Never Stop Walking_A Memoir of Finding Home Across the World

by Christina Rickardsson

  Igelausia asks about Patrick—Patrique—and how he’s doing. She proceeds to fill me in on what’s happened at the orphanage since we left. She says that the building I’m in now, which was my old childhood home, serves as a combined preschool and childcare center now, both for the children from the orphanage and for other neighborhood children. The parents drop off and pick up their kids here. She says that the new orphanage is a few blocks away and that later on we’ll walk over there and say hello. She says that the laws have changed in Brazil, and orphanages aren’t allowed to house as many children as they did back in my day. She says that when I lived here, there were almost two hundred children in the orphanage, but that now any one orphanage is allowed to house only twenty children. I smile a little. It feels good to know that I can rely on my memory. She also says that people now try to place the children with members of their own families. If that doesn’t work, then it’s foster care, and if that doesn’t work, adoption is the last alternative.

  She also says that what happened to my brother and me in 1991 couldn’t happen today. I look at her and realize that she knows what happened. I don’t think she would have said that if she thought everything had happened the way it should. I glance at Rivia and then have her ask Igelausia what actually happened when we were adopted.

  Igelausia looks a little more serious now as she talks. My mother came to visit the orphanage with me and Patrique. The orphanage offered to take Patrique and help him, since he was so little and also sick. A month later, they also took me. The people working at the orphanage noticed that everything wasn’t right with my mother. They doubted her ability to take care of her children. When they found out that she had two other sons whom she hadn’t been able to care for, and that that case had gone through the courts, they felt that she was not capable of raising two more children. To save time, instead of filing two separate cases, the courts decided to combine both cases, the one for my two older brothers and the one for me and my little brother. The orphanage knew that it was hard to find adoption placements for older children, so it wanted a quick ruling. My mother didn’t show up for the appointed court date, and that was how she lost custody of all her children. The court prohibited her from visiting me and my brother.

  Igelausia explains what I already know: the court ruling didn’t stop my mother from coming and standing outside the orphanage hollering until she got to see us. She said that as soon as they managed to arrange an adoption for me and Patrique, they needed to make sure we stopped seeing Mamãe, so it would be easier for us children to proceed. But Mamãe kept coming to the orphanage and shouting that she wanted to see us. She did that for a long time. Igelausia glances at me and says that she remembers how it embarrassed me and I found it tiresome. I just nod. She repeats that what happened to us could never happen today. Now, they get in touch with relatives and do everything they can to keep the child in the family. I don’t know what to say to her. I’m not here to blame anyone for what happened. I know that their priority was looking after Patrique’s and my health, and I feel now that this is all in the past. I’m glad to have her explain the whole thing and give me their perspective, but I also have my own perspective and am sure that my family has its own as well. I just wanted to know what had happened here at the orphanage, and now I do. She says that all the court documents are searchable and that she can help me do that. I say that I would really like that.

  We leave her office to tour the orphanage. I ask Rivia to tell her that I want to try to navigate on my own, following my memories. We start by walking to the dining hall and the kitchen. I smile when I find them without any problem. I feel like a giant in a dollhouse, not because the building is small, because it really isn’t, but because everything looks so little now compared to how I remember it from my childhood. The hallways seem narrower and shorter, and the tables in the dining hall look unbelievably tiny. We’re in the room where I ate every day for a year, and I show Rivia where my seat used to be, all the way over by the exit. You never knew when you might need to make a quick exit.

  From the dining hall, we move into the kitchen, where there’s a platter of fruit on a metal table. Huge papayas, pineapples, and avocados. I take an avocado and hold it up to Rivia. But, oh my God, they’re so big, just the way I remember them, not like the little ones we have in Sweden. I remember how I used to pick unripe avocados in the backyard and stash them in the fridge, how I charmed the food service ladies so they would let me do that, and in exchange, I helped them with the cooking in my spare time. I was street-smart, and I’m very aware of where those smarts came from: the fear of not knowing when I would eat again, the awareness that I had to take care of myself and try to think ahead and stockpile so there would be food for me in the future. I ask Rivia to take a picture of me with the gigantic avocado and laugh. If, when I was eight years old, someone had told me that one day I would come back to the orphanage after having lived in a distant land for twenty-four years and be overjoyed to hold a Brazilian avocado, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have believed it.

  Igelausia presents an older woman who works in the kitchen. She says that she used to work in the kitchen back when I lived in the orphanage, but I don’t remember her like I remember Igelausia. Coffee and cookies are produced, and we sit down at a table in the middle of the kitchen.

  After coffee, Rivia, Igelausia, and I stroll up a little hill to the new orphanage. Igelausia lights a cigarette, takes a puff, and continues talking about the new orphanage. Igelausia says that in 2004, it became illegal for any orphanage in Brazil to have more than twenty children, and they had two years to implement that. She continues by saying that in 2006, it was decided that orphanages should be designed so that the children would feel like they were living in a home and not an institution.

