Looking back at the time I first went to live in the USA on 2nd October 1971, I could say with certainty that the first 3 months - October, November & December 1971 - were the best of times. I guess I was mostly lucky in the first few weeks and months.
As you can see in the picture above, the 3 story building on the corner of Wilson Avenue & Barbara Street is almost the same as when I lived in a room on the 1st floor, in 1971. Rodrigo & I occupied the room on the right-hand side. There was a door which connected both rooms. This door was permanently shut but was eventually opened after we started a good relationship with the 3 Mineiro fellows who lived on the one on the left which had 2 windows; one looking onto Wilson Avenue (like ours) and the other looking onto Barbara Street. This particular room had a small kitchen with a fridge and a stove. Our room had none of that, but the fellows told us we could use their kitchen and fridge whenever we needed.
The first few days were really peaceful. Waking up on Sunday, 3rd October 1971, I immediately went out for I intended to take the bus to Manhattan. I descended Wilson Avenue and Ferry Street until I got to Penn Station where I waited for the bus to Manhattan to pass on Raymond Boulevard. I didn't know then I could take the PATH train and pay much less. I wanted so much to go back to Manhattan and as soon as the bus stopped at the
Port Authority Bus Terminal on 8th Ave with 41st Street I went out into the streets and felt the world belonged to me.
42nd Street with its ever-glowing lights beckoned me and I knew I was where I wanted to be. Myriads of cinema marquees on both sides of the street announced all sorts of movies. I didn't know then 42nd Street was way past its glory. It actually was going down the drain by degrees but I didn't know it. For me 42nd Street was just like that 2-page photo I had seen in illustrated magazine 'O Cruzeiro' in the late 1950s. I might bump into Yvonne De Carlo or Kim Novak if I was lucky enough. The irony of it all was that Yvonne De Carlo was starring in 'Follies', a major musical production at the Winter Garden Theatre at 1635 Broadway at West 50th Street. It had opened on 4 April 1971, and had been a hit since the first night. If only I had been bold enough to walk 6 streets north from W 42nd St. to W 50th St. I would have seen where Yvonne De Carlo sang 'I'm still here' every night. I actually had seen 'Follies' advertised on the side of the Newark bus but I was so overwhelmed by all that was happening to me I couldn't think straight.
I don't remember my exact steps but I guess I walked 42nd Street, crossed 7th Avenue which Paul Simon had written about in 'The boxer', kept on walking until I got to New York Public Library on 5th Avenue. I had the Empire State Building on my mind when I turned right and walked all the way to 34th Street. I looked up at the tallest building in the world which actually was not the tallest anymore but the 2nd tallest since the twin towers of the World Trade Center were built a few months back. I bought a ticket to go up to the top of the Empire State and stayed there a few minutes. I guess by this time I was feeling a little tired and longed to get on the Newark bus back to New Jersey. That was my 2nd day in the USA.
When I was back on Barbara Street I was really tired, entered my room and saw Rodrigo sitting at his bed darning his socks or writing a letter to his wife who had stayed back in São Paulo. I went to bed, got my little transistor radio my sister Sandra had given me as a part-way memento, turned it on and listened to hit songs on the radio. But even if I didn't have a radio I would have listened to music just the same for the go-go bar downstairs had a juke box that never stopped playing 'Maggie May' with Rod Stewart or 'Sweet city woman' by the Stampeders, a Canadian combo. I usually fell asleep listening to songs or news on WINS 1010, New York, a 24-hour news radio station. I once was told if one slept with the radio on, one would learn the language more quickly... but I guess I was terribly duped by such a nonsense.
Monday, 4 October 1971, would be my 3rd day in the USA. I knew in the back of my mind I had to find a job as fast as I could otherwise the sum of 800 dollars I had brought along would vanish in the blink of an eye. But before I started doing 'serious business' I felt an urgency to walk around and be acquainted with my surroundings. Just walking down Wilson Avenue and Ferry Street was a mini-adventure. Before one got to Tia Eugênia on 112 Ferry Street, one stopped at a small Brazilian coffee shop on the same side of Ferry St. where there was a juke-box. That's where one met guys mostly recently arrived from Brazil and those who knew where one could get employment. At this Brazilian place I heard both Joan Baez's 'The night they drove Old Dixie down' and John Lennon's 'Imagine' for the first time ever. It is curious how one can recall the first time one has ever heard a particular song. Later on in December I heard 'Happy Christmas (War is over)' with John & Yoko.
