Never Stop Walking_A Memoir of Finding Home Across the World

by Christina Rickardsson

  I lay awake for a long time and prayed to God to make my mother happy and to let us out of the police station. In my powerlessness, that was the only thing I could do. I prayed to God that I could think of a way to scrounge a little money the next day, to buy Mamãe something nice. Maybe that could make her forget this awful night, forget the powerlessness and how it had yet again shown the strength it possessed and the marks it left behind. Patrique woke up a few times during the night, and some of those times my mother carefully took him from my arms and nursed him. Then she gave him back to me.

  I understood that she needed more time. I took Patrique and remained lying with my back to my mother so she could have a little peace. I looked at my little brother. He was so cute, but he smelled like a mix of baby, pee, and poop. My eyes wandered over to Mamãe. I didn’t want to bother her. She understood what I wanted, though, because she gave me a piece of cloth without any words being spoken. I took the cloth, turned around, and continued to keep my back to her. Patrique was good. He didn’t cry or scream. I undid the towel he was wrapped in. He didn’t have any clothes, just a cloth diaper. I unclipped the safety pin holding his cloth diaper closed, opened the diaper, and tried to wipe away as much of the poop as possible with the dry bits of his old diaper. I set him on the new piece of cloth. When I had that on him, I wrapped him back up in the towel. I laid his body against mine and watched as he fell asleep. He was the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen, and he was mine and Mamãe’s. When he cried, I would sometimes laugh at him since he looked like a wrinkly old man, a very cute, angry, wrinkly old man. I kissed him on the cheek and then tried to sleep.

  Thoughts Aswirl

  2015

  The sound of the pilot’s voice in my headphones wakes me up, and immediately my brain gets to work.

  I know that a part of me is on my way home. Christiana is on her way home. But Christina is leaving home. I suppose that’s how I felt all those years in Sweden: part of me wanted to go home, and part of me was home. I can’t say for sure how I’ll feel after this emotionally charged trip, but I have a hard time believing I won’t feel like I’m coming home when I land in Sweden again. And how will I feel when I land in Brazil? Like I’ve come home? I understand that the country has changed since my time there—I hope for the better. I understand that over time, all places, people, and cultures change, but most of all, we change. I’m not the same person I was then. Just knowing that I’m sitting on this plane, somewhere over the Atlantic, and will land in less than ten hours makes me slightly hysterical.

  Before I left Sweden, I went into overdrive with all the preparations, and I haven’t really allowed myself to let out my thoughts and feelings. I’ve always been a bit of a control freak, and I try to bring some order to my thoughts, try to be aware of what my expectations are, and prepare myself for what I may encounter. I don’t believe that this is about coming home again, but I hope that maybe I’ll be able to build another home. I hope that I’ll feel at home in Brazil. I hope that I’ll get to meet my biological mother, and I hope that in the future I’ll be able to have two homes. I’ve always loved Brazil, even from afar and despite all the bad things that happened to me there. Maybe I’m more worried that I won’t feel at home at all, that I won’t fit in or will stop feeling the positive feelings for the country and the people that I’ve carried inside me for so many years. What happens to all my memories and feelings if my experiences from this trip are exclusively negative? Will the love and joy that I feel disappear if, as an adult, I don’t feel any affinity with the land of my birth? I tell myself to stop thinking about it since I can’t change whatever will be. After all, I decided to put myself through this. But that doesn’t mean I’m in control of the situation. I sigh. OK, Christina, when you get like this, it’s because you’re afraid. So, what are you actually most afraid of? I take a piece of paper and a pen and write down two questions for myself, as I’ve learned to do when everything feels out of control:

  What is the goal of my trip?

  What am I hoping for?

  I start with the first question. The goal is to travel back into my past, to the joy and the sorrow, and confront it. The goal is to visit the orphanage and the slums and the streets where I lived. To find the caves where I spent my first years, and to find my family, especially my mother.

  What am I hoping for? I draw a complete blank—I can’t answer this question at all. But that can’t be right. Obviously, I know what I’m hoping for! Fear of what I will find makes it almost impossible for me to express my hope in words.

