Never Stop Walking_A Memoir of Finding Home Across the World

by Christina Rickardsson

  “But guess!”

  “Hmm . . .” I said the first digits I could think of.

  She dialed the number, and I heard the phone beep for each digit she dialed. When she was done, it was quiet for a bit, and then I heard a weird sound. She said I should talk.

  “But, Mamãe, it sounds kind of weird!”

  “But you can talk anyway. God might hear you.”

  I looked at her. It felt weird.

  “God, why don’t children come in green or red? Why are they white, brown, and black?” No one answered. Mamãe smiled, took the receiver from me, and hung it up. She set me down again and took my hand, and we started walking back across the street to where we were going to sleep.

  “Mamãe, I don’t think God has a phone.”

  “God might have heard you anyway.”

  “Will God answer me, then?”

  “Who knows. Maybe God will visit you in your dreams and answer your questions.”

  “Can God do that?”

  “God can do anything.”

  When we returned to our corner and our cardboard boxes, Mamãe lay down against the wall, and I crawled in in front of her so we were spooning. She held me and whispered good night. I fell asleep happy that night. The next day, I woke up because cars were driving by on the street outside the tunnel and people were walking past. Many walked by without looking at us. One man spit at us, and his spit landed pretty close to me. I looked at the man and stuck out my tongue at him. Mamãe glared at me and said, “Christiana, that is unacceptable!”

  My mother did so many things that amaze me now. She thought it was important for me to behave properly. Once you’re over thirty, as I am, a number of your childhood friends will have had children. Most of them have somewhere to live, a permanent and safe place where they don’t need to be afraid of being assaulted. If you are a parent, you know a thousand times better than I do what it means to bring a child into this world and raise it. For the life of me, I can’t understand how all these poor, homeless parents around the world succeed in doing so much and doing so right by their children, even in the meager and tragic conditions they find themselves. Despite all the poverty and depravation, my mother had the will and the gumption to give me love. Raising me was important to her, and not just making sure I survived but also seeing to it that I learned to be good. The women and men who take care of children under such conditions are heroes, and they prove that we humans can be truly wonderful.

  My mother knew that we didn’t need to sink as low as the man who had spit at us. She often reminded me that God saw everything. God saw those who were good and those who were less good, and no one could buy their way into heaven.

  “Christiana, people need to be nice to get into heaven. Goodness has to come from the heart.”

  It’s kind of a pity that I don’t believe in the same heaven, since it seems wonderful.

  I don’t remember when it happened, but Mamãe got a job. She got a job as a cleaning lady at a place that I think was a factory. It was a rectangular building, and in the middle was a little courtyard. I helped her clean the bathrooms. I thought I was super competent at scrubbing, mopping, and carrying buckets of water. I don’t know if I was mostly in her way. I was five or six years old, and I would run around in the factory. She had told me that it was very important that I not bother other people or get in the way. If I did, she would lose the job, and we wouldn’t have money for food. When I wasn’t running around saying hello to everyone or helping my mother, I was in that little courtyard playing in the dirt.

  One day, a man came up to me. He was white and older, and I recognized him. He was the man who had given her the job and who had said it was OK for her to bring me to work. I don’t know if he owned the factory or if he was just the manager, but there he was, smiling at me. He greeted me nicely and asked me what I was up to. I pointed to the dirt in front of me and said I was playing. Then I quickly added that I would clean up after myself when I was done. He laughed a little and said I didn’t need to worry. He started asking me more questions about how I was doing, how things were going for my mother, if I thought it was fun being here. It was a flood of questions that I answered politely. I was careful to answer that my mother and I were doing very well, that everyone was super nice, and that we were so happy and grateful to have a job. He asked me if I really understood how important it was for my mother that she had this job, how important it was for us.

