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Bridge over Passaic River linking Newark to Harrison and Kearny. .jpg)
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Newark & Harrison.
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Corner of Barbara Street and Wilson Avenue. where I first lived when I moved into the States in 1971.
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Kearny, NJ. in 1973; Rob Douglaston wrote at Facebook: KEARNY, NJ had many side streets with steep hills like this view from 1973 off Wilson Avenue corner with Davis Avenue; Schuyler Avenue is at the bottom of the hill. The new World Trade Center towers looms in the distance.
Amanda Kinsella wrote: I used to live in the gray building on the right. This is definitely Wilson & Davis Ave intersection, with Big Nick’s on the left! The entrance to the bar is no longer there. I believe it's all just apartments now.
Tony Pampin wrote: And that green truck belongs to the Board of Education or used to when I went out to Kearney High; that truck used to move around tables, chairs & all equipment.
Background of my visits to the USA 1971 - 1975 - 1989 - 2000 & 2001
After I left the USA in late 1976, my life took a different turn. At first I intended my Brazilian stay to be short but it ended up lasting 5 years until, finally, I migrated to Sydney, Australia in September 1981. After living in Oz for most of the 1980s, and having got my permanent residency papers sorted out, I bought myself a round-the-world ticket from Aerolineas Argentinas-KLM.
First I visited my family in São Paulo, staying with them for 5 months, then I flew over to NYC in the late spring of 1989, but spent only a few days there, contrary to my original intention. I had planned to stay in the USA for the summer. I intended to visit the Catskills and maybe find a job at the Nevele Country Club in Ellenville, N.Y., make a little money and continue flying to Europe where I had a few capital cities to visit. It didn't turn out that way so before the week was done I left Newark, N.J., went to JFK, jumped back into a KLM jet and flew to Amsterdam, Rome, London and back to Sydney before the Northern summer was over.
The 1990s flew by like a speeding bullet. By December 1998, I was back in Brazil to stay. Then, for some unexpected reason I flew back to Sydney in mid-April 2000, but stayed there only about 6 weeks. At 51 years old, instead of flying back straight to São Paulo I decided to go down Memory Lane and fly to the USA on my way back to Brazil.
I bought a ticket from Japan Airlines that would take me to Tokyo's Narita Airport, stay there overnight and fly Tokyo-New York City non-stop, the following day. As soon as I got to JFK, I took a bus to Manhattan and from there the PATH train on the 33rd St. Station to Newark, N.J., the place I felt I was home.
Eleven years later
When I arrived in Newark, on a Sunday, 28 May 2000, I left my luggage at Newark's Penn Station's luggage storage and went out on Ferry Street and vicinities to suss out the area after so many years' absence and see if I'd meet any Brazilian bloke I could ask about accomodation.
Newark hadn't changed much in 30 years. Especially the Ironbound section seemed mostly the same. Brazilians were everywhere. Going into Seabra, a big supermarket on Lafayette Street which caters for Brazilians, Portuguese and Latin Americans in general, I heard them talk among themselves and realized there were lots of people from Paraná and Rio Grande do Sul and especially a lot of Brazilian women which were almost non-existent in the 1970s.
'Tia' Eugênia was the person I missed most in 2000 Newark. Her newsagency on 112 Ferry Street was no more.
Soon I noticed there were several evangelical churches which catered for the Brazilian community with worships in Portuguese, which was unheard of in the 1970s. I went into several Brazilian stores to see if anyone could give me any tips on how to find accommodation, but I was treated coldly by most of the shop keepers which was very different from the 1970s where people showed a little more solidarity to their counterparts. Nobody was forthcoming with information. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I continued walking along Ferry Street.
Suddenly, a young man standing on a corner, handed me a leaflet in Portuguese inviting people to worship at a certain church. I took the flyer and we started talking. Apparently, he was a newly convert to the evangelical faith. I told him I had just arrived from overseas and he tried to help me somehow. He took me to some houses he knew Brazilian lodgers lived in, but there seemed to be no vacancies anywhere. In the meantime, he gave me some tips on how not to fall into bad company and enter the world of drugs. It must have been the drama of his life until he found refuge in his church. If he only knew I was long past that stage in life.
