Myself on the left and Kuwenderson Walk on the right.
Since I arrived in Newark, N.J. on 2nd October 1971, and established myself in the Ironbound, more precisely on Wilson Avenue corner with Barbara Street I had different sets of Brazilian friends. Rodrigo who was actually a Portuguese man who first migrated to Brazil probably in the late 1950s and arrived in the USA a week before myself, was my very first friend and turned out to be my room-mate as well. Soon after I moved in with Rodrigo, I made acquaintances with three Mineiros - young men from Minas Gerais - who shared the room next to ours.
I met a myriad of young Brazucas at Tia Eugênia's news-agency, or at a Brazilian coffee shop-cum-restaurant on the same side as Tia's on Ferry St. where there was a juke-box and I heard both Joan Baez's 'The night the drove Old Dixie down' and John Lennon's 'Imagine' for the first time ever. 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.
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 town near Jundiaí-SP.
Kuwenderson was a Brazuca from Bahia who was utterly different from everyone else. He had been a college student in Salvador and was highly politicized. He was into left-wing politics and I could not understand how on earth he was living in the USA, the Mecca of capitalism. Actually he was in the US because he had two brothers already established in the New York area who had helped him travel to the US and find jobs and accomodation. Kuwenderson was partially deaf so he had an extra burden in understanding the English language. He could read English all right but he hardly understood the spoken language which made him irritable most of the time.
I learned to appreciate Richard Wagner's music with Kuwenderson. He would play the 'Thannhäuser' overture and go into an ecstasy! It ended up becoming one of my favourite classical pieces.
Kuwenderson was a nice fellow but very judgemental, always emphasizing what I had done wrong. I didn't need anyone to tell me so. I knew I didn't do the right thing when I left the record factory, bought a one-way ticket to San Francisco where I couldn't find employment and had to come back to Newark penniless. Kuwenderson irked me exceedingly but I kept my cool for I could not antagonize the very few friends I still had left. He would buy me a meal or two until the money my Dad would send me arrived.
It was through Kuwenderson that I heard of Violeta Parra for the first time. Actually, he was living in Santigado, Chile when President Allende was overthrown and murdered on 11 September 1973. Nine-Eleven didn't start in 2001 in NYC but 28 years before in South America.
Kuwenderson would play this vinyl album constantly.
Kuwenderson lived at the Prudential Apartments aka Sing Sing too, on Fleming Avenue. So I started hanging around that tenement in the early summer of 1972. As I was out of work I had a lot of free time on my hands so I met a lot of Brazilian fellows who lived in the neighbourhood.
As soon as I got my work back I started sharing an apartment at the same Sing Sing with Nagib Luiz, a Brazilian fellow of Arab extraction I met at the record factory I went back to. Nagib and Guto shared the living room of an apartment rented by Nagib's cousin Leila, her husband and a baby. So, I finally was living at the infamous Sing Sing after all.
Coming back to Newark, from San Francisco
Late May 1972, when Carey & Paul left me off on Ferry Street near St Stephen's, in Newark, I took my step towards Tia Eugênia, in the early summer of 1972 without a penny in my pocket - not a penny to my name - you, Damazio Nazaré, were the first person I turned to for help.
You helped me a lot back then. I'd like to seize the chance to finally thank you after 30 years. I remember I was dying to work “anywhere possible”, but I arrived just at the time factories were going on collective vacation, so I had to hang around for four weeks until the factories started working again. I had no place to sleep and no money for meals. My Father (God rest his soul) even sent me US$300 dollars to “bail me over”. But before the money arrived, I had a really hard time. I slept at a different place every night.
I remember several of those “Sing Sing” young men, even though I don't remember their names. There was a fellow that went by the alias of “Cri-cri”(meaning 'tiresome') whose real name I forget. He was from Franco da Rocha, worked as a truck driver and saved every penny he earned. He had a dream of being the owner of a fleet of truck when he came back to Brazil.
