Never Stop Walking_A Memoir of Finding Home Across the World

by Christina Rickardsson

  “Who said you only cry when you’re sad? Maybe God is crying tears of joy.”

  I mulled that over a bit as we walked in the rain under that black umbrella, which wasn’t doing its job of keeping us dry at all. But the rain was warm, so it didn’t matter that the umbrella didn’t work very well. Then I thought of something.

  “Mamãe, how do you know God’s crying and not peeing?”

  She looked at me, a little taken aback, and then burst out laughing. She laughed so hard, she couldn’t hold the umbrella up. At first, I felt a little foolish. Had I said something wrong? Mamãe looked at me, so amused.

  “You’re right. We don’t know if God is peeing, but I would prefer to believe that God is sharing his tears. What do you think?”

  I understood what she meant and, well, tears were nicer than pee. We both laughed.

  “Come on!” she cried. She took my hand and held the umbrella out in front of our faces like a shield. “Come on! Let’s run!”

  Oh, how we ran! I ran as hard as I could, the umbrella continuing to fail to keep the rain off. I was happy. I looked at Mamãe and laughed. I remember feeling that I never wanted this moment to end. I ran until my lungs couldn’t take any more and my legs ached. Then I ran a little more. I didn’t care that I was running barefoot on a gravel road and that my feet were burning. I loved my mother—she was the best, and we were always going to be like this.

  Another memory strongly imprinted on me is my last night in the forest, the end of our life in the caves. I must have been about five years old, and I was asleep in the cave that was a little deeper in the forest. I was alone. From time to time, I took care of myself while Mamãe was away. On this night, I’d fallen asleep by a little log fire that I had proudly made on my own. Mamãe had taught me how to light a fire in a pineapple-like cactus plant that burned for a long time and would provide heat and keep the animals away.

  I woke up with Mamãe shaking me, and when I looked at her, she had her index finger in front of her lips, shushing me. I saw that the fire had been put out. Mamãe whispered that we had to run. I didn’t ask why. I could tell from the stress in her voice that now was not the time to ask. Something dangerous was out there. Mamãe took my hand, and we started running. We ran out away from the cave and up the little mountain. We didn’t take anything with us, not even our machete. I was wearing only shorts. It was dark, and I could hardly make out what was ahead of me. Mamãe kept a firm hold of my hand, and as we ran, I felt the branches and twigs scraping my skin. I tried to protect my face. I was barefoot and couldn’t see where I was putting my feet. It hurt, but I didn’t dare say anything. I just did my best to keep up. I still didn’t know what was chasing us. Suddenly, Mamãe stopped, and I could hear how out of breath I was. I had scratches on my face, my stomach, my arms and legs, and they stung. I could feel that some of the wounds on my legs were bleeding. Then I heard men’s voices farther below us in the forest. I turned around toward the sound and saw a gleam of light from a flashlight. Mamãe whispered that I should jump down into the hollow in front of us, and I did so immediately. I understood that the men were after us and that the situation was more dangerous than if they’d been wild animals. Mamãe sat down in the little hollow with me, took some dirt, and started to rub it onto my face, my hair, my arms, my belly, my legs. It stung, and I flinched but remained silent. Then she did the same to herself. She reached up and grabbed a pile of twigs and covered the hollow. It was pitch-black. Mamãe sat close against me. It was so crowded that we could hardly move. I heard the men’s voices approaching and dogs barking. I wondered why we were being hunted. What had Mamãe done? My legs fell asleep, and I wanted to change the position I was in, but I didn’t dare.

  Mamãe was completely quiet. I heard the voices approaching, and the dogs. And then I felt something crawl over one of my arms and up my chest. I very slowly nudged my mamãe’s side with my elbow and whispered, “Snake.” I was scared but didn’t dare move. I knew the snake would sense my fear, because Mamãe had told me that snakes and other animals could. But I was more afraid of the men than the snake. I knew Mamãe would never choose to keep sitting in this hollow if what was outside of it wasn’t even more dangerous. The snake had now coiled halfway across my chest and was heading toward my mother. Suddenly I felt her move, and her hand pushed against my chest. She had grabbed the snake by the neck. The flashlights approached, and one of the dogs had sniffed its way up to the edge of our hollow. The dirt that Mamãe had rubbed on us couldn’t mask our scent.

  I felt Mamãe move again, and as the dog moved its nose to the edge of our hollow, she brought the snake’s head to the dog’s nose. I heard the dog howl—a sound I will never forget—and then the dog ran away, the men following it.

  I remember thinking that the snake had saved us, and all of Mamãe’s stories about patron saints and angels suddenly felt believable.

  I don’t know how long we remained there, terrified out of our wits in that hollow, but it was a long time. I think I was so exhausted, I blacked out, because after that incident, I don’t remember anything else from our time in the forest. What I do remember is that we walked on the roads and moved from Diamantina down to São Paulo.