Even with the help of the evangelical young fellow, I ended up not finding accommodation in any of the places I was recommended. I was already thinking about going back to Manhattan when I hit the jackpot.
I entered an imports-outlet called 'Vem Q Tem', on Merchant Street, the same street where the Ironbound Post Office used to be in the 1970s. The guy at the counter, a Brazilian bloke called Carlos was very friendly and soon we were talking to each other like there was no tomorrow. We became friends almost instantly. He eventually told me he was born in São Paulo, in 1959, therefore 10 years younger than myself. He'd arrived in the USA in 1979, eight years after my first trip.
By the time Carlos shut the store for the Sunday, I had told him the story of my life and he had told me his. I went with him past the place he lived on Polk Street and over to a 3-story house on New York Avenue where Nelly, a Chilean lady he knew lived. He spoke to Nelly (real name: Rubmela) and she immediately rented me a room next to hers and her boyfriend Gordon, who she called ‘Gordo’. I was happy to be back in the heart of the Ironbound, a section of Newark I spent an important part of my youth in the 1970s.
There was a small Public Library on Van Buren St. I used to go in to use their computer. They had few computers and I was told if I went to the Newark's Public Library on Broad Street I would have a better chance and that's what I did. I started walking downtown and visit the Public Library every morning. When I first lived in Newark I hardly ever went downtown except to shop at Two Guys and sometimes to the movies when I didn't want to take the train to Manhattan.
I also made a point of going places I had never been like walking up Wilson Avenue past the Go-go Bar on Barbara Street, where I had lived in the latter part of 1971. Believe it or not, I had never been to the Newark International Airport except once, in April 1972, when I flew over to San Francisco. I must have taken a cab from the Ironbound to get there.
I turned right from Ferry Street into Jackson Street and walked crossed the bridge over the Passaic River to Harrison-Kerney, N.J. I even made a point of getting as far as the Harrison PATH station and got onto the train bound to 33rd Street in Manhattan.
I felt a funny feeling in my gut when I saw the train arriving in Harrison from Newark. It reminded me of the times I and Damazio used to take that same train in February 1972 to go to 9th Street to take an English course at New York University. Then the ground was covered with snow though.
Path train leaves Newark Penn Station. See both Gateway 1 & Gateway 2 buildings on the background.
Path train arrives in Harrison on its way to the World Trade Center station.
São Paulo, 11 August 2002.
Dear Damazio
Long time no see! I'd like to tell you about my latest escapades. I was in Sydney in April-May 2000, and decided to fly Japan Airlines to São Paulo with a stopover in Tokyo then all the way non-stop to New York City where I intended to go down Memory Lane and reminisce about all those years ago.
I hope you and your family are doing well. While in Newark, I wrote a letter to a Brazilian monthly paper called 'Brazilian Voice' (any resemblance to 'Village Voice' is not purely coincidental) telling about how it used to feel to be an Illegal Immigrant in the USA, in the early 1970s. I mentioned Dentinho's sad story of being caught speeding at the Pulaski Skyway and subsequent deportation back to Brazil. I'm sending you a copy of the letter they printed in their May-June 2000 edition. I tried to compare what I lived in 1971-1972-1973 with today, the Northern Summer of 2001.
From mid-to-late May and mid-June 2000, I ended up sub-letting a room within the apartment of a Chilean lady called Nelly, née Rubmela, who was 82 years old and lived with a much younger American man called Gordon. She & Gordo (that's how she called him) used only the front bedroom and the kitchen in the back. Gordo works night shift as a security guard in some industrial plant.
Nelly was retired and made a little money for herself renting a large apartment, then partitioned it in various 'sections' she sub-let to single Latin American single men. Such arrangement was on the 2nd floor of a 3-story house, on New York Avenue next to the Independence County Park, Brazilians used to call Mosquito Park. I remember you taking me there once in 1972 and calling it Parque dos Mosquitos.
Nelly learned this business in Alaska, during the 70s & 80s, when she did the same allotments with large houses and catered to mostly Latin American men who worked in the oil industry during its boom.
