Nonstop

by Martha Medeiros

  Women can have it all, we know, but do we really want it all? Where do we draw the line? We can’t work out our priorities any more – everything is a priority. It’s foolish to imagine that we can be the best at everything: best mum, best friend, best daughter, best girlfriend, best wife, best housewife, best body – we’d die of exhaustion.

  I suggest that on this International Women’s Day, we give ourselves a break. Enough of talking about women who conceive at 57, who lose 30 kilos in two weeks, who party till dawn, who make money from home, who visit all the continents, who survive tragedies, who tame their hair, who are entrepreneurs, who have dozens upon dozens of pairs of shoes, who find a new love immediately after a breakup, who prepare a meal in ten minutes, who play with their children, who go to premières, who always look young, who recite Shakespeare, who overcome traumas, who do Pilates, yoga, workouts and massage. It makes us feel proud, I know, but so much prowess and self-promotion is unrealistic.

  Why don’t we talk about the lovely qualities of men for a change? They deserve to be appreciated for their talents. This would help us relax. With the spotlight turned off us we could be easier on ourselves and perhaps find some of our grandmothers’ tranquillity.

  Life Without Stabilisers

  I remember that during all the important moments of my childhood, as well as the unimportant ones, my dad was always ready with his camera. Consequently, to this day, every drawer I open at home is packed to the brim with pictures, not including the ones confined to albums and picture frames. Among them there’s one that I’m especially fond of. I must have been five or six. That was the first time I rode a bike with no stabilisers. I peddled around without falling and my dad caught me red handed, all high and mighty, feeling jubilant. The taste of victory was sweet.

  If that picture had subtitles it would say: “See?”

  The stabilisers are a protection for beginners, a safe way to start when we haven’t yet mastered a skill. Which skill? Any skill. Correct me if I’m wrong: we still use stabilisers.

  When someone writes a book, for instance, the stabilisers are the snippets in their head that precede the story not yet written.

  When we have a child, the stabilisers are the experiences of our own upbringing; even if questionable, they create a base for our first decisions.

  When we fall in love we once again use our past experiences to help us through, even though we know we are heading into uncharted waters.

  When we start a new job, the stabilisers are our work experience, which helps in the beginning, but then we have to face the new challenges alone.

  There will always be a time when we have to take the stabilisers off. That’s when fear and ecstasy kick in.

  To live without them makes everything more dangerous but exciting at the same time, and our vulnerability grows more apparent. We become uncertain of our actions; we don’t know whether we are going too fast or too slow. Beware: if you go too slow, you fall.

  It’s important to live without that constant support in order to strengthen our own personality. If we don’t come out of our parents’ shadow we won’t find our own balance.

  When do we know we are ready to quit the stabilisers? If we’re talking about cycling, I’d say around five, or six, or seven, maybe ten; that depends on our own personal time and stability.

  If we’re talking about life, that also depends. But using them forever prevents us from getting that feeling of achievement, from that lingering sense of joy for having reached our goals independently.

  It robs us of that provoking moment: “See?”

  Nothing makes us more proud than showing others – and ourselves – how far we can go.

  Snow of Polystyrene

  Something strange happened to me the other day. Although I’m used to working at home I felt a sudden urge to leave the house, to glide through walls and visit the day outside. I needed to fill my lungs with fresh air, to carry on writing. I had to go to the post office, so I decided to walk the five blocks and off I went.

  I managed to get there – just. I was nearly run over by a car, it was a close call. I posted a letter and it was when I stepped into the road that I saw it: a huge bag of polystyrene falling from a truck. The driver went on his way, unaware of the trail left behind. In a matter of seconds, chunks of polystyrene were crushed into small pieces as cars drove over them. The polystyrene shattered again into even more tiny particles, flying everywhere, as if in slow motion, with each passing car. I stopped – there was no way I’d cross the road at this point – I’d get run over in no time. I didn’t feel right. It was snowing in Brazil on a sunny afternoon. Snow of polystyrene.

  Any similarity with American Beauty is a happy coincidence. If you’ve seen the film you won’t have forgotten that scene. An empty plastic bag moving in the wind. Nothing but the camera and the bag, dancing in slow motion. Without a doubt one of the most poetic scenes I’ve ever seen at the cinema.

  This had the same effect. Flecks of polystyrene like snowflakes swirling above the tarmac on a sunny afternoon in Porto Alegre. The cars speeding past and the polystyrene floating slowly down, unmindful of the city life rushing past. What did it mean?

  Nothing.

  Hence the strangeness, the beauty. Things without meaning are rare, free events that normally go unnoticed, but if they catch our eye they can make our day. This wasn’t a scene from a film, but a real moment, with no soundtrack. The noisy traffic destroyed the silence, but inside my head, even if only for a few seconds, I could hear the music, enthralled as I was by the snow on the road.

  Eventually the polystyrene dispersed and I felt like a fool standing there on the pavement, stunned, as if I had witnessed someone being run over. Metaphorically, that is what happened. I had been run over. Not by a car, but by beauty. I had been a witness to the poetry of an ordinary working day, just when I stopped working.