There was another fellow from Franco da Rocha who was already in his thirties and had grey hair. A 30 year old man was was considered “old” by us, who were 22 or 23 years old. He also worked as a truck driver and was a little plump. He was well articulated, could lead a long conversation and hold the attention of the small crowd that lingered near the gate that led to Lexington Street, at early summer evenings. Brazucas tried to live up the summer evenings the most they could and only went into their flats in the Prudential Apartments when the dark finally descended. While I stood up in a circle of about 10 young Brazucas, this fellow kept on talking about his dreams of becoming rich. He said his Italian grandmother had taught him a recipe of marinated egg-plant she had brought from Italy when she migrated to Brazil. He intended to open a business to sell those delicacies and hit the good times. I wonder whatever happened to him...Whether he became rich no one knows.
In September 1972 (it’s late September and I really should be back at school...) I finally went back to work at the record factory on Francis Street. Hallelluya! It was so good to feel “safe & sound” again. This time I worked on the 2nd shift which started at 3:45 pm and ended at 11:45 pm. At the factory I felt I belonged, whereas in San Francisco, due to my poor knowledge of English, I felt devastated. Now I had a whole bunch of new fellow workers like a somewhat fat Cuban lady called Elena who was really easy going. We used to talk the whole time for we worked side-by-side most ot the times. As we talked mostly in Spanish I made large strides in the knowledge of Cervantes language.
The hot PVC paste was delivered by 2 Haitian Black guys. I became friends with one of them. The other one which seemed to be younger and was taller was somewhat wild. I was told he had the clap, slang for gonorrhea. There was a young Puertorican man who sported a pompadour hair was also deliverd PVC paste. He was Mike's younger brother who had a dark past. He had murdered a man in San Juan and had to be shipped out to the USA in order to evade the local police.
I also met new Brazucas working there: Divino and Nagib Luiz, both guys I ended up sharing a bedroom with.
I settled down in my job and decided I was going to work hard and save as much money I could to go back to Brazil and see my parents and siblings.
Why did “Cuíca” have that nickname? Have you ever played this instrument? His Amazonian wife was called Antonieta, but she liked being called “Toni”. She was brought to the USA when she was still quite young, probably before she was a teenager and must have gone to primary school in Newark. I hardly ever heard her speaking English but I knew she was almost like a native speaker. Her car radio was always on WABC and she hummed or sang along to almost all the Top 40s of the time. Lobo's “Don’t expect me to be your friend”, the follow-up to “I want you to want me” reminds me of Toni. I lived with them in a house they rented on East Ferry Street near the Ballentine beer factory. Cuica's brother Divino shared a bedroom with myself and the couple had the other one.
Divino was the oldest of three brothers: Cuíca and Tarciso, who worked at Kutscher's in Monticello, N.Y. He was tall, strong and bald. He was always complaining about life; he obviously had a chip on his shoulder I never knew why. Maybe he felt unlucky for not having achieved what both younger brothers had. They were both married with pregnant wives. Tarcíso worked as a bus-boy at Kutscher's in Monticello, N.Y., in the Catskills mountains, but I only met him and his crazy wife Geralda 2 years later, in July 1975, when I returned to the USA and eventually got a ride with them to the Catskills.
Divino delivered hot PVC paste at the record factory on Francis Street. When I was expelled from Sing Sing where I shared a living room with Guto & Nagibe who worked with me at the record factory, Divino said his brother had rented a house on East Ferry Street and was looking for an additional person to share the rent. I was glad to have a place of my own again after having been threatened by Nagibe's crazy aunt. One fine morning she stormed into the apartment shouting insults at me and threating to go to the Immigration Department to denounce me as an Illegal Alien and a drug fiend who had procured LSD for her dearest nephew. It was early Sunday morning and we were all still in bed. So I feigned I was sleeping and let the hurricane go by. But as soon as I got up, I knew I had to move away from such a dangerous bitch.
So I was more than glad when I moved in with Cuíca, Toni & Divino at that house on East Ferry Street. That would turn out to be my last abode in the USA for a while. It was close to work. I remember there was no proper bed in our room so I slept on some sleeping bag but I was content for having left that Nagibe's place at Sing Sing.
