Never Stop Walking_A Memoir of Finding Home Across the World

by Christina Rickardsson

  “It’s a little harder to climb than I remember, but it’s going fine,” I yell back.

  Finally, I reach the top. From here, I can see the countryside spread out around me. I know that there are lots of beautiful places on earth, but at the moment, I can’t think of any that can touch the wilderness around Diamantina, the clear blue of the sky meeting the green of the forest. Even if I’m no longer a cave girl, I’m happy that I feel such a strong sense of kinship with this place. An overwhelming sense of joy and peace fills me. This is a part of me, and I am a part of this. I laugh and wave to Mamãe and Rivia. I yell down to them how extraordinarily beautiful it is up here, and Rivia responds that Mamãe says I should be careful.

  If I’ve ever doubted where I got my stubbornness from, I won’t need to do so anymore, because during these days I’ve seen the same pigheadedness in my mother that I see in myself. I’m up on the top, and she’s standing down below me, yelling. It’s nice—funny, but nice—to have a mother again and as an adult woman to hear what to do and not do. I can get used to this, I think, and untie the Brazilian flag that I’ve had around my waist.

  I spread my feet on top of the cliff, grab the ends of the flag, and let the wind catch the fabric. I feel the flag fluttering and tugging behind me. I scream at the top of my lungs. I laugh, and I scream again. It feels good. Finally, I’m standing on a mountain peak and screaming at the top of my lungs. It occurs to me that maybe I’ve never been able to really scream before because I haven’t been on top of the right mountain.

  As I stand here, looking back on everything that’s happened to me, I can see the beauty in it. I can see the good in it despite everything I’ve had to fight for. It has hurt, it has been hard, but of course there have been wonderful moments, filled with joy and love. I can suddenly see something beautiful in the dark times. It probably would have been different if I’d been standing here on this mountain with only Rivia looking up at me. But my mother is here now, and it feels like we’ve come full circle. I found the woman who in eight years gave me enough love, courage, and strength to keep me walking forward through my life. It will have to do.

  Life sees to it that we lose everything, and one day I will lose my biological mother again, but the memories I will take with me are most of all the uplifting memories of how she helped me buck up, again and again. I stand here as a grown-up on top of my mountain and look at her, seeing her problems with one of her hips and knowing she needs to take insulin for diabetes and pills for schizophrenia. Still, when she talks to me with her calmness, and even though God and Jesus and my dead father come to visit her, wisdom and love are there nevertheless. Right now, I wouldn’t want to change any part of my life, because that would mean changing other parts, parts that have caused me to grow and made me into who I am today.

  I wave again to Mamãe and Rivia, and laugh. I decide to scream one more time.

  Back to Northern Sweden

  2015

  I’m standing at the baggage claim at the airport in Umeå, Sweden, waiting for my trunk of a suitcase to show up. I flew the last leg, from Stockholm to Umeå, by myself. Rivia is heading off to two weddings. How she can be up for that after the trip we’ve just been on is a mystery to me. But I suppose she’s a true Amazon, and I guess they can handle just about anything. I see my bag, and I struggle to lift it off the baggage carousel. I tip it up onto its little wheels and pull it toward the exit. Even though it’s about nine o’clock at night, it isn’t dark yet. I walk out of the terminal and search for a familiar metallic-blue Volvo. Fredrik, a skydiving friend, offered to pick me up. I didn’t know whether I’d be lonely when I came back from my trip, and now that I see him, I’m glad I texted him from the airport in Stockholm and asked him to come. I climb into the car. Fredrik closes the trunk and gets in behind the wheel, starts the car, and drives out of the airport, heading toward my apartment. He asks how my trip was, and I give him a look of exhaustion. “We’ll talk about it after we get you home,” he says, and I nod. While he drives, I look at him. There was a time when I was in love with this man and he with me. We made a mess of that, but we’ve managed to hold on to the friendship.