  I hope to see my mother . . . As I write this, I feel something catch. I hope I’ll see my mother. Something doesn’t feel entirely genuine in what I’ve written. It feels like I wrote what should be obvious, but the obvious may not be what I really feel. I sense my stress level rise; my body starts to feel hot. Am I a bad person? Of course, I want to find my mother—why wouldn’t I want to? I mean, I’ve been without her, missed her, for twenty-four years. She took care of me, did her best, gave me love, sacrificed herself for me. Is this how I show my gratitude, my love? I turn the question over in my mind. Do you want your mother to be dead? The answer is an immediate no. No, I don’t want my mother to be dead. When I think about it, I am 100 percent certain that that is not what I want. To the contrary, I’ve been afraid for a long time that I would return to Brazil and find out that if I’d only come back a few years earlier, I would have seen her again.

  I mull things over for a while and finally realize that I’m afraid of what will happen if I find her. I already know what happens if I don’t. My life will continue as it has so far. I’ve lived without her for all these years. I’ve lived without my adoptive mother for sixteen years, missing her. If I find out my biological mother has passed away, I already know what the rest of my life will consist of. It will be more years of missing her. But that won’t change very much. It will be almost the way it is now. I can handle my life the way it is now. On the other hand, what scares me about the possibility of finding out she’s alive and being able to see her again after twenty-four years is suddenly having a mother after sixteen years without one. I exhale.

  Somewhere in all these thoughts and feelings, I sense that I’ve found the root of my fear. If Mamãe is alive and we find her, I might have to accept that she might not want anything to do with me. Instinctively, however, I realize that deep down, I don’t believe that. I think of all the times she hugged me, said I was special, that she loves me, and all the laughter and tears we’ve shared. If Mamãe is alive, I don’t need to worry about her not wanting to see me. So, what am I afraid of? What if she’s disappointed in me? But I don’t believe that’s the problem, either. I suddenly realize the problem is me! I’m afraid of the consequences. It’s hard to admit this, because it’s a selfish thought. How will it affect my life if she’s alive? How is she doing? Where does she live? What condition is she in? Does she need looking after, and if she does, can I afford it? How can we make a life work when she lives in Brazil and I have my life in Sweden? How will we communicate when I don’t speak Portuguese anymore and she doesn’t speak a word of Swedish? What happens when Rivia isn’t there to interpret? What if seeing each other doesn’t result in any positive feelings, only negative ones? I have no idea what problems could arise or how I would handle them. It feels like it’s my turn to handle the problems, my turn to take care of her.

  I have no idea what the future will bring if I find my mother, and that’s frightening. I realize that none of what I’ve written matters. All that matters is knowing why I’m scared. And that I’m suppressing a homesickness that a part of me has felt for so many years. I can make do with that. I’ll leave the rest to the future, because whatever will be, will be. I put away my pen and turn off my overhead light. I put my headphones on and decide to watch a feel-good movie. There are eight hours left until we land and my brain is tired, but I’m far too exhilarated to sleep.

  Camile, My Very First Friend

  SÃO PAULO, 1989�
��1991

  I can’t tell you for sure how I met the girl who became my very first friend. I wish I could tell you a lovely, funny story about the first time we met. About how fate brought us together, how the adventure began, and how we forged a strong bond of friendship. But I really can’t remember how she came into my life. It fascinates me that I can’t remember how I met the person who would go on to be so important to me, who would change my life forever. Maybe it isn’t so odd that I can’t remember. After all, it’s impossible to know that the person you’re meeting for the first time is someone you will end up loving.

  Camile is the name of the girl I came to love as a sister. I’m positive that we met in the favela, and I know that through her, I met other kids and found a sense of belonging to a group of friends. I can’t say exactly how long I got to have her in my life, whether our friendship lasted for two months or a year. I didn’t know what time was, just that after every night came a new day. I knew the days had names and the order they came in, but I didn’t know that a month was four weeks long or that there were fifty-two weeks in a year. What I have left of my time with Camile is the memory of various events and things we did together. I have no idea how long we did them or when.