  I responded that I understood that and that we were grateful. The man kept talking, and I started to have this sneaking sense of discomfort. He said that my mother would be sad and angry if I did anything bad that led to her not being able to work there anymore. I felt embarrassed and wanted to ask him if I could go, but I didn’t know if that would be impolite. Finally, the man asked me if I wanted a lollipop. I said yes.

  My mother was on her knees, scrubbing the bathroom floor when I found her. She looked up at me smiling, but her smile quickly vanished.

  “Christiana, what is it?” she asked.

  “It’s nothing, Mamãe. Do you want me to help you?” I asked.

  She scrutinized me, giving me that look she usually gave me when she was trying to see through me.

  I looked away. She came over to me and asked if someone had hurt me. I thought about what the man had said, how my mother and I needed this job and the money. It was my fault. But she didn’t give up until I finally admitted I had tasted the man’s “lollipop.”

  Mamãe’s and my eyes met. She was giving me a strange look. She looked angry and sad, and I felt like I’d made a mistake. I started crying, and she hugged me and picked me up in her arms. That was something she didn’t usually do anymore, because I’d gotten so big. I wasn’t a baby anymore, as she often said.

  Mamãe walked out of that bathroom, leaving the cleaning supplies there and—with me in her arms—she walked straight out of that factory, and we never went back. After she carried me for a while, we sat down, and then she asked me to tell her everything.

  I apologized and said it was my fault and that I wouldn’t do it again. I didn’t actually know what it was that I’d done, but whatever it was, I wouldn’t do it again. Mamãe explained to me that it wasn’t my fault, that I hadn’t done anything wrong. The man was the one who’d done something wrong, and we wouldn’t be going back to that job. She told me that you had to be careful with men, that they were not as nice as women.

  Life away from the protective shelter of our caves was like coming to a whole new world. The rules for survival were different out here. I realized very quickly that I had to adapt and learn the rules of life on the streets. One misstep could easily result in that being the last thing I ever did. When I remember what happened to me at that factory and what that man did to the child Christiana, I choose to remember the good in the situation. To be clear, there was nothing beautiful or good in what he did to me. We can easily ruin another person’s life forever with our wicked and egotistical actions. But rather than the evil of the incident, I have chosen to carry with me what my mother did. What strength it must have taken for her to just pick me up and walk away from there, when we so desperately needed the money! She took the time to help me understand that what had happened wasn’t my fault. It was bad, what had happened, but as I grew up, I took with me my mother’s love instead of that man’s ill will. I believe that has made all the difference. At the same time, I can’t help but think of all the girls and women who have been and are being exploited and who don’t have anyone to show them the way. Living with what happened hasn’t been pain-free, but I have had love to counterbalance the evil. What happens if you only have the evil to bear?

  Returning to Another World

  2015

  I’m sitting on a plane, somewhere between London and São Paulo. In less than ten hours, I will touch down in my home country for the first time in twenty-four years. In less than ten hours, my life will take a new turn. I suppose it already has. The turn happened three or four months ago when I
decided to start digging into the past. I can’t stop wondering when I began this journey. Maybe it was twenty-four years ago when I was adopted and ended up in the little village of Vindeln, in the middle of the forests of northern Sweden. I’ve always known that one day I would go back. A part of me thought it would happen sooner, that I wouldn’t wait until I was thirty-two years old. At the same time, I know that I wasn’t ready until now. A vaguely snarky voice in my head asks, “And are you ready now?”

  I brush it aside. I look at the little yellow notebook in front of me, a present from Rivia who’s sitting in the airplane seat next to me.

  People often discuss going home again with me. Mostly out of curiosity. They’re trying to understand how it feels to belong to two different cultures and wondering how it felt to make such a big change in my life, moving to a new country at the age of eight. Sometimes I feel like I hear something a little more loaded in the question. Am I not planning to leave Sweden and move back home? Sometimes I have the sense that the person is suggesting that it would be best if I did that. Thank goodness this doesn’t happen very often. When I’m asked, “But haven’t you ever thought about moving home to Brazil?” I don’t know what to say. Not because I don’t know if I want to, but rather because it’s so odd. My home for the last twenty-four years has been northern Sweden. I mean, I’m Swedish. That’s my home.