I found it funny how easily one made friends with Brazilians in Newark. People one wouldn't even bother to have a second look at in Brazil became instant friends in an American city. The simple fact of being from the same country made us all potential friends. I thought that was positive in a way. Before the week was done I was told about a job at a saw mill on South 11th Street, just off Springfield Avenue way past the Court House... far from the Ironbound where I lived. I followed instructions how to get a bus that would go up Springfield Avenue and ended up getting my first job in the USA.
I must have worked at Arnold Industries Inc. 5 days for when I was laid off after one week I was paid some amount of money... my very first wages in the U.S.A. I was supposed to saw timber that was part of a cabinet used as a sound box. I wasn't cut out to this sort of hazardous occupation. Mike the Italian man who had hired me, called me to a side at the end of the day and told me he was letting me go. He made a point of saying he liked me as a person but he would lose money if he kept me on the job. I guess Mike hired me because I could speak Italian, his native language, which was not common in that area inhabited mostly by African Americans and Spanish-speaking migrants. Mike was a funny type, sometimes he would shout 'Maria Putíssima' if something went wrong which proves Italians are either very religious or anti-religious to the hilt.
I kept on going to 42nd Street in Manhattan every Saturday. The second or third time I went to Manhattan I decided to invite Rodrigo to go along with me for I felt that even though he had arrived in the USA a week before myself, he had never visited Manhattan yet. Maybe that wasn't important to him, but even so I thought it would be nice to take him along for after all he could take some snap shots of myself there.
You see, Rodrigo was a typical migrant who only thought about work and money but so far had had none of those. He spent his days going down Ferry Street hoping to meet someone who would offer him a job at a factory. He was too old. Actually, he wasn't that old but he didn't have the right attitude; he behaved like an old man and wouldn't fit in among young Brazilians or Portuguese men of any age. Portuguese men knew by Rodrigo's accent he didn't belong among them... he had acquired the Brazilian 'curse'.
So we went down Wilson Avenue, then Ferry Street all the way to Penn Station where we would wait for the Manhattan bus under the railway station. I remember it used to cost about 2 dollars to Manhattan. After getting there we walked around Times Square and vicinities. I felt sort of proud to be able to show Manhattan to someone who had arrived a few days before myself in the US. As I had bought a small camera, I asked him to take photos of myself in that area. I think I took him to the top of the Empire State Building... there was not much more to do. I don't know whether Rodrigo was impressed with what he saw or not. He was a man of few words.
I regret having lost contact with Rodrigo for he was a nice person. I know he finally found employment as a cook at the kitchen of the very go-go bar owned by Alberto. The last time I saw him, in late 1972, Rodrigo was still working there and he seemed content with his lot. I don't know if he ever managed to bring his wife to New Jersey. I supposed he did for Rodrigo was a reliable type.
After living in Newark for some weeks I realized there were 4 different groups of Brazilians: Mineiros, Paulistas, Paraenses and 'others'. Among Paulistas there were 2 sub-groups: young men from Guarulhos and another lot from Franco da Rocha, a small city near Jundiaí-SP. I also started a friendship with the 3 Mineiros who lived next door: Giovanni aka Parente (relative) who liked to boast he had been a pilot at the Brazilian Army; a short fellow with a big moustache who was very friendly and always kept his car-keys in his hand... he seemed to be always on the verge of driving somewhere. He must've felt more secure knowing he had a place of his own inside his car. Actually, he took me to meet a few friends of his who lived in Passaic, N.J. on a Saturday morning. I wish I could remember his name. He must've be living in the USA for a few years... probably 2 years which meant he arrived there sometime in 1969. Even though he didn't have a record player he owned three 45 rpm singles: 'It don't come easy' by Ringo Starr which had been a hit in the summer of 1971; 'Lonely days' by the Bee Gees which charted in late 1970, early 1971 and especially 'Mr Bojangles' by the Nitty Gritty Band which had been given to him by his former American girl-friend who made a point of telling him what the song was about: a homeless old man and his dog who sang in fairs and minstrel shows throughout the South of the US.
