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In 1954, after the worst career that anyone could have had at Harvard, or any other university, I found myself applying for all kinds of jobs as "EXECUTIVE TRAINEE" (The title which was then used for most positions open to graduates). In many instances I managed to impress interviewers sufficiently to make it to the second stage - the psychological-aptitude-and-personality testing.
A week later the reply would come back. NEGATIVE.
Graduate school was out of the question. My Harvard career had "destroyed" whatever talents, or desires for further reading and learning, I had. The trauma was such that, on the day I finished Harvard, I swore I would never again read another book. In short, Harvard had made me a literary dropout. But that's another story..
One day, however, after receiving one more NEGATIVE letter from prospective employers, I met with a local Portuguese-American policeman who, on the side, was also the local numbers collector for the local bookies. He had known me since I had come to this country, and I respected him. Since he was interested in my progress, he asked me if I had found a job yet, or whether I would be going on to graduate school. I told him that what I had found did not meet my expectations - stock clerking, factory and no-skill work, in short, jobs with a meager present and no future. I then told him about the tests.
"Shit," he said. "I bet your answers to those stupid tests were based on your Portuguese honesty rather than on American values. I discovered that in my Army days the worst thing you could do on those tests was to not give the answers that 'real Americans' would give... Look within yourself when you answer those questions and, when in doubt, ask: 'What would an American, right or wrong, do here?' As a policeman I have long confirmed that my idea is correct. And notice, here I am, as you know, collecting for the bookies and making some money at it, even though I know that the law says that's illegal. But the citizen, who is above the law, bets on the numbers, anyway. And who the Hell am I to contradict how the people are, or what they want? It's like making a cat swallow 'molho de pimenta' (hot pepper sauce)."
He then told me that no one, no matter how bright, could make a cat swallow hot pepper sauce by being honest with the animal, or better, by relying on his own values. Instead, the individual had to go by the cat's values.
As you know, cats hate to be dirty, and they prove it by the rite of licking and cleaning themselves. The individual who wants to make a cat, therefore, swallow hot pepper sauce, and succeed at the task, should know what the cat would do for certain. Cats, for example, like to rub themselves against humans they trust. Placing the sauce, therefore, on their furs would be useless. On the other hand, cats are quite protective of their rectums. Why not, therefore, grab the cat and, after lifting its tail, wetting the animal's rear orifice with a good supply of the sauce?
"In 99 out of 100 cases," the officer went on, " the cat, once free from your grab, will turn around and lick the wetness off."
I tried the officer's advice - not by grabbing my cat, naturally (In fact, I never had a cat in this country), but by applying the policeman's idea to certain obstacles along my life's road. There were many times in those tests, for example, when my responses violated my own personal values. But that's how "an American" would be expected to answer, so I had been told. After I got through that hurdle, I managed to work until July 20, 1993, when I retired. Most of the time I did a job that I truly enjoyed, where I used my language skills and, believe it or not, where I actually probably read more than most people with advanced degrees have ever read.
The cynical police officer who advised me, I heard, died several years ago. His story, however, lives on. Somewhat like a parable, I would say.
THE "DOLL WOMAN"AND HER HUSBAND
People who knew them referred to her husband by name. The wife was always referred to as the "Doll Woman". Sometimes people would even reinforce the husband's existence by indicating that he was the "Doll's Woman's Husband".
"It all started," she once told my parents and me, "when someone complained about some pictures I had showing various sexual positions. Obviously the police didn't think much of it, for a whole bunch of cops came knocking at our door insisting on seeing them. It never dawned on us why. We just had them as a joke. In any case, before we knew what was happening, we were hauled away to jail."
"For having pictures of people having sex?" My father asked.
"They weren't even real people," the woman said. "They were just drawings. We were in jail three and a half years. Since we couldn't read, or write too well and since we had no other family in this country, we didn't communicate much during that time. The women were not kept in the same prison as the men."
"I wish you still had those pictures," I said. "They could probably pay for my college education."
One evening, however, the elderly woman showed up at our house and instead of gossiping or joking as was her custom, asked if, given my contacts, I knew how she and her husband could become American citizens.
"I don't see why not," I replied. "You've always been people that any nation should be proud to have as citizens. But why do you wish to become Americans after what this country did to you between 1930 and 1934?"
"Because I want to be buried with an American flag inside my casket. I was a young girl when I came from the Azores with nothing but the clothes on my back. I now have a house where I've lived comfortably for a long time. My husband was even poorer than I when he came. We met in this country, you know. He would give his right arm to be an American also. Unfortunately a lawyer has already told him that, because of our record, we will never qualify. Furthermore, how could we pass the exams? We already have the first papers, you know. But it's the second that count."
She then cursed the drawings that a long time ago had created all the problems.
I looked at the woman. "I'm not a lawyer," I said. "I'm just someone who came from the same island as you. Frankly, if I were you, I'd never opt for American citizenship. But, if it's American citizenship you want, that you will have."
"God bless you," she replied.
The next evening I visited the couple to fill the forms I had picked up earlier at Immigration and Naturalization. Some months later, the woman was back at my house with a letter asking that she and her husband present themselves for the naturalization exam and interview, and a booklet on the topics they would be required to know. "How will we ever learn all this?" She asked. "We can barely read."
"Tell me," I replied. "Who was Herbert Hoover?"
The woman paused. Then, after regaining her composure, she said. "Why, he was that son of a bitch who put us in jail."
"And who got you out of prison?"
"Roosevelt. May God bless his soul."