  Camile was a very special girl. She was what I would now call an old soul. Talking to her was sometimes like talking to a grown-up. She could be scary-smart, and she knew things that the rest of us didn’t know. She was a bit older than I was and very pretty. She was unbelievably nice and had the ability to captivate adults and children when she told her stories. Oh, how Camile loved to tell stories. Her eyes would twinkle, and her body language would change. She had theories about all sorts of things. She usually saw things from a new and different perspective. That was what I loved most about Camile. We complemented each other: I was curious and mischievous, and she was wise and stable. I dragged her along on adventures, and she stopped them from ending in disaster. When I think of Camile, it’s with warmth and love, laughter and tears.

  As an adult, I’ve come to understand that the relationships I’ve sought out and built in Sweden have their foundations in what Camile gave me: a friendship based on trust, security, warmth, and respect.

  Camile didn’t usually talk about her parents. It was obvious that she didn’t want to talk about them. Whenever we ran into someone who asked her about her parents, she usually just said she didn’t have any. She never looked sad or made a big deal about it. She simply kept talking as if she’d just answered any old question. But I could tell from her voice that it was a tough subject for her. One evening, we were sitting under the little staircase where we sometimes slept. I asked her about her mother and father. She pulled up her T-shirt and showed me a huge scar that ran from her back to her stomach. Then she said that she didn’t have any parents. I remember that I felt for her. At least I had a mother who loved me and tried to take care of me. So, I gave her my banana. She looked a little sad when she accepted the banana and said that if all she had to do to get food was show people her scar, then she’d walk around without a shirt every day. We laughed, and she broke the banana in two and gave me half.

  During our time together, we made several pacts. We decided to always share the food we found, begged for, or stole. Camile explained to me that this doubled our chances of having food on any given day. We also promised to always help each other if one of us ever wound up in trouble. That’s how Camile was. She taught me what friendship is.

  With the Trash

  The interesting thing about memory is that you don’t always remember how you got to a point or what happened after it. You just know you were there. I know that on this one day this one time, Camile and I were going through the trash at a garbage dump. We were looking for toys, clothes, and anything at all that seemed like something we could use ourselves or could barter with someone else. Camile found a soccer ball that looked very worn, and I found a big, thin metal wheel that was maybe a bicycle wheel. I dug for a while longer and finally found what I was looking for: a long stick.

  I showed Camile my find. She was clutching her soccer ball while I stood up my wheel, holding it upright with the stick. I looked at Camile. She smiled, and I started running, rolling the wheel along in front of me. It was tricky to keep the wheel balanced using the stick, and you couldn’t make any sharp turns because the wheel would fall. After I played with the wheel for a while, Camile wanted to try, too. I took her soccer ball, and she started running. I ran next to her. After a while, she set aside the wheel and started playing with the soccer ball. Barefoot, we kicked the ball back and forth between us. Neither of us had any control over how we kicked it, but we were having so much fun. We pretended that we were on the national team, that we were famous and that everyone wanted to be like us. We were trying to learn to get the ball airborne when we kicked it. In one of my first attempts to get the ball off the ground, I managed to kick it so hard that it rolled away, toward some boys who were at the garbage dump. One of them took the ball and called to two of his buddies that he’d found something. Camile and I ran over to the boys and said it was our ball. The boy holding the ball said that he’d found it, so the ball was his. I walked over and tried to take it, but he pushed me away. I yelled at him that it was our ball.

  Camile didn’t get into fights very often. She would turn a blind eye to things that I found unfair, something I had a hard time doing. On those occasions when Camile did end up in a fight, it was usually because she had to, to help me. Afterward, I would often discover that she was mad at me, especially the times she ended up with bruises all over her body.