I was living on top of this go-go bar for a few weeks when one night I went into the common bathroom and there was a plumber fixing up something in or around the sink. The handy man started talking about his work with someone who was with him and even though he spoke a foreign language other than English I could not pinpoint exactly what it was. I could understand some words but it was not Spanish. Then I thought it might be French, but it was not. After a few minutes I gave up and someone said he was speaking the Portuguese spoken in the Azores Islands. I was flabbergasted by the experience. I could never believe Portuguese could be spoken in such a way I could not understand its meaning.
After a few weeks I started working at the vynil disc factory I had enough money to pay 16 dollars a week for the room I shared with Rodrigo, and had 90 dollar left for me to do whatever I wanted. I went out to Two Guys on Broad Street and bought me a stereo record player. That's when Maurício brought his 45 rpms out of the drawer. Suddenly, a lot of guys started popping up our bedroom to talk or listen to record playing. Giovanni Fiuza showed up with Arthur, a Portuguese young man who still lived with his parents in a house on Wilson Avenue between Barbara St. & Komorn St.
Arthur was born in the USA and spoke perfect English, something not common around that area. He worked as a clerk at the office of record factory on Francis Street. He had a lot of rock albums he got through Columbia House which was a buyers' club which advertised massively on rock or lyrics magazines. Hearing about my new record player he brought some of his albums along up to our place. Arthur was outspoken, I mean when he spoke his breed of Portuguese everyone listened... and when saying titles of songs or names of bands such Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young or Elton John, his English was impressive to our ears. The very first time I heard he say 'Elton John' I though he meant Tom Jones, for I had no idea who Elton could be.
So, ever since I started playing records our room was a magnet for Brazilian fellows who had worked a full day and wanted a little relaxation at twilight time. So every evening after 6:00 pm someone showed up and hung around for a couple of hours until 11:30 pm when it was time for me to leave for work at the factory.
There was a particular Brazilian man who stands out from the all those who showed up at our bedroom which doubled as a living room. I never knew his name; he was addressed as Gaucho, which meant he was from Rio Grande do Sul, the southern most state in Brazil. I couldn't tell his age but I guess he must have been in his mid to late forties. He was a light skinned Black man; he wore glasses, a very likable type. Gaucho would sit down at one of our beds and enjoyed telling us how he arrived in the USA to start a new life at forty-something. From what I understood he had been living in the Ironbound for 2 or 3 years and was looking forward to finally going back to Brazil before Christmas 1971. He played the 'old wise man' for the rest of us who ranged from 22 (myself) and 30. He used to look at us with a smile on his face and say he wished he had arrived in the USA when he was in his 20s. I wished I had arrived in the US when I was a child.
Gaucho's piece of resistance was telling his adventures on arriving at JFK in the middle of a biting winter. With no English whatsoever he realized he was into deep shit when he stepped out of the airport with no one soul waiting for him. He needed badly to go to the toilet but didn't know how to express that in English. Poor fellow...if he had only looked hard enough he would have spotted a Spanish speaking person somewhere but he didn't know that. I don't know how he ended up getting to New Jersey. He almost froze to death in his Brazilian clothes and shoes. Nobody told him about snow and ice. He was eventually picked up by a mate of his but that was in late afternoon only. Gaucho would go through all his suffering with delight and imitated how he would contort his legs to ease the pain of retaining urine. The worse he felt the funnier the story became. Everyone thought it was hilarious. Gaucho was a good story teller. He kept everyone entertained but he was never overbearing or vulgar.