  I walked home and wrote this column with no purpose in mind, but in honour of the snow that wasn’t really snow.

  Education for Divorce

  I’m reading El Rompecabezas de la Sexualidad (The Puzzle of Sexuality), by the Spanish professor, Jose Antonio Marina. The author finds it worrying that young people are growing up with examples of failed relationships from their parents. He points out that by watching so many couples getting separated, children start losing faith that they will have healthy and harmonious relationships in the future. The dream ends.

  I believe him. Marriage is no longer among the top aspirations of many teenagers, partly because they can’t see how married life can bring happiness. If it did, why would so many people get divorced?

  Marriage has been under so much criticism lately that we need to react. It’s about time we shed some light on the matter so our children will know there’s more to a relationship than deprivation, boredom and quarrels. There is fulfilment, stability, companionship, intimacy and satisfaction. Married life is pretty good. But how can we make our children believe it when statistics point to a never ending rise in divorce?

  Perhaps the only solution is to raise children from an early age to understand that separation can be a part of marriage. Which is to say, when the children ask: “Mummy, are you going to be married forever?” the answer could be: “While we love each other, we will be; otherwise, we will become friends, which is also very good.”

  This may sound shocking for someone who made their vows in front of a priest, promising to be together “until death do us part.” However, it’s necessary to reconsider some principles, starting with this oath that sounds more like a punishment than a love affair. It’s time for a reality check: nowadays we live a lot longer, with more information and opportunity, and though it must be reassuring and gratifying to be married to the same person for forty or fifty years, it will be good for the children to know there’s no shame in a relationship that only lasts ten or fifteen. It’s normal.

  Normality adjusts itself to new habits. Slowly, but it does. If we insist that true love lasts forever, childre
n will think that adults are inept people who can’t find their soul mates and suffer because of it. Is that what we want for them? That was rhetorical.

  To avoid this retreat from marriage, the best way is, as always, honesty. ‘Everlasting’ is meaningless. No one stays in the same job forever, no one lives on the same street forever and no one can promise perpetual stability. If most changes are regarded as progress and improvement, why can’t marriage also be seen in this uncomplicated way, without all the stress?

  Frustration is born from unfulfilled expectations. If our children are raised assuming that Mum and Dad will live together forever, then separation will be more traumatic and they will fear failure when it’s their turn.

  Moreover if they know from the beginning that adults can – it’s not mandatory – have two or three stable relationships in a lifetime, this new principle will be assimilated more easily and they will progress in their own pursuit of love – which we need for the emotional well-being of us all.

  Too Kind

  I was given a book called The Art of Being Kind, with the unnecessary subheading: A Person Who is Kind is on the Path to Success – which, in my opinion, somewhat discredits the author, the Swede Stephan Einhorn. Kindness is a way to live with others, not a path to success. What’s this obsession with success anyway? Should success always be our final goal?

  The blurb on the back says that a kind person will always have a better chance at being happy, rich and successful. It also says that the book will provide immediate and long-term solutions to those interested in becoming better people. It’s all I’ve read so far and I don’t intend on reading any more. Firstly, because I’ve got a pile of books waiting for me, and secondly, I’m already kind. I didn’t even know that by being kind I could become happy, rich, successful, etc…. I’m kind simply because it’s easier than being rude. It requires a lot less energy. Besides, I don’t see the fun in upsetting people. So far I think this is common sense. What no one seems to see is that too much kindness can, surprisingly, be a flaw – and not a small one.

  Obviously we should not be rude to our friends, relatives, colleagues and neighbours, but being excessively kind to everyone can actually put our lives at risk. What would you do, for instance, if you found yourself face to face with the Joker? The lift doors open and there he is, with that disturbing scar on his face, wearing a coat big enough to conceal two side arms, three grenades and a rifle. I imagine you’d have the sudden urge to take to the stairs and disappear. Personally I would walk into the lift, say good evening, and talk about the weather. God forbid he might think I’m judging him on his appearance. Why can’t he be honest, like everyone else?

  Say I get in a taxi and the driver clearly has no sense of direction, can’t shift gears, won’t indicate and narrowly misses collisions – it’s not down to me to send him for extra driving lessons. He must have had a stressful day to be driving at full speed – he obviously needs to release his tensions. I won’t reproach him, poor thing. Instead I would ‘suddenly realise’ that I had given him the wrong address and ask him to stop at the next street. I would get out of the car and apologise for my mistake.

  Or say a waiter comes too close with a sizzling pan. I’d never ask him to be more careful. He will think I’m a right snob and how rude would that be? What’s a burnt arm anyway?

  What if I’m walking down a dark street and I see a group of hooded teenagers, hands buried deep in their pockets, coming in my direction? I’d never cross the road, just imagine how traumatic that would be for them – they might even be my daughter’s friends.

  I hope you recognised the sarcasm and get the message: be kind, but not stupid. If hurting someone’s feelings means saving your skin, so be it. Cross the road, use the stairs – get the hell out of there. Success is making it home alive.

  Be There!