  What would home be for me in Brazil? The cave? The favela? The streets? The orphanage? I’m quite certain that the folks at the orphanage no longer think I belong there. My home, right now anyway, is in Sweden. Who knows, maybe in ten years my home will be in the US or Australia or Norway. My home is where I’m happy, where I feel safe, where my friends and family are. My home is where I work and where I feel at home.

  I have no idea if I’ll feel at home when I step off this plane. But since I decided to return, memories have been coming back to me stronger and stronger. A kind of longing to see the caves again has even taken root. Maybe what feels the most like home to me in Brazil are the little caves in the wilderness outside Diamantina that my mother and I lived in. I don’t really know what to do with all these thoughts, questions, and memories swirling in my head.

  I turn off my overhead light and close my eyes.

  Some Scars Never Leave the Body

  SÃO PAULO, BRAZIL, 1989

  We were standing in an open-air market. We were going to buy food. There were big, red tomatoes, and my mouth was watering. I reached out my hand to take one, but the vendor slapped my hand away. Mamãe found some other tomatoes in a box on the ground and picked up the worst-looking one. They were moldy and soft in places. I asked my mother why she was taking the bad tomatoes. She smiled a little sadly and said, “Christiana, look at this tomato. One side is bad, but what do you think happens if we cut away the bad parts?”

  Mamãe always did that. When she wanted to teach me something, she had me answer questions. I looked at the tomato and said, “If we cut off the bad parts, the goodish ones are left.”

  She smiled and continued. “It’s the same with people. Don’t forget it! Why don’t these tomatoes deserve to be eaten? Why are they so much worse than the others? Don’t you think they’d be just as good in a stew as the pretty ones? If all tomatoes are just going to be eaten up, do you think it makes any difference what they look like beforehand? They’ll all be cooked one way or another.”

  I still wanted to get the nice-looking tomatoes.

  She smiled again and said, “You deserve the best, my dear, but today we have to settle for the less pretty ones.”

  While she bought the ugly tomatoes, I tried to understand why all the tomatoes needed to end up in the stew. The pretty tomatoes would surely be bought by rich, white people whereas Mamãe and I, who didn’t have enough money, would have to settle for the bad ones. It was always like that. White people had money, and they could always afford to buy what they wanted. I tried to understand why life was like that. Did God want it to be like that? It didn’t feel fair. I mean, God was supposed to be good. But how could God be good if we always got the bad tomatoes?

  Suddenly, I heard my mother and another woman yelling at each other. Mamãe was angry, and so was the other woman. I didn’t understand what the fuss was about, but I got scared. I’d hardly ever seen my mother truly angry, but now she was. I heard her yelling to me, “Christiana, take Patrique!” and suddenly she let go of my brother. Out of sheer reflex, I reached out my arms and managed to catch him just before he hit the asphalt. Mamãe and the white lady were fighting, and I didn’t understand why. I wanted to yell at them to stop, but I couldn’t get any words to come out. Two policemen ran up and separated them. The white woman explained something to the policemen, and Mamãe looked terribly angry. The policeman let go of the other woman, and Mamãe said something that I understood was somewhat insulting. One of the policemen slapped her face.

  I got so mad that I forgot I was holding my little brother in my arms. I ran forward and kicked the policeman on the shin and hit him as hard as I could in the stomach with my right fist. The second policeman grabbed me, and I almost dropped Patrique. The policeman held on to me tightly while the other one, the one I’d kicked, came over and looked at me with hatred in his eyes. It really scared me, but I tried not to show it. He raised his machine gun and hit me right on the jaw with it. I heard the crack in my mouth and my panic-stricken mother screaming my name. I tasted blood in my mouth, and as I collapsed, I thought, Don’t drop Patrique . . .