During my stay in Newark, there was a great event in the Ironbound. Saturday, 10 and Sunday, 11 June 2000, there was a huge fair called Portugal Day with lots of food, music and amusement. Actually it was their 21st edition which means the 1st such a fair was done in 1979. They closed off Ferry Street and some side-streets going all the way down to Penn Station, set their stands & stalls waiting for the 300,000 visitors who visited it in search of fun.
I was surprised by the great numbers of Portuguese nationals there...it seemed like double or triple the amount of those in the 1970s. The Portuguese are more affluent too. Even TAP (Transportes Aéreos Portugueses) has got a state-of-the-art dark-glassed building next to Penn Station. Remember that railway that crossed over Ferry Street between Prospect St and Congress St? They've built a Portuguese restaurant with a huge parking lot called Iberia Park.
I've noticed Puertoriqueños have vanished from the Ironbound having been superseded by a lot of people from Ecuador. They own a lot of small business, like an international-phone exchange on Ferry Street near Saint Stephen's and the largest taxicab fleet in the region.
Brazucas abound! Probably 4 (or more) times greater than the number we used to know in the early 1970s. There is a lot of small business owned by Brazilians which cater exclusively for them. Brazilian stores that provide VHS cartridges containing chapters of the latest tele-novela made by TV Globo in Rio. 'Programa do Ratinho' beamed by SBT is also a favourite of the masses. Brazucas have a fetish for Brazilian pain-killers and birth-control pills. It seems they believe the brand from the old country is superior to the American counter-part.
In addition to the greater number of “Portugas” (derogative form of Portuguese used by low-class Brazilians) the number of 'Brazucas' also tripled or quadrupled. There are multiple Brazilian stores that sell everything; from VHS tapes of SBT’s “Programa do Ratinho” to guava jam (goiabada) made by Cica and things like that. One can find almost anything from Brazil there. On Adams Street there is a mini shopping-mall where the majority of stores are owned by Brazilians; hairdressers, accounting agents who send dollars to Brazil, travel agents etc. In this mall you will see dozens of Brazilian bumpkins (matutos) chatting about Atlético or Cruzeiro; how to work in constructions, how to get a fake Social Security card which costs between 50 and 60 dollars etc.
If you still have your Social Security card, keep it, as it is currently nearly impossible to get a real one unless one is a permanent resident. Fake numbers are everywhere. They invent a number, print a fake SS card on home computers. Employers usually accept it. Banks don't accept it, so it's difficult to open a bank account, which leads to bizarre facts. I went to interpret for a Brazuca in Plymouth-MA and noticed he was carrying a wallet stuffed with 50 and 100-dollar bills. I asked him why he carried so much money. He said he didn't have a bank account and he didn't trust leaving money at home. He was a “walking bank”.
The Social Security Department itself accepts contributions sent by the employer using fake numbers. Once a year the Department sends a letter warning the taxpayer to check if the number is correct, but they never send any money back. In other words, everyone pretends they don't know anything about it so America keeps getting richer and no one asks questions!
Getting a driver's license without a real SS card is mission: impossible. A fake green card is also easy to get. I paid $170 for mine, but I ended up using it only once. I used my old Social Security and got myself a provisional driver's license in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts; that's the official name of the State of Massachusetts.
Having a real Social Security card is a status symbol among Brazucas. Even if you have lost the document but remember the number, the SS counts. I lost my original SS card long ago and so I tried to get me a duplicate. I went to the Newark Federal Building on Broad Street. Remember we used to dread getting near this building for it was the place illegal immigrants were taken to when arrested by the Police? An employee there insisted on seeing my Green Card; I had taken my Australian passport in case I needed to identify myself. As she insisted a lot, I ended up showing my passport. She checked the type of visa I had, and said it was not suitable for working. Note that I already had my SS card. I just wanted a duplicate, with the same number, as they changed the layout. But faced with so much difficulty, I decided not to insist any further, I said ‘Thank you’, and I slipped away.
Entering any federal building after the Oklahoma City Federal Building was blown up in 1996, is a true war operation. You have to go through metal detectors; sometimes being searched by policemen 'in the flesh”, etc. And this was all before what the Yankees call 9/11 (September, 11th, 2001. Imagine now what paranoia it must be like.