  Once we’re up in my apartment, we sit on my gray sofa, and he puts his arm around me. During my trip, there wasn’t time to stop and process my thoughts and emotions. It’s going to take a long time for me to sift through all the new information, all the new thoughts and feelings that have come up but also through the old ones that have always been there. But I get out my computer and show him all the pictures from the trip. I try to explain what happened, answer all his questions, and we laugh and cry together. I’m glad to be sharing this with a friend who knows me well. I wouldn’t have wanted to be alone this evening.

  We sleep, and when I wake up in the morning, I say goodbye to Fredrik and sit back down on my sofa. Suddenly everything is so peaceful. I have no appointments to keep, nowhere I need to be, no new place I need to see, no new people I need to meet. I look around my apartment and note that it is light, airy, fresh, and clean. Wonderful! So, now what, Christina? It’s completely quiet, eerily quiet. Where is all the noise—traffic noise, construction noise, people talking, cars honking, loud music? Has Umeå always been this quiet? Has Umeå always been this lonely? A familiar panic begins to creep over me. Everything feels so strange. I’m home, I feel like I’m home, but now I have another home. I take a deep breath, and my whole body starts itching as I sit there on my sofa.

  I pick up the phone and call Maja. Maja already welcomed me home. I talked to her on the phone when I landed in Stockholm. She’s home in Röbäck with the kids, Harry and my little goddaughter, Greta. She’s making lunch and wonders if I want to come over. I jump into my shoes, lunge for my car keys, and jog down the stairs and out the door.

  Ten minutes later, I take the E4 across the beautiful Ume River, which glitters where the sunlight hits the surface. Once I reach Maja’s house, I turn off the engine and wander up to her front door. I knock a bit quietly, mostly for show, but I don’t wait for anyone to open the front door. Instead, I just walk in. Harry runs to me with his arms out, crying, “Kicki, Kicki, Kicki!” I squat down and exclaim, “Harry, Harry, Harry!” and Harry runs right into my arms and hugs me. The best love you can get. Then Greta comes. “Titti, Titti, Titti!” Another hug. Maja comes to the door and gives me a big hug. God, how I needed this!

  We walk into the kitchen, and I sit down at the kitchen table and start recounting. I could never have imagined how much this trip would affect me. Getting to share this with my friends is my salvation.

  By the next day, I’ve adjusted to the silence a little more, and although I miss Brazil and my family, it’s nice to be home again. I decide to bike into the city and go to Åhlén’s, the department store, to do something normal and mundane.

  I’m looking at some throw pillows when I run into an old high school friend. “Hey, Christina!” she says, and smoothly steps out from behind her stroller to give me a hug. I smile but feel really tired and not up to chatting with anyone, so I hope she doesn’t ask too many questions. “That was some trip you took,” she says, mentioning that she followed me on Instagram. “Tell me everything,” she continues.

  I smile a little and say that that would probably take too long. I change the topic. She takes the bait and starts talking about the new house they’re building. Evidently a feud has arisen between them and one of the families that will be their new neighbors. She gives me an extremely detailed blow-by-blow description of the drama and finishes by saying that she threatened to file a police report. I feel the small amount of energy I had managed to regain after my trip being sucked right out of me. The person in front of me just keeps talking about some road that was built ten years ago, neighbors, and petty disputes. I cut her short in midsentence and say, “Hey, I’ve just returned from an orphanage where the kids hardly have a future. The kids there told me about how their parents mistreated them, how adults have abused and exploited them, how they’ve been separated
from the siblings they love, and how they don’t know whether they’ll ever get to see them again. One little boy watched his father be murdered. People dumped gasoline on him and set him on fire. So, you know what? I’m not really up to hearing about first-world problems at the moment.”

  She stares at me, her eyes wide, and I realize that I should have handled this whole thing more tactfully. She says, “Oh my God, how terrible!” and continues. “That’s just what I’m trying to say. I sent the lady next door a text where I said just that, that there are children starving on the other side of the world, and that we shouldn’t . . . ,” and then she gets going again. I interrupt her and say that I have a meeting to get to.