  I was born to a wonderful woman and mother—Petronilia Maria Coelho. All I know about her comes from my childhood memories. I don’t know her now. I don’t know where she was born, who her parents were, or what her childhood was like. I don’t know who her first love was, her favorite color, or what kind of food she likes best. I don’t know what makes her laugh from her heart. I wish, more than anything else, that I knew her, this woman who gave me life, who loved me, who laughed and cried with me for eight years. She taught me to distinguish right from wrong and showed me the way through all the darkness that would follow me for so long. This woman gave me an inner strength and laid the foundation for everything good that exists in me. What more could a daughter ask for? I got more than many other people did: a mother’s love. In many respects, I lucked out, and I’m grateful for that. And I know that someday if I can give my own children half of what my biological mother gave me, I will have been a good mother. I love her so much.

  I wish that I could at least describe what she looked like, but I can’t do that, either. I haven’t seen her in twenty-four years. There was a time when I could close my eyes and picture her, but over the years, the little details have disappeared. When I close my eyes now and think of her, I don’t see her anymore. When I look in the mirror, I can sometimes see part of her, but I can’t really tell what it is about me that reminds me of her. However, I am positive that if she were standing here in front of me, I would know it was her. I can live with not remembering exactly what she looks like, because I’ve stowed away the most important thing of all inside me, in my memory, and that’s our time together. I have saved the feelings that go with these memories in my heart.

  What I can say with certainty about this exceptional woman, Petronilia, is that her everyday life was anything but easy. She had to endure physical and mental violence. I can say with certainty that her dreams never came true and that she never had a fair chance of making them come true. I can tell you that she had feelings. She laughed and cried like everyone else. I can also tell you that she loved her children. She did what was in her power to do to look after us, and I am her biggest admirer. We can’t choose the family we’re born into. Some of us are born to parents who love us more than anything, who try to protect us. Others are less fortunate, born to parents who abuse them, who hit them, and who maybe don’t want them. I was fortunate to have Petronilia as my mother. She couldn’t give me material things. She didn’t have a house, and she wasn’t always able to give me food every day. But she gave me the finest thing a person can give—she gave me love. She listened, and she gave me her time.

  There are moments in life when it feels like you’re in a movie, when it feels like you’re living in another world, one that’s magical and wonderful. My time in the caves is like that for me. Sure, i
t was also difficult. But at the time, I couldn’t imagine how much worse life would get.

  My Bag Is Packed

  UMEÅ, SWEDEN, SPRING 2015

  My ticket is booked. I’m going back to São Paulo. I’m significantly older than the last time I was there, and I have no idea what awaits me. I’m grateful and happy that Rivia, a recent friend and a “Brazilian Swede” like me, is coming on the trip with me for support and as an interpreter. Rivia moved to Sweden from Brazil with her mother when she was eleven, and I feel a sense of solidarity with her. She is literally an Amazon woman. She comes from the state of Amazonas in northwestern Brazil and is exactly the person I need now, because I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into. We’re going to fly from Stockholm to London, where we change planes for São Paulo. It’s a long trip. I’m on the phone with Rivia, and we’re discussing our reservations and the trip. She is working in Stockholm and confirms that her reservations are all set. She says she’ll be back in Umeå a few days before we leave. We haven’t known each other that long, but soon we’re going to head out on an adventure together. Like me, she has no idea what she’s gotten herself into.

  I still don’t know if I’ll be able to find my birth mother, the caves, or the orphanage I lived in before I was adopted. I’m living on hope now with a hard-to-describe exhilaration that resembles fear.

  I text a few friends and tell them that it’s all set; I’m going back. My friends are like my family. Without them, I would never have been able to do this. I call Emma, and we decide we’ll all get together before I go. We chat for a while and agree to create an email group for our whole circle of childhood friends so that we can communicate during my trip. Then I write to my little brother, Patrick. After that, I collapse on the sofa with the computer and the phone in front of me. It’s quiet, and I try to let it sink in—in less than two weeks I’m going back to Brazil.

  On Friday night, I meet my friends at Rex Bar and Grill in Umeå. A delightful sense of serenity and joy comes over me. I enjoy a good dinner with four wonderful people whom I’ve basically known since the first day I arrived in Sweden. The endorphins in my body rise, and a euphoria slowly but surely starts bubbling up in me.

  We spend the first two hours talking about how things are going at work and catching up on everything that’s happened since we were last together. We laugh, console one another, exchange tips and advice, and, most of all, support one another. Many people might take a night like this for granted or call it an everyday luxury, but I call it a life luxury. Whatever life throws at us, we have one another, and for me that has made all the difference. I interrupt the conversation and tell them that I love them.

  They stop and look at me, a bit surprised.

  “Oh, Kicki, that’s the wine talking now,” Lina tells me.

  We all burst out laughing. I think back to my very first friend, Camile. What would it have been like if she were sitting with us? I miss her and send her a silent greeting before I return to the present moment.

  The two weeks have passed now, and Rivia and I are leaving tomorrow. I glance at the enormous suitcase sitting on the round brown rug in my hallway. This is crazy, I tell myself. Kicki, you packed enough for at least two months. You’re only going to be gone for two weeks. I take the clothes out of what feels more like a big trunk than a suitcase. I sort through all the dresses, shorts, tops, and shoes, but instead of taking items out, I somehow manage to add more. I realize that I’m overdoing it. I’m bringing three dresses to wear when I meet my mother for the first time in twenty-four years, if I manage to find her. One dress should be enough. Too many emotions are whirling inside me, too many ifs. And I have no control over what’s going to happen. I convince myself that if we do find my mother, she’s hardly going to care about my clothes. I know it’s definitely not what I’m going to care about. But the dresses stay in the suitcase anyway, along with everything else.