It is also interesting to note that just at this very summer of 2000, I went to the World Trade Center with Carlos Oliveira, a Brazilian shop-keeper & taxi driver I became friends with. He needed a license to import “trinkets” from Brazil so he could open a “Brazilian store” in Newark. We went to one of the Twin Towers, where the New York-New Jersey Port Authority, which actually owns the WTC towers and ground. Many New Jersey municipalities make their offices in the towers.
I took some photos of Newark I'd like to show you when we have a chance to meet. In fact, if you went there tomorrow, I think you wouldn't find much of a difference in the city from those early 1970s.
Pathmark moved from Wilson Avenue - where one entered it from a side street - to Ferry Street, passing Saint Stephen's Lutheran Church in the direction of the New Jersey Turnpike. They tore down two blocks of houses there, building a huge Pathmark within a mall with a kind of a plaza that takes Niagara St., Wescot St. and Fillmore St., where you'll find the Ironbound Post Office, laundries etc.
Otherwise, almost everything remains the same. The PATH train (Port Authority Trans-Hudson) is still the same; with trains, which I believe are the same ones we took to go to New York University on Saturday mornings to take that English course, remember? Those trains are over 20 years old. Of course, the PATH no longer goes to downtown Manhattan, as the WTC station no longer exists by the work and grace of Allah. But it still goes to midtown-Manhattan, stopping first in Harrison, Jersey City (Journal Square), Hoboken (where Frank Sinatra was born), Christopher Street , in the Village, 14th, 23rd, 28th and finally 33rd Street.
I found the Brazilian Press there very interesting, as there are many publications that did not exist then. In Newark alone there are two weeklies. There's another one in Flamingham, Massachusetts, and probably others. Most of them are weekly tabloid newspapers. They are regularly distributed free of charge in Brazilian-owned stores, which end up being meeting centers for Brazilians. You can also find them in beauty salons, travel agencies, grocery stores, bars etc.
I found the intellectual level of Brazucas in general to be much worse than in the 1970s. Actually there is a lot of variety among Brazucas. I saw some Gauchos at the Newark Public Library using the Internet; but the most are semi-illiterate people, who come from all over Brazil. I noticed there is a lot of guys from Paraná.
I figured the 1970s was a much better time to live than the 2000s. Brazucas then spoke little English, but now it's even worse. In 1972, one didn't have TV Globo Cable at home so one had to watch US TV or go to sleep. Now there are VCRs (video-cassette recorder) which families can play when they're not watching Globo. They usually watch sermons from local evangelical pastors or pre-recorded TV shows sent over from Brazil. There is a great number of evangelical churches, reflecting what happens in Brazil. If at that time it was difficult for Brazucas to learn English, now it is almost impossible.
Radio WABC AM reigned supreme back in the early 1970s. US radio stations now are nowhere to be heard. Top-40 radio stations are all gone. The market has been segmented, which is rappers listen to rap radio; Latinos listen to Latino stations; teeny boppers listen to their radio stations etc.
2000's Newark, at times, seemed to me as if it were a middle class neighborhood in some large Brazilian city, except that the young guys cruising down Ferry Street drive “imported cars”, with their stereos blasting Chitãozinho & Chororó or some Pagode group. I even heard Racionais MC’s on the streets of the Ironbound. Sertanejos and pagode combos are known to tour the US and perform live in clubs or stadiums. Brazucas have enough money to pay for the tours of Chitãozinho, Daniel, Zé Camargo & Luciano. Very differently from the 1970s when we listened to John Lennon, Badfinger, Al Green, Roberta Flack, Chicago and even Spanish salsa groups.
In the short time I stayed in Newark, in 2000, I had the chance to witness the drug problem among Brazucas is much worse than in the 1970s. Heroin rules the scene among many migrants. In the winter of 2000, I lived in a room in a cellar that was nothing more than a “tenement” that reminded me another tenement I lived in in the winter of 1971. There was a knife fight between a Capixaba man and a man from Lisbon. They told me the issue was about heroin. Many migrant young men work all week to throw their entire week's salary onto the hands of smack pushers.