  At the top of the hill, we turn left. Igelausia continues to smoke her cigarette. I think about what she’s said. Back in my day, there were almost two hundred children living in the orphanage. What happened to all the children who didn’t get to stay? We reach a black gate, and behind the gate I see a pretty brown building. It pleases me to see that the children live in a building that looks like a house. A woman meets us and opens the gate. I’m carrying the big box containing all the little boxes of chocolates, and I greet her with a smile. I feel myself starting to get a bit nervous. Soon I’m going to meet a bunch of children, children of all ages, children I know have been through terrible ordeals, children I know are going to have a hard time in life. What should I say to them? I take a deep breath and enter the building. Some kids who look like they’re somewhere between ten and sixteen are sitting on a dark-colored sofa. They’re watching TV. When I look more closely, I see that they’re playing a video game. I smile, remembering how we used to watch Xuxa and RoboCop in my day; of course they’re playing a video game now.

  I set down the box with all the chocolates. Igelausia says something to the children. The kids pause the video game, and she explains to the kids who Rivia and I are. I hear how she says my name again, and all the children look at me. I can feel their eyes scrutinizing me from top to bottom. I smile and look them in the eyes. Rivia explains that Igelausia just told the kids I used to live in the orphanage, that I had been adopted by a Swedish couple, and that now I was back to visit.

  While Igelausia chats and Rivia translates, one of the boys from the group catches my interest a little more than the other kids. Something about his eyes, his body language, and the look on his face makes me think back to a little Christiana. I try to figure out what it is about the boy and realize that he’s got street smarts, that he’s a real street kid. I recognize it from where his eyes go, his smile, and how his brain is in overdrive.

  It’s my turn to introduce myself. Rivia translates. I tell them about myself and about what it was like at the orphanage when I lived here. I can see from their faces that they think I speak a funny-sounding language. When I say I’ve brought chocolates and ask if they want them, they nod eagerly. I start handing out the yello
w boxes. I feel so much joy at doing this, but I also feel sad that this is all I have to give them. Some of the kids hug me, and with others I initiate a hug. The little boy gives me a big hug and immediately starts chatting with me. He asks about my language. He wonders why I don’t speak Portuguese. I explain to him that in Sweden, people don’t speak Portuguese, so I’ve forgotten how. He keeps asking me about everything conceivable, and a part of me feels like somehow I know this boy, even though obviously I don’t.

  I had asked Igelausia before if we could chat in a little more depth with some of the kids, the ones who want to. We walk into another room where a couple of girls are waiting. Natali is twelve and Lais is eleven. We form a little ring, Rivia, Natali, Lais, and I. Here I am, sitting with these two incredibly sweet girls, and what had at first seemed like such a good idea now doesn’t feel right. I have no training when it comes to talking to kids who’ve experienced trauma. I’m not a psychologist. What if what I’m doing now is somehow harmful to the girls? How can I just ask them to give me something without giving anything back? I decide that I have something different from the knowledge education can give—I have experienced the world these girls grew up in. I brace myself for what I know will be an emotional time if the girls trust us and open up. I glance over at Rivia and tell her that what we’re going to hear now will be heartrending and tough. I contemplate for a moment how I should say the next thing to her. Rivia is an unbelievably empathetic and thoughtful person, and she might start crying, which I know isn’t what these children need. Rivia is going to be in a tough spot, because she has to translate. That means she’s not only going to listen to what the girls have been through, but she’s also going to have to retell it. I inform Rivia that no matter what the girls tell us, we cannot start crying. We can show that we sympathize with them, but if they don’t cry, we absolutely cannot cry. I know that what I’ve just told her sounds heartless, but I’m thinking of what’s best for the girls. Rivia and I can deal with our feelings about whatever we’re going to hear later, but not in front of the girls. I realize that asking these children to trust a total stranger with their life stories and all the troubles they’ve been through is asking a lot. I decide that I must and that I want to give them a part of me, a part of my story.

  I ask them if they want to hear my story, what I went through before I was adopted. They do. I start recounting, and the girls sit transfixed. When I tell them about my time in the favela, I see them nod knowingly. That makes me sad, because that means they’ve experienced the same pain. I know I don’t need to elaborate to make what I’m saying real. They understand.

  When I give lectures in Sweden, I try to paint a detailed picture for my audience so they can really understand what happened on the streets. When I tell these girls about Camile, my voice breaks, and Natali stretches out her little hand and puts it on mine for a brief moment. Natali is the first to ask questions, questions about my new home and country. I take out my phone and show them some pictures. The girls look, curious. I know what they’re thinking, that they’ll never have this life. It gets to me a little, and the thought that maybe I’m doing more harm than good pops into my mind again. They ask me whether I’ve thought about learning Portuguese, and whether I’ve ever thought about adopting a child. Natali asks me if I did adopt, would I adopt a baby or an older child. I respond that I would probably adopt an older child since most people just want to adopt younger children. I tell her that I was older when I was adopted and that I know what that means. She seems satisfied with my answer.