  I get out the big pink photo album that my childhood friend Maja has made as a present for me and my Brazilian family, if I have one. The photo album is magical; she pasted in a couple hundred pictures from our childhood and teenage years, of our group of girlfriends, of her family, and of her son, Harry, and my adorable goddaughter, Greta. I can’t describe how much it means to me that she took the time to do this. Maja and I grew up on the same block. She was my very first friend in Sweden. Our friendship never ends and has only grown stronger as the years have gone by. I put the photo album in the suitcase and close the latch. I look at the suitcase again and shake my head. I go to bed. An early morning awaits me.

  I’ve hardly slept a wink when it’s time to get up. I take out a pen and paper and write a note to Anna-Karin, who’s going to borrow my apartment while I’m away. I glance at the clock and see I have fifty minutes until the plane leaves. Had I lived anywhere other than Umeå, a small town in northern Sweden, I’d have been panicking now, but it only takes five minutes to get to our little airport from downtown, and as long as we’re there half an hour before departure, it’s fine. I call to double-check that Rivia is in the car and on her way to come pick me up. She isn’t. At first I think, Typical Brazilian, always late! but then I realize that we both misunderstood who was going to drive, and I laugh. A few minutes later, she’s outside my apartment building. I lock my front door and lug my suitcase, which weighs way too much, down three flights of stairs. I’d like to go back to my apartment and dump out half of what’s in it, but it’s too late.

  When I emerge from the building, Rivia is waiting in her trendy little white Volkswagen. She raises one eyebrow when she sees my suitcase and says she doesn’t know if it will fit in her car. We open the trunk and realize that it really will be a tight fit. We move her bag and try to squeeze mine in. After a lot of back-and-forth, we’re finally seated in the car on our way to the airport. Forty minutes later, we lift off, and it occurs to me that maybe I should have packed my parachute, too . . .

  A World Without Shelter

  SÃO PAULO, BRAZIL, THE LATE 1980S

  Swedish friends and people attending talks I give often ask me how it happened that my mother chose to live in a cave with her child. Sometimes I give a long explanation, and sometimes I just respond with a question: “What’s more dangerous than poisonous snakes and insects?” Sometimes people supply the answer on their own; sometimes I answer for them: “People.”

  I don’t know what motivated my mother to live in a cave with me, but I can guess. The favelas and streets weren’t better alternatives. One of the first memories I have of living and sleeping on the streets of São Paulo is the night my mother and I stayed up talking about life. I had asked her a thousand questions, and my mother patiently answered them all. I remember that I asked her why life was so hard sometimes. My mother’s response was simple, and I remember she didn’t even need to stop and think about her answer: “Christiana, there are worse things in life than living.”

  When I asked what she meant, she explained that if you could feel joy and pain, then you were alive, even though it might hurt and you could run out of steam and lose your faith. But going through life like a ghost, being alive but with a dead soul, like an empty husk, was worse. I didn’t really understand then, but it wasn’t long before I did. Mamãe saw that I was still pondering her answer. She said, “We can always pray to God that these ghosts find a better world.”

  We were sitting on some cardboard, which we would later sleep on. We had laid it out in the corner of a tunnel. The long side of the tunnel was open, and there was a street just outside. I saw a yellow phone booth across the street—in Brazil, they are often umbrella-like domes mounted on a post. To me, it looked like an orange. I knew it was called a “phone,” but I didn’t really know what you did with it. Then I asked a series of questions: “Why do you call?” “How do you do it?” “Why don’t you talk like we’re doing now?” My mother answered each question patiently, even though she must have been completely exhausted.

  “Mamãe, does God have a phone?”

&n
bsp; “I don’t think so, honey, but if God did, what would you want to talk to God about?”

  “I would ask why some kids are white, some are brown, and some are black. I mean, there are so many other colors, so why not make green kids or red kids?”

  “That’s a really good question! You’ll simply have to try calling God sometime.” She smiled and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Just so you know, little monkey, you got the nicest color.”

  “But Mamãe, I’m poop brown,” I said.

  “Ridiculous! You’re chocolate brown, and chocolate is both sweet and good, just like you. Better watch out that I don’t eat you up!” Then she pretended to eat me, and I laughed because it tickled. I squealed for her to stop, but she pretended to take bites from my arms, my legs, cheeks, and fingers. “Poop brown . . . You’re nuts, you know . . . What do you say, should we try to call God?” she asked when she was done pretend-eating me.

  “But does God have a phone?”

  “I don’t know, but I mean, it’s worth a try, right?” She stood up, and then helped me up. We walked across the street, hand in hand. There weren’t a lot of people around. We walked over to the phone, and she lifted me onto her hip. She picked up the receiver and held it out to me.

  “Christiana, what do you think God’s phone number is?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Guess!”

  “Mamãe, I don’t know.”