I went down “Memory Lane” strolling along streets which led to the old Francis Street Record Factory. The factory no longer exists, but the building is there almost identically. It gave me a shiver down my spine looking at that particular street. For a second it seemed the factory was up and running, churning vynil paste, which ended up on our heated metal tables, for us, machine operators to cut it in smaller pieces and place them on waiting heated plates which would press them into thousands of 45 r.p.m. discs. I could even hear the voice of Puertorriqueño Mike saying: “Como le gusta? Do you like it fat and wide?”.
It seemed like I could see Anna, that Black lady who made plastic ashtrays during the night shift, whose husband came to pick her up in the morning with a Lincoln Continental.
Remember that Puertoriqueño couple who manufactured long-plays? I wonder whether those who manufacture 12" long-playing records earned more than we who only made 7" discs. The Puertoriqueña woman sported two long braids. There were also those two Peruvian girls who were inseparable; one was called Maria and was sweet looking; the other looked and behaved like boy. They definitely were an item.
I used to be friends with a Peruvian fellow of Japanese extraction called Alejandro. He was mild mannered, wore dark glasses and was fond of easy-listening music. He always hummed George Harrison's “Something” but could only sing the part that went: “I don't know, I don't know”. Alejandro was also fond of Andy Williams' 'Love Story' theme called "Where do I begin?”. Whenever we worked side-by-side we talked most of the time. He used to tell me stories about Peru and once said that Brazilian singer Sergio Murilo who had a huge hit with 'Marcianita', in 1960, was very popular in Peru. Alejandro was a fan of Italian singer Nicola di Bari... and coincidentally or not he looked like Nicola. Both wore the same type of glasses.
In the letter I sent to “Brazilian Voice” I mentioned Dentinho and his plight. Before I go, I'd like to ask you whether you have any idea why so many young men from Guarulhos and Franco da Rocha migrated to the USA in the late 1960s and early 1970s. That's a mystery to be solved.
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Passaic River with bridges crossing from Newark to Kearny, N.J.
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The Lincoln Highway Bridge between Newark and South Kearney. I do remember seeing the Stickel Bridge open for marine traffic on the Passaic River, which was very busy at one time. Route 280 was a short highway then linking Harrison and Newark.
Ed Riveiro wrote: that's Newark to the right of the image, and South Kearney to the left. That's the Doremus Avenue RR swing bridge in the background, and behind it is the Newark Bay Extension of the New Jersey Turnpike.
Letter to Damazio telling my sojourn in Newark, in 2000.
This is part of a letter I sent Damazio Nazaré, circa 2002, telling him about my stay in Newark in 2000 and 2001.
I was in Paterson a few times in 1971, with a Brazilian fellow I used to share accomodation, the ladies’ man I mentioned above. It is north of Newark, in Passaic County and there was a small Brazilian community there. In 1976, Bob Dylan released a song called “Hurricane” which told the story of a black boxer named Hurricane, falsely accused of a murder that took place in Paterson. This was the main track “Desire”, Dylan's best-selling album ever. The few Brazilian young men I met then said Paterson was better than Newark, but currently, talking to Carlos, who is also a taxi driver in New Jersey, told me that Paterson is “the dumps” and much worse than Newark.
There were several evangelical groups wherever there was a Brazilian community. In the summer of 2000, as soon as I arrived in Newark from Australia, I didn't know what to do. I went to several Brazilian stores to see if I could ge information on how to find accommodation, but I was treated coldly by every Brazilian I met on the streets of the Ironbound. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I kept walking along Ferry Street with my backpack on my back. Suddenly a young Brazilian man, standing on a corner, gave me an evangelical pamphlet in Portuguese and we started talking. I told him I had just arrived and needed some accomodation badly. He was friendly and ready to help me. He actually took me to some Portuguese or Hispanic guesthouses but there were no vacancies. He felt sorry he wasn't much of a help to me. and warned me to keep my eyes open and not fall into the trap of bad company and enter the world of drugs. It must have been the drama of his life until he found refuge in an evangelical Church. If only he knew I had already been there and done that
Dejected about not finding living quarters, I was on the verge of going back to Manhattan when I hit the jackpot. I entered a Brazilian store called “Vem Q Tem”, on Merchant Street, just off Ferry Street, close to St. Stephen's, talked to a Brazilian shop-assistant at the counter and miraculously I ended up making friends with him. Carlos was his name. He was very friendly and forthcoming. I thought he'd be my age but he told me he had been born in 1959, which made him 10 years younger than myself. Carlos was born in Penha, an eastern suburb of São Paulo and migrated to the US in 1979, when he was 20 years old. He had lived in Newark first, and moved to Florida after a few years where he became a taxi driver. When his two kids were about to become adults Carlos divorced his wife and came back north to Newark, and kept on working as a taxi driver.