  This is one of the things I’ve had a hard time understanding and getting used to growing up. We live in such different realities. If you’ve always lived in a safe and secure world, with a house and money, a mother and a father, children and a husband, a social safety net, access to healthcare, without war—the list can get quite long—then it seems to be so hard to understand and see things from the perspective of someone living in a much harder and more dangerous reality.

  Back home in my lovely, quiet apartment, I take out a pen and a pad of paper. I write: What do I want to do with my life? Beneath that, I write: Change. Find balance in life. Help other people.

  A bit later, I call Rivia and ask if she can come over so we can Skype Mamãe.

  Rivia comes almost right away. She asks if I have the phone number, and I read it to her while she types it into Skype. With mixed emotions, I sit and listen to the ringtone. I wonder if Vitoria or Mamãe will answer, if anyone will answer at all. Vitoria answers, and Rivia explains who she is. She gives me a look of encouragement, and in faltering Portuguese I manage to say, “Hi, Vitoria, it’s Christina.” Vitoria greets me and keeps on talking. Rivia interprets. Vitoria says everyone is doing well. She wonders when I’ll be back to visit, and I respond that I’ll come as soon as I have the time and the money. I tell Rivia that I’d like to speak to Mamãe. Rivia asks for Mamãe. I hear Vitoria chatting with Mamãe and explaining that Rivia and I are on the phone. I hear Mamãe’s voice, and I smile. I say, “Hi, Mamãe, how are you doing?” in Portuguese, and Rivia smiles at me encouragingly. Mamãe responds, and it’s a little hard to make out what she says. Rivia steps in to help. I ask how Mamãe is doing and if she got to see her girlfriend in Diamantina. She’s doing well but didn’t get to visit with her girlfriend. She tells me that the next time I come down, we’ll go to the cave and make ourselves a meal there. I smile and say that I’m really looking forward to it. Mamãe says we can sleep there. I say, “Hmm,” but think to myself that maybe I’m not really looking forward to spending the night outdoors with poisonous snakes, spiders, scorpions, and centipedes in the dark—not as much as Mamãe seems to be. Mamãe is happy when I say that we’ll visit our cave again, and she quickly says that my last visit was far too short. She keeps chatting, and Rivia looks at me. I can tell from her face that she is complaining about me a little. Instead of translating all of that, Rivia summarizes what she said. “She’s disappointed that you didn’t stay longer, that you didn’t stay for her birthday, that you’re not there now. She wonders when you’re coming back.” I respond that I’ll come as soon as I can and have money. Mamãe says that I have four trillion, so I can come when I want. Rivia and I can’t help but laugh. The idea that everyone who lives in Sweden is filthy rich has apparently reached my family. I try to explain to Mamãe, but Rivia says there’s no point. Obviously, I already know that, but for the sake of my own conscience, I still want to try. I don’t want her to feel like I don’t want to see her.

  I promise Mamãe I’ll be back as soon as I have the time and money for it. I promise to stay several weeks the next time I come down, and I promise to call her once a month. After I tell her I love her, miss her, and that we’ll talk again soon, we hang up. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then my eyes meet Rivia’s. A thousand emotions are rushing through me. Incredible! I just talked to my mother in Brazil. It’s magical! We’re in touch now. Rivia smiles and says that it’s time for me to get to work on my Portuguese.

  There’s a warmth in my body, but so many thoughts are swirling around in my head. Of course, everything isn’t suddenly easy and uncomplicated. I start to realize that for as many problems as the trip solved, just as many new ones have arisen. How am I going to communicate with my mother? I mean, I want to get more out of our contact. How can I provide for her? Are they expecting that of me? Am I expecting that of myself? How can I stay in touch with my family? I mean, my life is here, in Sweden, at least right now. But the most positive of all is that I feel like I’ve already been changed by my trip and by meeting people and experiencing Brazil. I’m filled with the sensation of having two homes, two worlds—and the two people who are both me can maybe finally be interwoven into one. I don’t believe that life is about finding yourself. For me, life is about creating your own reality. And I ask myself this question: Who do I want to be?