  This day was one of those times. I got so mad. That boy was standing there with our ball under his arm. I walked over to him and punched him as hard as I could in the stomach. I managed to get another hit in before the other boys flew at me. Camile started fighting, too, and all of us were rolling around, trying to get in as many punches as we could. When we were finished, or rather when Camile and I had lost the fight, the boys stood up and we sat down on the ground. One of them turned around to see where the ball was. Two new guys were holding the ball. They looked like they were probably about fourteen or fifteen. The ball thief yelled at one of the guys that the ball was his. The guys laughed and said, “Come and take it, then!”

  The boy realized there wasn’t a chance in the world that he would be able to get it back. One of the older boys yelled at the younger ones to get lost. They left, and then Camile and I stood up. The two older guys came toward us. The guy holding the ball held it out to me, winked, and smiled.

  “Here’s your ball, cutie,” he said, and then laughed until he and his buddy walked away.

  I blushed, and a wave of warmth spread through me. It was like sugar around my heart.

  “Camile, he said I was cute.”

  “He must be blind,” she said, looking at me disapprovingly. “How can you be cute when you’re covered in bruises all the time and have a split lip?” She turned away in a huff and trudged off.

  I followed her, smiling. After a bit, I ran and caught up to her. I knew she was mad at me, but I stuck my tongue out and threw the ball to her. She caught it. I grabbed the metal wheel and the stick, and we walked back to the garbage dump. I never said this out loud to Camile, but I remember I felt really foolish for having started that fight, especially since it had been so obvious who was going to come out on top. Without a doubt, I was the more childish of the two of us.

  Certain moments among my memories fill me with joy. That snapshot image, when we were playing and a boy told me I was cute, is one of those moments. Many others I’d rather not remember.

  Why Do You Hurt Us Like This, God?

  There were times when I woke up feeling like it would be a good day. Other mornings, I knew right away that something was off, and thoughts about what kind of misery was going to unfold would hound me the whole day. This was one of those mornings, and Camile was irritated with me for being so negative. I was complaining about everything, from why we lived in this fil
thy part of the city to why God hated us. I wondered why we girls always had to suffer most and why I constantly had to go hungry. My complaining continued for a good long while.

  Santos, who was hanging out with us on this morning, quickly got fed up with my complaining and told Camile that we should come find him when I was in a better mood. Santos was the first boy I really liked. He was a few years older and was always extra nice to me. He dreamed of becoming an airplane mechanic or a pilot. Of course, like so many other street children, he also dreamed of becoming one of the world’s best soccer players. Santos lived in the favela with his mother and stepfather in a little shanty. I met him through Camile, and sometimes we all hung out together and got into mischief. After Santos ran off, I kept droning on to Camile, feeling sorry for myself and complaining about how unfair life was. Suddenly, she crossed her arms and scowled at me.

  “You’re such a ray of sunshine today, my little libélula, my little firefly! If we’re lucky, you’ll scare away half the slum, and we’ll get to keep everything for ourselves.” The sarcasm in her voice was obvious, which annoyed me even more.

  We were walking in silence down the narrow walkways between the shanty houses when suddenly a man came toward us. As we went to pass him, he stood right in front of us and leered one of those gross grins you only see from drunk, horny men. We tried to go around him on the side, but he blocked our way again. In her very firm voice, which always made her sound older than she was, Camile told the man to move out of the way so we could pass. He eyed her with a scornful, haughty look and said, “You’re not going anywhere today, my beautiful girls. You’re coming with me!” As he said it, he took a firm hold of Camile’s arm.

  She tried to get free. I kicked him in the shin as hard as I could while Camile bit his hand. He let go of Camile, but then grabbed me by the hair instead. I screamed. It felt like he was ripping my head in two. I saw Camile pick up a wooden board that was leaning against one of the shanties. She ran at the man and hit him hard on the head, and I felt him release his hold on my hair. Neither Camile nor I waited around to see if he was hurt. We did what we’d done so many times before. We ran as fast as we could. Camile ran in front of me, leading the way. I looked back and saw that the man was following us. I screamed to Camile that he was coming. Camile turned right, then right again, then left. She kept going straight ahead. I was glad she was leading the way, because I had absolutely no sense of direction. Suddenly, she stopped and started pounding on a door.