"And who's the president now?" I continued.
"Eisenhower."
"You'll do," I said. "They won't ask you and your husband any other questions. If they ask about Hoover, however, just don't call him a son of a bitch - in English, or in Portuguese. By the way, I shall be your character witness, even though I'm young enough to be your grandson and have only known you a few years."
When the "Doll Woman" died many years later, both she and her husband were buried as Americans. They had given more than a half century to a country that they had loved and which, somewhere along those fifty plus years, had seen fit to make an example of them for their having only been themselves. Neither had gone to jail for pornographic drawings, as they had let people know. Instead, as I learned one summer evening, and secretly knew by the time she had told me about her wishes for American citizenship, they had been jailed for violating the 18th Amendment.
"The Doll Woman" and her husband had been drinking wine eversince they could remember. So had their neighbors and friends. To them "Prohibition" was something as far away as the moon, an idea that some Americans they didn't know had invented for some illogical purpose that only made sense to them. Wine was the blood of the Lord, something to be taken with meals, to be enjoyed with friends, to be appreciated as a social custom as it had been from time immemorial. If one had a house with a cellar, therefore, and lived near the freight yards where the Concord grapes from Upstate New York were stored and sold, one made wine to last until the next harvest season. Wine. Good wine. Kept in oaken barrels fumigated and cleansed of poisons and residues by the sulphur strips that were lit and sealed in them prior to their aceptance of the precious liquid. The local police knew about the custom and instead of looking towards the law that it was sworn to uphold, let them alone, or, in many instances, even became clients, knowing that what they were getting was the real thing. On the other hand, some had to do their job as required. The only problem was to select who should be marked for punishment, doing as little damage as possible to the captured ones or their families, while at the same time seeing that the authority's cases would be a cinch to win in any court. One day, after considerable thought, the victim's mantle fell on the "Doll Woman" and her husband. Foreigners. Childless. People who spoke little or no English. Expendables.
Four years of prison followed their arrest, even though they had had no prior record. By the time they were released, the 18th Amendment had been repealed for several months. Criminals have to comply with their sentences, however, even when sometimes convicted under laws that had proved nothing but their hypocrisy.
I was dumbfounded when I first learned her story. She had just walked by while I was talking to an elderly former sheriff's assistant who every night would meet with friends in front of the old Middlesex County Court House. An interesting group, who seemed to have long ago agreed that their reunion would break up the moment the clock on the tower across the street struck ten. Up to then, they would sit on the concrete parapet next to the Polish National Catholic Church and pass their time near an area they knew well. That particular evening, however, the old man was alone and I, in my early twenties, and interested in local politics, decided to stop and talk to him before getting home. As the woman passed, she saluted me in Portuguese in her usual pleasant matter, joking that at my age I should be entertaining a girl, rather than an old man. She then continued down the slightly angled sidewalk towards the intersection that would eventually lead her home.
"Poor woman," the assistant sheriff said. "I was there when she and her husband were arrested."
"You mean. Because of the pictures," I said.
"What pictures?"
The man then told me the story.
I never asked the "Doll Woman" why her friends and neighbors never learned the truth about her arrest and conviction. Perhaps she did not want anyone to know, for, loving America as she did, she did not want her final country to appear illogical, or wrong. It would be better, therefore, to invent the tale of the naughtly dolls in her pictures. Pornography, most people in her society felt, was wrong - a sin. Not something to be kept in someone's house. Wine, on the other hand, was the blood of our Lord.
The "Doll Woman" and her husband are now dead, having paid their debt to a society that needed to justify itself. They also paid me for my work in helping them become Americans. In my living room there's a small Chinese teakwood figure of Buddha which I had admired during to my visit to their house to fill their citizenship application. Before she died, the woman gave it to my mother to give to me. It's a "doll" I shall keep for as long as I live.
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THE TRANSLATED LANGUAGE
"Seio" is one of the Portuguese words for women's breasts. There are other synonyms, although I refer to this word only to prove my point. Most "coriscos", particularly those of my generation, or older, don't know it. Mention "seio" to them, and they'll think you're saying "seu" - a personal pronoun. Instead they just refer to the breasts as "maminhas", or, if they want to appear "sophisticasted" as "peito", which is actually the equivalent of the English "chest". To say, therefore, that they confuse "peito" with "seio" would be no exaggeration.
All of which leads me to an incident in which I was an involuntary part a few years ago.
A rather well-educated friend from São Miguel visited this country, spending most of his time along the Massachusetts and Rhode Island Coasts (Fall River, New Bedford, Cape Cod, Cape Ann, Newport, etc.). By coincidence, I was on vacation on Cape Cod at the time, staying at my sister-in-law's house. Frankly, at moments like that I'd rather take a beating than accompany my wife and my sister-in-law as they visit every specialty shop on the Cape, or every tea room in between. The result was that I called my friend and offered to take him sightseeing, which he heartily accepted.
While we were out, my friend told me that, if we stopped anywhere he'd like to display his English, not only to prove that he could communicate, but also to practice. I agreed and, no matter where we stopped, I let my friend take over. A bit after 1 p.m. I suggested that we have a quick meal, something to which my friend agreed. He even suggested American-style fried chicken, which he felt was superior to any he'd ever eaten in the Azores.
We found a Kentucky Fried Chicken place. I don't recall exactly what I ordered for myself. My friend did his own ordering. Obviously he wanted chicken breasts. At least that's what I assumed when I heard him order "a pair of chicken tits". |
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