Antonieta’s mother had a couple of twins, a boy and a girl called Sonja, of pre-elementary school age, who spoke perfect English. I was enchanted by the children's ability to speak English, and how smart they were for their age. I think children of immigrant parents realize early on they have a sort of power over adults who don't speak the national language properly. Toni’s mother was weird to me. They all belonged to the Jehovah's Witnesses sect. Apparently, the old woman's husband was in the USA illegally. He was a sailor who worked in a Brazilian ship which often went back and forth to Manaus or Belém. I heard someone say her husband had “jumped ship” in New York harbour.
Speaking of “jumping ship”, I don’t know if you met a man from Pernambuco who was a cook in a Brazilian merchant navy ship that sank off the coast of Africa and ended up being taken to the US by an American ship. He arrived in New York without documents or money and was taken to the Brazilian Consulate, where he made friends with Brazucas who took him to live in Newark. That's how I met him. When I met him he was trying to get a Brazilian passport for months without success. Officials at the Brazilian Consulate at the Rockefeller Centre apparently didn't care for him. Once, frustrated with the bureaucratic delay, he went up to the 95th floor and threatened to throw himself off if the employees did not hand him his passport. He was always in trouble. He himself told me he had been arrested in New Jersey for the Police caught him pissing on a street corner which is illegal in the US. I don't remember his name, but we had an impromptu intimacy which was pleasant. He tried to get some action going but I wasn't willing.
Now, coming back to the record factory on Francis Street, on the night shift (we started at 11:45 pm and knocked off next day at 7:45 am) I remember Gus, who was our white American supervisor. Gus must have been in his late 30s and had blue eyes. He was known to us as 'foreman' (boss). I felt he was affable but was a man of few words. He knew most of us didn't speak any English so why bother with words? There was also an older white man with white hair who always wore a beanie; he was a kind of mechanic that was called when there was a problem with the machines.
I'd like to explain how a vinyl record is made. First, engineers cut the sound into a lacquer-coated disc using a specialized lathe, often applying a specific EQ curve (equalization) that cuts bass and boosts highs. The lacquer is coated in silver & nickel to create a "stamper"—a metal, reverse-image mold. All this process was done previously somewhere else.
The actual pressing is what we, machine operators, did. The stampers (side A & side B) are placed in a hydraulic press, which heats and compresses a piece of pre-heated PVC ( Polyvinyl chloride, a synthetic plastic polymer) into the final 7-inch record shape in about 45 seconds.
Synthetic Plastic Co. was the name of the company we worked for. The factory took a whole block on Francis Street in the Ironbound of Newark. It was an old factory. I was told by a fellow employee that during the World War II the factory was re-adapted to making guns and bullets for the US government. It must have been built early in the 20th century or maybe even late 19th century. The factory looked old and the machines looked even older. The machines we operated must have been bought 2nd hand from big corporations like RCA Victor or Columbia. We had to do all manually.
I think you met a Brazilian at the factory, who wanted to “pass as Portuguese”. I think he was originally from Guarulhos. It seems to me that he was from a Portuguese family, as he was light and 'well-built' but decidedly Brazilian... and as he was “coveting” a job in the construction industry, which was the “fiefdom” of the Portuguese, he lived “pulling the bag” of the 'Portugas' and was even “speaking with an accent from there” already. He was a good-looking boy, with a bit of blond hair. I remember he knew you. Do you know his name? This man must have “moved up in life” I think everyone seeks their own good, in whatever way they see fit. I don't judge anyone! On the other hand, there were many Brazilians who stumbled in life...many began to associate themselves with “evil elements” and got into drugs alone and from there, to rock bottom, it was just one step.