As the twilight approached, the end of another business Sunday, Carlos shut the store and we went out together. Carlos intended to find me accomodation near where he lived so he took me to 2-story house on New York Avenue. He spoke to Nelly, real name: Rubmela, an old Chilean woman, and she immediately agreed to sub-let me a room next to hers and her boyfriend Gordon, who she called ‘Gordo’. I was really happy to be back in the heart of the Ironboud, a place in which I had been very happy at the height of my youth. I still think we did the right thing when we decided to migrate to a foreign country, especially the USA in our youth.
I hardly believed my luck when I finally went to sleep on that Sunday night. I hadn't slept on a real bed for many days since I had flown out of Sydney, to Tokyo and then a non-stop flight to New York City. I was happy to be in the Ironbound again after all those years.
As soon as Monday came, I got up, went out and walked down Ferry Street again just like I had done 29 years before. It was so good to be back there in 2000. I walked down New York Avenue every day with a smile on my lips. I found out about Newark's Public Library branch on 140 Van Buren Street and started using their public computer. They had only two of them, so after a few enquiries I realized I could use the much bigger facilities of the Main Library on 5 Washington Street, opposite the Military Park where they had many computers available and one didn't have to wait in a queue to use them.
I made a habit of walking all the way to the Newark Public Library, almost every day. Sometimes I stopped at Pennsylvania Railroad station, took a PATH train to Manhattan, where I walked until I dropped. Just like the 1925 Rodgers & Hart song I was able to turn Manhattan into an isle of joy. New York City always fascinated me, and I enjoyed myself exceedingly during the several weeks of the summer of 2000 I spent there. My great disappointment was to find 42nd Street completely transformed. My heart ached when I realized Neo-Liberalism had destroyed the place we loved so much in the 70s.
I intended to stay in Newark for as long as I could, but after a few weeks I had to return to São Paulo, as my mother wasn't feeling well, but thank God, it was just a scare and she turned out to be fine.
After returning to São Paulo, I found out that Marcello Tomazelli, a friend of mine, who coincidentally is from Guarulhos, had moved to the United States and settled in Plymouth, Massachusetts. He called me one day and said he had a job waiting for me there. He wanted me to get on a plane immediately. I didn't think twice, even though it was already October. You know how Autumn-Winter feels like hell there. From New York I took a 4-hour bus trip to Boston. From there I took a train heading south to Plymouth, which takes 1 hour. Plymouth is an an old town on the coast, close to what they call Cape Cod. Plymouth is the oldest city in the United States; It was where the ship Mayflower landed in 1622.
Since I met a Brazilian fellow in Newark who had escaped from the Boston imigration police in the winter of 1972, I wanted to visit Massachusets for he spoke highly of that place. In fact MA is where the salary is the highest; much better than NY and NJ. I ended up going to work at a local Kmart, as a night “re-stocker”. That's when I met the new generation of Brazucas, as I worked with about 20 of them. I was shocked by the much lower cultural level of most of them compared with Brazucas from the 1970s, which actually was not that good either. I believe things only got worse with Brazilians in general. I guess it comes down to the fact that since the Military took power in Brazil in 1964 things only went downhill.