  That wasn’t the first time I’d been roughed up by the police, and it wouldn’t be the last. Even today, I have trouble with my jaw. Some scars never leave the body.

  That incident at the marketplace ended behind bars on a concrete floor.

  It was nighttime, and I was cold. Mamãe held me. I apologized to her for hitting the policeman. I felt like it was my fault that we were sitting where we were. She said it wasn’t my fault, that this was just how the world and life worked. I asked her if this was how God wanted the world to work, for us to be beaten and hurt and unhappy. My mother never answered that question, but she made me promise that if she wasn’t there, if I was alone, that I would always run and hide when I saw the police. We sat in silence for a bit. I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “Mamãe, you’ll never leave me, right?”

  She eyed me sadly, put her hand on my chest, and said, “I will never leave you. I will always be here with you, in your heart. I’m a part of you. I’m inside you, and if you ever feel sad or lost, I’ll be there with you. Don’t forget it.”

  I woke up to the sound of a policeman chatting with my mother. I heard him say something to her along the lines of “Either you or your daughter, you decide.”

  She didn’t answer him, just gently repositioned the upper half of my body, which had been resting on her lap, onto the concrete floor and asked me to hold Patrique. “I’ll be back soon,” she said. I asked her where she was going, but she shushed me and said I shouldn’t worry. “Haven’t I always come back to you?” she asked, and smiled. Her smile seemed forced. I know she could see how worried I was. I looked from her to the police officer and back to her. I heard how he impatiently asked her to go with him. She stood up, and before she turned around, I saw her eyes change. She looked strong.

  I knew what was going to happen. Although I didn’t understand everything, I understood that the policeman was going to hurt her. What had he said? “Either you or your daughter . . .” It was my fault we were sitting in here, and it was my fault she was forced to go off with the policeman. Please, please, God. Let me be big and strong when I grow up! Let me be big and strong so I can stop bad men, like policemen, from hurting the people I love. Patrique started crying. I rocked him back and forth. I wanted to quiet him so Mamãe wouldn’t need to worry. I wanted to show her that I could take care of him when she wasn’t around. I wondered if Patrique understood what was going on. I wondered if he could somehow sense that I was upset and that they were going to hurt Mamãe, and I t
hought, I love you, little brother, and no one is going to hurt you! I promise.

  I don’t know how long I waited for my mother to come back. Patrique fell asleep, and I sat on that cold concrete floor, my back against the wall. I remember one of my butt cheeks and my leg had fallen asleep, but I was afraid to move. I didn’t want to wake up my little brother, so I sat there and tried not to think about what was happening behind that closed door. After what felt like forever, that same policeman came back in with Mamãe. Looking very satisfied, he glanced at me and smiled a creepy smile that made me feel little, scared, and disgusted inside.

  When I asked Mamãe what had happened, she said they had just asked her a few questions about what had really happened at the market, that it was nothing I needed to worry about, and that everything would look better in the morning. That was the first time I felt like my mother really lied to me. I didn’t want to do anything that would upset her more or make her worry, so I lay down on the floor with Patrique’s head on my arm and brought him to my chest so I could keep him warm. Although I lay close to Mamãe, I turned my back to her and curled up in a fetal position. I wanted her to feel my love, but somehow I understood that she needed some space and a little time to recover. I pretended to be asleep. I lay awake almost the entire night. I could hear her breathing, and I knew she was crying.

  The tears of the powerless are not tears of frustration. They’re not tears that gush or tears that burn. The tears of the powerless are silent and resigned. When you know that no one cares, the tears are all you have. You need them to be able to go on, to be able to feel hope, because they relieve the pressure. I know that these tears can make all the difference in the world to a six-year-old who needs her mother’s love. My mother cried these tears many times. Even if it was awful, I now understand, as a grown-up, that it’s good if you can cry. Even though there aren’t any tears in the world, visible or invisible, that can make what is wrong right, especially for the powerless.