Continuing in our record factory, I don't know if you ever met a Brazilian who worked “morning shift”, like you. He was very blond, with blue eyes, he could easily pass for an American; But the boy spoke almost no English; I don’t remember his name, but it could very well be José-something, as it seems to me that he was called “Joe”. He lived in Paterson, NJ and I remember he said he had an American girlfriend who was going to find him a better job. His girlfriend must have fixed it, because one day he disappeared. Despite that, he was a really nice guy; he always talked to me upstairs in that locker room, where we all had our “lockers”; Sometimes they had to break into my locker because I had forgotten the padlock combination; the “shifts” ended up meeting in the “locker-room”; while I went home to sleep, the “morning people” began their 8-hour journey. Later I switched to the morning shift, ended up making a mistake by stopping work, and when I came back, in September 72, I went straight to the afternoon shift (it started at 3pm?) I stayed until early Spring 1973.
I was in Paterson a few times with a short Brazilian (the ladies’ man, mentioned above). Did you get to know there? It was north of Newark, in Passaic County and there was a bit of a Brazilian community there. In 1976, Bob Dylan released a song called “Hurricane” that talked about a black boxer named Hurricane falsely accused of a murder that took place in Paterson. So Paterson went from a simple “extra” to a “leading role” in pop music. This was the main track from the LP “Desire”, which was Dylan's best-selling album of his entire career. They said that Paterson was better than Newark, but currently, talking to Carlos, who is also a taxi driver in New Jersey, he told me that Paterson is “the dumps” and much worse than Newark. Go and understand! And I thought that there was ‘paradise’.
Damasio, if you have Internet access, go to mapquest.com and type in Newark, NJ and you will have a photo map of the city! This way you can have an exact idea of the places you are looking for. I also always go to the “WABC music radio” website, which is cheap. It seems like we go back to the 60s and 70s in a second. If v. If you have a chance, come in and tell me later. Well, dear friend, I'll stay here, waiting for your response in the near future. Don't feel obligated to write about the past. Only write if you feel like it. But regardless, please say “hello” so I know all is well with you, and that you received my missive. My e-address is: mcarlus@hotmail.com
Pieces out of chronological order in this text:
I noticed Newark has now completely de-industrialized. There are no more factories in that region. Brazilian men work in construction, women are cleaners etc. Industry no longer exists.
Tarciso was married to a woman who spoke very loudly called Geralda... I was even afraid of her. Tarciso had a “sleepy” face and his wife was a true “devil”...she was always pregnant and worked as a “chamber maid” at Kutchers. I ended up getting to know them better when I also went to work in the “mountains” in 1975, and Cuíca or Toni gave me a ride in their car. I went with a suitcase and gourd because I knew I was going to work as a dishwasher at Kutcher's too. Geralda went from Newark to Monticello, in Sullivan County...it seems to me that she had a child too.
At that time I barely spoke English, but I was always interested in learning. I remember that when I went from “night shift” to “morning shift” and met YOU I was positively impressed, because you knew more English than any Brazilian I had met up until that moment. I remember you told me that you had studied at Fisk Schools, which by an incredible coincidence of fate would be the first school I would teach at two years later (late 1973). I remember you talking about the Present Perfect, which I couldn't fully understand. In fact, between us, my English improved a lot after I started teaching, as I had to “work out” before going into class, for fear of making a mistake. I practically memorized those Present Perfect rules (12th lesson), since I couldn't “feel” it. It took me a while to “swallow” (or would it be assimilate?) the Present Perfect.
Badfinger's “No matter what” is the song that reminds me the most of you then, besides (logically) “If loving you is wrong I don't want to be right”, “Everything I own” and “Baby I'm a-want you” from Bread, and “I am woman”, which you said your teacher mentioned in the English course you saw. I did at that High School on Laffayette Street.
Speaking of music and records, do you remember that most Brazilians sent Columbia House coupons, which appeared in music magazines like 'Hit Parade', 'Song Hits' etc. receiving in the mail like 12 long-playings? People committed to buying another portion for a much higher price. The Brazilian woman only received the first shipment, which was very “fat” and never bought what she had committed to at the price of gold.