I could have stayed there and support myself, for I noticed there was a great demand for teachers of English-as-a-foreign language in the Brazilian community, which is pretty large in any medium-sized American city. Brazilians have spread out going to live in places like Atlanta, Georgia and everywhere in Florida. I was told by some of my co-workers at the Kmart they usually paid between 10 and 15 dollars for an-hour class of English. I actually gave an one-hour class to three girls which I charged 10 dollar each student. They seemed to have been content with my teaching of English-as-a-foreign language. I certainly know all the pitfalls for a Latin migrant student trying to cope with this 'devil' which is a Germanic language. Had I stayed I could have easily assembled a group of 5 or so Brazilians and make 50 dollars an-hour. One can easily make a living teaching English there. Brazilians don't know their own language. I spent more time explaining the Portuguese language itself than English. People have no idea what a language is. They speak the language automatically. They have never stopped to think about syntax, morphology etc. I don't mean the nomenclature which is not important, but the concept itself.
I found that most of Brazucas were friendly people who were exploited on all sides. Most had entered the USA illegally through the Mexico frontier. Most paid US$10,000 (ten thousand dollars) for this operation and had to work two or more years to pay off the loans they took to pay the 'coyotes' and their henchmen. I felt sorry for them. They told stories of people who paid the coyotes but were left to starve in the great desert which is the region between Mexico & the US. Many died of thirst & hunger; others were wounded by bullets. Countless died during the crossing. I heard many hair-raising stories.
I worked at this Kmart up to 9 December 2000, when the Christmas season ended. I mean all the made in China Xmas merchandise had already been displayed on the supermarket's shelves and suddenly we became redundant, superfluous, irrelevant. Everyone was laid off on the Friday, our usual weekly pay day. Actually we started our Night Shift at 11:00 pm on Friday and knocked off Saturday morning. No one had an inkling of what was in store for us. We usually queued up to receive our weekly pay from the hands of the foreman. On that particular morning, as Marcello, who was the official translator had missed work, I had to play his role and tell everyone individually who queued up to receive his pay he was not needed anymore. In other words, he shouldn't bother to ever return to the Kmart again.
Even as the queue decreased I didn't have a clue I would be the last bastard to be laid off that morning. When I stared at Bruce, if I remember his name correctly, he simply handed me my pay-cheque and told me: 'Good bye and good riddance!'. Maybe those were not his real words but the meaning was obvious: Get the fuck out of here! He was known for his crass language. Everytime he wanted an employee to approach him he'd say: drag your arse here!
When I arrived at John Kelly's house in the morning I told Marcello what had happened and started bracing myself to move on. I thought I might as well jump on a bus and go back to New York where I had better chances to get myself a job in mid-December. I was told by Bruce, I could get a job at Belleview, N.J. Kmart but that was only a ruse to get rid of me the sooner the better.
I took a bus south and went back to Newark. That must have been a severe winter for all the vegetation near the highways were frozen solid. It had snowed in early December and the cold was biting.
Firstly because it was very cold. Imagine on December 15th you going out to look for a job with snow and ice outside! Those who had to hire for Christmas had already done so and what's more, a recession was beginning. Furthermore, I went to live in a bad place (in a cellar with drugs and violence). I didn't think twice and left for Brazil. Furthermore, I didn't want to “explode” my visa.
In May 2001, I decided to return to Plymouth, MA once again and went to work at the local Sheraton Hotel. Heavy work, preparing halls for conventions, assembling tables and chairs, setting up tables, vacuuming the floor, etc. But it was interesting, because my coworker turned out to be a Brazilian Jew called Paulo Besser, who has lived in the U.S. since 1969. Paulo had a life that could write an adventure book: he was in the urban guerrilla against the Milicos in the late s '60 and fled to avoid being killed by Repression, having gone to Canada and then the US. Imagine he watched the original Woodstock. It was really cool to have worked with this guy; We worked and talked nonstop. Plus he's very musical too, he plays the guitar and everything. He likes Dylan, we even watched “Don’t look back” from 1966, on DVD (documentary about Bob Dylan & Joan Baez’s famous tour in England). He gave me a Canadian acoustic guitar that was a little defective, I had it fixed and it's wonderful. He has a nice house by the sea, he has a Mercedes, he has a latest fashion SUV (Sports Utility Vehical)... anyway, the guy has money, but he works like a bastard! I don't know why? People seem to go headlong into that American system of just working... I can't understand! Australians, despite being less rich, live much better than Americans. I can tell you from my own experience. There is something fundamentally wrong in the United States. I don't really know what it is! Instead of moving forward, they regress. See the death penalty has been re-instated. I just read in the English “The Economist” that the prison population in the USA is the largest in the world and is growing. Something is decidedly rotten in the “Kingdom of Denmark”, to paraphrase our “noble colleague” Billy Shakaspeare!