Gaucho also told us he worked at a place (factory or something) where there was a Blackman who looked at him and said: 'Uó méri iú?' which meant 'What's the matter with you?' I supposed Gaucho must have stared at his workmate and smiled to be friendly. But Anglos, Black people included, don't understand how someone can smile at another with no reason at all. So the Blackman asked him what the matter with him was but Gaucho not having understood the question made the farce more bizarre by the minute. Gaucho wanted to know what 'mériu' meant. Everything was a reason for Gaucho to laugh. I never heard of him after that. I hope Gaucho had a happy ending when he finally arrived back in Porto Alegre on Christmas day in 1971.
Friday, 18 November 1971, near twilight time, I was at Mineiros' place cooking something at their kitchen. Their room had 2 windows as previously mentioned, one looking onto Wilson Avenue and the other onto Barbara Street. Everyone was talking but suddenly they all stopped. I kept doing whatever I was doing and then I realized they were all looking outside the window. When I looked out I had the shock of my life... snow was falling steadily. I was flabbergasted and the boys all started laughing. They knew there was supposed to be a fall of snow that evening but kept mum about it. They wanted to see my reaction to seeing snow for the first time. They must have been pleased with my reaction. After the surprise I went on doing whatever and forgot about it. One hour later I realized there was a total silence, unusual for Wilson Avenue was a fairly busy street including a bus route. There was enough snow on the ground to muffle the noise caused by cars and busses. That was my first impression of snow: silence reigned supreme! I thought I liked it.
At 11:30, we left to go to work...and it was a lot of fun walking on a white carpet of snow. Everything was so beautiful. When we left the factory in the morning I couldn't believe how beautiful the streets of the Ironbound were...
Around that time, Alberto, the landlord decided to have yet another Brazilian man share our room. He was acquainted with the other fellows and everyone called him 'Guinho' which was his nickname. For some reason I thought his name was Huguinho, so I started calling him so. He had blondish hair a little longer than usual but I could see he was starting to getting bald which made him 29 or 30 years old. Probably the same age as Giovanni but very different from the Mineiros. Guinho was originally from Santo André, an industrial city in the Greater São Paulo and he seemed to be a man of the world. He wore boots made of snake leather and I thought he was slightly irked with me for calling him Huguinho. When Guinho saw i was listening to a Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits he told me about Chicago, a rock brass band I had never heard of before. Somehow Chicago's second album showed up and I fell in love immediately with 'Wake up sunshine' and the whole medley starting with 'Make me smile' and peaking with 'Colour my world'. Guinho also brought along a Grand Funk album called 'Survival' which featured the Rolling Stones' 'Gimme shelter' which I used to listen to when it was released in late 1969. I didn't like Grand Funk's rendition but I didn't say a word.
That's when marijuana showed up at our place. Not only dope but an older fellow everyone called Carlinhos Boca-Mucha (Charley withered-mouth), for he had no teeth left in his mouth. I didn't know then but Carlinhos worked for Alberto, the landlord. He supervised a house-turned-into-a-boarding-house down on Barbara Street where mostly migrants shared rooms with other workers. When Carlinhos first turned up at our place I couldn't figure him out. He was older than most of us but differently to Rodrigo who was older too, he had long spiked hair and spoke in a way Brazilians call 'malandro' which I guess translates as pimp.
Around this time, January 1972, when Gaucho had already parted to Brazil, Guinho was sharing our room, and Carlinhos was the new kid in town, marijuana was introduced in our midst. I don't know exactly who brought it in but looking back it's not difficult to think of Carlinhos. I had already smoked dope in São Paulo a few times, so it wasn't really new to me, but it was the wrong move at that time. Nobody smoked dope there, and the Mineiros weren't very pleased with it. After that, things took on a life of its own and I was persuaded to move to that house on Barbara Street.
The only visible improvement would be to have access to a collective kitchen with stove and fridge. I who had so far lived on the 2nd floor of a 3 story-house at the intersection of 2 streets, having 3 windows that looked onto Wilson Avenue moved into a small room for two with no windows that led to a dismal corridor. Things were rapidly getting out of my control.
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