I got two of these shipments. I bought everything I wanted. That wonderful double “Chicago” (“Colour my world” & “Make me smile”), “CSN&Y”, Don McLean's 'American Pie' (the tender “Vincent” about Van Gogh), Carole King's “Tapestry”, which even at that time it had been the best-selling album in the world; an LP by Barbra Streisend where she sang & rocked “Mother” by John Lennon; a double by Joan Baez, where she sang “The night they drove Old Dixie down”; ‘Deja vu’ by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young; ‘Harvest’ by the wonderful Neil Young; lots of Bob Dylan; ‘Concert for Bangla Desh’ etc.
Remember that couple from Puertoriqueños who made “long-playing”? I only made 45 rpm singles! Did those who made LPs earn more? I think so, because we, who made singles, were “discriminated against”. The Puertoriqueña woman had long braids. Do you remember her? Do you remember those two Peruvian girls; one called Maria and the other looked like a little boy. They said they were lovers!
Speaking of Peruvians, I remember that there was one of them who was Japanese and was very nice person... I don't recall his name now, but I remember he used to hum George Harrison's “Something” and then sang the only bit he knew: “I don't know, I don't know”. He also sang along to “Where do I begin?” (“Love story Theme” with Andy Williams) and I liked Italian singer Nicola di Bari. Actually, he looked a bit like Nicola for he wore a pair of dark glasses too. He used to tell me Sergio Murilo (remember “Marcianita”?) was a big hit in Peru.
In the letter I sent to Brazilian Voice's letter section I mentioned Dentinho. Now I remember Dentinho's name was Luiz something. I was known as Carlos at the factory. Carlitos for the Hispanics. I think you didn’t get to know Dentinho, as he also worked the night shift whereas you worked the morning shift. Dentinho delivered vynil paste and was a funny little guy; he had a beard and mustache but very young; he must have been 18 or 19. Dentinho shared an apartment on the 2nd floor of a house on Wilson Avenue, next to Saint Stephen's church with Alfredo and G. (I'm not sure of his name), a tall, good-looking fellow with blue (or green) eyes, who had an old Mustang and seemed to be the leader of the pack. The three were from Franco da Rocha. By the way, Saint Stephen's church has now become all but “Brazilian”, as the Sunday services are held in Portuguese by a Brazilian Pastor.
One night I went by their house and they asked me to listen to some albums aka LPs I had bought at ‘Two Guys’, a department store on Broad Street. One of the albums was the sound track from the movie 'West Side Story', and the boys thought it was 'strange' that I liked that type of music, especially after hearing 'Tonight' with Marnie Nixon singing with a Puerto Rican accent. They laughed, and thought I was bizarre for having that taste. There was also a Donovan LP and a few others I can't remember at the moment.
On the Sunday afternoon “Dentinho” was arrested on the Pulaski Skyway, he had stopped by my place, a room I shared with a Portuguese man and 3 Brazucas above the aforementioned go-go bar and we went out for a “ride” in his car. After we drove around aimlessly for a while, he dropped me off at home. It was an autumn afternoon, just when we immigrants missed Brazil the most. Before going up to my room, I spent a little time with Dentinho, who inserted a quarter on the juke-box in the semi-deserted bar and listened to “Long ago tomorrow”, by B.J. Thomas. It was his favorite song then. It was the last time I saw him. Minutes later Dentinho drove back to the Pulaski Skyway where he was stopped by the cops for speeding; the “cops” wanted to see his documents; he took the police to his house; There they saw his passport with an expired visa. That was his undoing, the cops took him plus Alfredo and G. immediatly to prison. The whole thing was really sad because they were all nice fellows who wouldn't hurt a fly despite being technically “illegal immigrants”. It was the biggest buzz On Monday, at the record factory Synthetic Plastics Co. everyone talked about their sad plight. Dentinho wouldn't come back to work any longer... and neither Alfredo who worked there in the afternoon. They were deported to Brazil in December 1971.
Sometimes I think, had not Dentinho been detained by the police, my life would have taken a different path entirely. They were 3 young men I could have associated with instead of going on living on top of the go-go bar which was not exactly the best place to live and meet new people.