  Natali starts telling her story first. She says she lived in the favela for five years, that her mother is poor, and what little money they had went for the alcohol her father drank. He was always drunk, and Natali had to take care of her siblings—two sisters and a brother. She describes how her father abused her mother and her siblings, how she tried to protect them but that it wasn’t easy. Now her siblings have been adopted to Italy, and she misses them very much. They told her she was too old and that in Italy you couldn’t adopt a child over a certain age, so she was left behind. She says that her brother is four and her sisters are seven and nine. She hopes she’ll see them again but doesn’t know if she will. I can see that it’s hard for Natali to talk about this, but also that she’s steeled herself for this discussion. A solitary tear runs down her cheek, and I feel like my heart is going to burst. I recognize that solitary tear so well. There’s so much behind one of those tears, a river of pain, loss, and longing. I feel a tear run down my cheek, and it’s my turn to stretch out my hand and hold hers. But it doesn’t feel like enough, so I lean over and hug her. There’s so much I want to give her, so much love, but I don’t really know how. I want to say that it will be OK and that life will get better. But lying isn’t the right way to go. She would know, and I would feel like a fraud. So, I let go and let her continue. She tells me that she misses her mother, that she thinks her mother abandoned them, because she hasn’t seen her for many years. It occurs to me that her mother might not even be alive anymore, but I keep this thought to myself. She suddenly lights up and says that she’s learning capoeira and that she’s the only girl in the orphanage who is. She says that she loves hanging out and doesn’t like making her bed. Rivia and I laugh, and I tell Natali that I’m not a big fan of bed making, either.

  Now it’s Lais’s turn. The pretty young girl with short hair and glasses glances at me and Rivia, and smiles a bit modestly. She’s the shy one. You can hear it in her voice and see it in her body language. Her hands rest on her thighs, and her fingers are interlaced. She takes a deep breath and explains that she lived with her mother, who couldn’t take care of her and her siblings. She says that her mother worked long hours at a shopping mall and was almost never home. Her stepfather, whom she lived with, beat her and her seven siblings. She tells us that she loves all her siblings and that she knows who they all are, except for the youngest one. Lais says that she lived with her biological father for a while, but he used a lot of drugs, so she had to go back to her mother. She explains that her stepfather wound up in jail, but her mother helped him get out. Her mother often got home from work around midnight, so Lais had to take care of her siblings. When she told her mother that her stepfather hit her and her siblings, her mother didn’t believe her. Lais looks sad and glances down at her hands. She says that she thinks it’s strange that her mother didn’t believe her. That’s what her life was like until she was eight, when a social worker came and got her. Lais says that she likes it here at the orphanage, and she likes the other kids. When I ask her what she hopes for, she says that she really wants to see her youngest sibling, her sister. “I’d like to see her at least once,” she says. When I ask what she wants to be when she grows up, she smiles and says a ballerina.

  The Fairy-Tale Land of Sweden

  1991

  It was midsummer when I first arrived at my new home in Sweden, a red house with a “No. 6” by the door, with white trim and a brown fence around the whole yard. I remember that even though I had been completely devastated by my departure from the orphanage, I had started to accept the change after the five weeks in Brazil I spent with my new parents, Lili-ann and Sture, while everything was finalized for our departure to Sweden. However, I still hadn’t fully understood what had happened. I think there’s a limit to how much pain and sadness a person can handle at one time. I would be lying if I said that I was sad when I saw the house. After all, I’d never had a real home before. This was my and Patrique’s—or Patrick as he would be called now—new home, and my curiosity took over.

  I walked into the house, and I can’t describe the overwhelming emotion. We were rich! I was going to live with rich people. The first thing Lili-ann did was show me my room. I remember it as if it were yesterday, stepping into it for the first time. The wallpaper was white with a little pink and blue, and it wasn’t smooth. It had little bumps that you could scrape off with your fingernails or with something sharp. Later, after I’d lived there for a while, I made p
atterns on the wallpaper by scraping away the little textured bumps. I had a white desk, white wardrobe cupboards, and on the far wall, my bed. It was an old-fashioned daybed that had a knob in the middle of the headboard. My first thought was that this couldn’t be my room. I mean, I’d seen the picture in the photo album. My bed was bigger, and it looked fluffy and had a white comforter that went all the way down to the floor. In the middle of the ceiling over the bed was a canopy made of see-through fabric that shrouded the bed like a little house, and it had pretty, fluffy pillows. Nothing looked like it had in the picture. I tried to ask where my real bed was. Finally, I took out the photo album I had been given at the orphanage and showed Lili-ann the picture of the bed. I pointed to the picture and then to me. Lili-ann understood and shook her head and pointed to the bed in the room, and then to me. I didn’t even try to hide my disappointment. My princess bed, which was one of the few things I had been looking forward to, had been faked. I’d been tricked. I felt stupid, but I was also angry. Like Camile had said, you couldn’t trust white people.