend to be there, waving a carnation and wishing I were waving it for my own country.
I sneak a peek ahead and see that we have six more pages to go. "OK," I say, "I think that's enough for now. We'll do a little more after dinner, all right?"
Hannah nods gratefully, reaches for the remote. A little TV is in order, perhaps SpongeBob dubbed in Portuguese.
I decide to see how Alma is doing in the kitchen. Steam rises from a pan of simmering vegetables and chicken, and she seems off in her own world. Recently, her new research, on Cape Verdeans with a Jewish heritage (African Jews, who'd a thunk it?), has taken off, and she's been interviewing up a storm. I decide to leave her to her thoughts, but some small movement of mine catches her eye and she turns to me with one of her wide-open smiles. "How's the studying going?" she asks.
"Good," I reply, though with a bit of a frown because of the depressing resemblances I've been wading through, and when she gives me an asking look, I offer a smile of my own, a rueful expression that promises a story, but later. "I'll be right back," I murmur.
I sneak outside (only for a few minutes, I tell myself) to the lonely bench at the end of the garden walkway. From there I have a beautiful view over the city, the glint of the Tagus River, the far shore. The lights of the 25 de Abril Bridge—named after the decisive date of the revolution—are already shining in the waning sunset. And here's yet another history lesson, the one I came outside for: It is possible for a country to right a backlog of wrongs, to purge itself of an extended sickness. The city stretched below me is the capital of a country that managed this and redeemed and reinvented itself for the better. It can be done, it can be.
Alma calls me—where have I disappeared to, anyway? "Sorry, be right there," I call back, trying to sound as repentant as possible. I take one last glance at the city below, release an envious sigh, and return down the garden pathway.
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Quotations are from the textbook Á Descoberta da História e Geografia de Portugal, Parte 2, 6 Ano by Maria Luísa Santos, Claudia Amaral, and Lídia Maia.
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