  I didn’t watch the show where David Letterman interviewed Joaquin Phoenix, but I heard about it. Joaquin lived up to his reputation as a bad boy; wearing dark sunglasses and practically ignoring David’s questions, the actor made sure the interview didn’t go as planned. David did his best to coax Phoenix out of his ill-humour, but to no avail. So he ended the interview brilliantly: “Joaquin, I’m sorry you couldn’t be here tonight.”

  If someone accepts an interview they should play the game, answer the questions and be polite – if they know how. Interviews don’t promote only the host but the guest as well. It’s a win-win situation. It’s the audience who lose the most when the guest starts to sulk.

  Some people support this approach, calling it authentic, but there’s a fine line between authenticity and rudeness. It’s naive to think we can go through life without being sociable. I hope I’m not hurting the authentic camp’s feelings here, but sometimes we all need to put on an act.

  I don’t get annoyed easily but I find it disrespectful when someone insists on showing me they’d rather be somewhere else. It can be in a restaurant or at a friend’s house; everybody is having fun until someone starts to sulk. It looks as if they were dragged there against their will, which is true in some cases. People are persuaded to attend events, be it by their parents, by friends, or a partner. Regardless of the reason, and since you chose to come, make an effort. You don’t need to be the entertainer for the evening, but a smile or two won’t hurt.

  In a church, kneel. In a football stadium, cheer. At a party, celebrate. Kissing, fall in love. By the shore, undress. Meeting a friend, listen.

  Or do it differently if you prefer: in a church, listen. In a football stadium, fall in love. At a party, cheer. Kissing, undress. By the shore, kneel. Meeting a friend, celebrate.

  Be there!

  If you don’t want to take part that’s fine, keep to yourself, stay at home with your respectable solitude. An honest absence is better than a brooding presence.

  Taking the Wrong Turn

  It happened in Paris. I had two hours to kill before getting my flight back home. I was all packed and ready to go, so I decided to spend my last couple of hours in Paris walking to Place des Vosges, which was near the hotel. After days of torrential rain the sun was finally out on my last morning in the city. So off I went.

  Without a map in hand, I was sure I’d find my way around, it wasn’t my first time there anyway. Alas, my sense of direction failed me and I took a wrong turn. Instead of turning left, I turned right. Further down I did turn left, but then nothing looked familiar. I carried straight on. Would Place des Vosges be just ahead? A few more blocks and another left turn. Strange, I was sure it was around here somewhere. Not that it was a terrible thing to get lost in Paris, but I was getting further and further away from the hotel. Still I kept walking on, and soon there it was, except it wasn’t Place des Vosges, but Place de la République! Without noticing it, I had walked across three neighbourhoods of Paris, Mon Dieu.

  I asked for directions of how to get back to my hotel by a different route, or at least a shorter one and was advised to get a taxi. Stubbornly, I decided there was enough time to walk back. Thus I spent the last two hours of my sojourn in Paris; rushing, jumping yesterday’s puddles and constantly looking at my watch. Flustered, I was finally back at the hotel. Unfortunately, in my haste, I forgot the beautiful drawing I had bought. All of this because I took a wrong turn.

  I’m talking about two wasted hours, and two hours are nothing in a lifetime. But how many people waste their lives because of a wrong turn, following a path that wouldn’t take them anywhere? A misdirection along the way can make us waste three years of our youth, or miss a career opportunity, or many other chances that could help us move forward in life. We end up moving in the opposite direction of that which could take us to where we want to be. When we move throughout life without a map or asking for directions, we walk around aimlessly, wasting time we don’t have. If life was a holiday in Paris, getting lost would just be an adventure, and in the worst case scenario, we’d just miss our flight back home. But life isn’t a holiday in Paris, and there comes a day wh
en we stare at an old and embittered face in the mirror, the face of someone who didn’t reach their goals, didn’t fulfil their dreams, who got utterly lost somewhere along the way. By then, we can’t go back to the beginning, we can’t redress our slip ups, we can’t find what we left behind. In life there’s no Sat Nav to reassure us we are going in the right direction. All we can do is to choose our path more carefully.

  Chronic Dissatisfaction

  It is no secret that I have a bit of a crush on Woody Allen, and Pedro Almodóvar as well. So it’s easy to imagine how pleased I was after watching Vicky Cristina Barcelona (2008), at the cinema. This feeling of contentment, though, seemed unattainable to the characters in the film. It’s not surprising: Doug loved Vicky who loved Juan Antonio who loved Maria who loved Cristina who didn’t love anyone. I hope you’re not expecting a happy ending.

  The story goes like this: two young American women decide to spend a holiday in Spain. One of them is engaged to an average and unadventurous man and the other is open to whatever comes along. All she needs is an attractive man to show up. And indeed he does – a painter with an unresolved separation under his belt. But despite having his insane ex-wife hot on his heels he decides to try and seduce both girls. Run for your lives!

  Yet this isn’t a film about a mismatch, rather it’s a film about a search. This time Woody Allen went beyond himself, with a touch of the boldness typical of Almodóvar, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s something of Truffaut in the script as well. The result is a film that connects with universal unfulfilled desires.