I could have stayed longer, but I didn't want to “explode” my stay, so I returned on July 10, 2001. Two months later the WTC's Twin Towers exploded. In 2002, I intended to return for the summer, but I thought about it and decided to “let my beards soak”. “Insurance died of old age”, as the old saying goes. Who can guarantee that I won't be stopped there and mistaken for an Arab and arrested incommunicado? When I was in Europe in 1991, Arab immigrants spoke to me in Arabic, so I came to the conclusion that I easily “pass for Arab”, which is not very “good for your health” in the United States these days. today, do you agree? It's interesting that the day I took the plane to come here I arrived at JFK very early... really early. I left Newark Penn Station a little after noon. I took the PATH to the WTC (can you imagine), because the A Train (8th Avenue Express) passes there... I even remembered that Duke Ellington song “Take the A Train”... a train that goes to Howard Beach/ JFK Airport. I had to board at 8:00 pm and I arrived for check-in at 3:00 pm.
I'm worse than a Miner. I wandered around the airport. It was a sunny summer day, but not too hot. Air pollution, which in NY can be horrible, was minimal. From Queens, where JFK is located, you could clearly see the island of Manhattan in the background. And I, sitting comfortably in an armchair, listening to local FM radio stations on a walk-man, looked at the “Manhattan skyline”, focusing on the city's two biggest landmarks: the World Trade Center towers in downtown and the Empire State Building in midtown. By then it was past 8pm and as our JAL plane, which was coming from Tokyo to São Paulo, was delayed, the passengers were still in the waiting room. I was enjoying it because I love watching sunsets, especially the very red ones... and looking at Manhattan, with the flaming sun in the West behind the Towers and the Empire State Building, was a very beautiful sight; I never imagined that this would be the last time I would see such a scene. On the morning of September 9, 2001, I was here at home when my brother, listening to the radio, said that a building in New York had “caught on fire”. I ran and called TV Globo and Carlos Nascimento was covering the “fire”; Soon after, the second plane crossed the 2nd tower... well, the rest doesn't need to be said.
Well, Damasio, I think I'll stop here, as this is already becoming a “short story”. I wanted to write to you to, firstly, find out how you, Francisca and the boys are doing, and secondly, so that you can write to me telling me facts relevant to your life at that time, as I intend to write more about our time as an immigrant in the 70s, as I am sure that It is a subject that interests Brazucas readers. You need to see how Carlos became interested in my stories. And look, he is already a “veteran”, imagine the others who arrived there in the 90s or even in the 21st century. Would you have the courage to write to me telling me about your adventures from that time? You don't need to use people's real names, if they are facts that involve living people. It seems like people really like to know about the old Brazilian Jersey Club. Did you attend this Club? Could you say something about him? You, if I'm not mistaken, even played football with them, right? The club's headquarters were on Ferry Street. Do you remember exactly where? I remember once I went with you to a place you lived, and it was a side street on Ferry Street down there, closest to Penn Station. Do you remember this street? You lived in a room there. Remember that going up the Ferry from the station there was Union St., Prospect St., Congress St., Jefferson St., Madison St., etc. It would be one of those.
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
In addition to this service, there are dozens of international calling cards for sale at newsstands or stores. It's a plastic card like our phone cards, where you scratch a certain place and a number appears. You then call that number and is able to talk to another country for one hour. Cards cost $5 to $10 and are of varying quality. Some can only be used once. Others may be used for several calls until you use up the time specified in it.
It's interesting how conservative Americans are in their habits. You well know that they never adapted to the Decimal System. Because to this day they use the so-called “Imperial measurements”: miles, feet, yards, pounds, pints, quarters, acres, etc. No matter how hard they try, they cannot change the habits of these people. Because to this day they still use coins to call on pay-phones. There is still no calling card like the rest of the world. The United States is so advanced in some aspects and so behind in others.
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