  A few months later, that question is easier to answer. I have started my own company. I’ve started doing public speaking, which includes telling people my history, among other things. I want to work on the issues of identity, prejudice, culture clashes, and multicultural issues, and I want to inspire others. I’ve started a foundation that will work with vulnerable children and teenagers, in Brazil among other places. We have already started collaborating with my orphanage in São Paulo. I want to contribute to something besides helping the world consume more. My meeting with the kids at the orphanage made it clear to me that I have to do this.

  I’m so happy and proud to be both Brazilian and Swedish and to represent both cultures. I have felt a sense of guilt and shame my whole life, been so hard on myself, felt like I had to handle everything on my own. But now as I think of who I am today, I’m actually pleased with myself. My God, I’m far from perfect. I have plenty of flaws, and I’ve done things I regret and things I’m ashamed of. But on the whole, I’m pleased with myself. I’m not just Swedish; I’m also Brazilian, and it feels amazing. I have had and continue to have a good life. I’ve received more than I could hope for, both good and bad. This has shaped me into a person who, after many years, I can accept and like. I’ve accepted that what has happened, has happened. The hardest thing has been forgiving myself for what I’ve done, but also what I’ve believed I’ve done. Coming to terms with myself is a long journey, and I feel like I’m on my way.

  Afterword

  I’ve heard that a decently long human life lasts for about 650,000 hours. I’ve spent a little more than 70,000 hours of my life in Brazil’s streets and slums, and in the wilderness around Diamantina. If I get to live a long life—a whole 650,000 hours—that will mean that I will have lived more than a tenth of my life destitute, struggling every day to survive.

  I cannot say today that I’m angry that I was adopted, but I was and remain upset that I never got to say goodbye to my birth mother, that no one ever explained to me what adoption would entail until it was too late for me to make my own choice. I’m angry that my mother didn’t receive any assistance, that she was left on the streets to her fate. I’m furious at a society that chose and continues to choose to just look away or not to look at all. More than two hundred million people live in Brazil today, and I wonder how many million individuals, how many million children, are being raped and beaten and how many are huffing glue to deaden the hunger that kills so many far too soon. How many of them have given up hope, accepted that they’re not worth anything, and turned to crime? How many of these people could we save? How many do we want to save?

  Where is the morality in a society that lines up innocent children and guns them down in cold blood? What does society expect abused, vulnerable children to grow up and become? Well-adjusted, contributing citizens? These children are growing up with their souls crushed. They will act out based on what they’ve learned. Why should they make any effort when no one has ever made any effort for th
em? And yet they give so much of themselves. Trust must be earned, and that seems to be something that Brazil has not understood. Rather than building trust, the country has built walls to separate the rich from the poor.

  There are times when I think back, when I relive experiences and recall things that happened, that I’m ashamed to be a human being. How can people allow such things to go on? I feel angry at a country and at a people who just shut their eyes to the suffering around them. But most of all, I’m angry and sad that they choose not to see the value in all human beings, in all the beauty that is there.

  It’s easy to say things without reflecting. People have told me that I must be strong to have done so well despite the tough life I’ve had, that I’m surely a better person after all I’ve been through. I can’t say that I’m strong. I can’t say that I’m weak, either, no weaker than anyone else. I’ve just handled the various situations that life has given me as well as I could or dared.

  Why should what I’ve been through make me a better person? Sure, at times I may have a more firsthand understanding of what some people go through in life. But why should my experiences make me a better person? What I’ve gone through, experienced, and seen has hurt my soul. It’s given me baggage that I’ve been afraid to share with the people I care about, baggage that could have made me hateful. Over the years, I’ve tried not to go down that path. But shouldn’t a child who’s gone through what I have, grow up to be hateful and not a better person? Would it really be so strange if I were more wicked than good? People sometimes tell me that they could never have made it through what I’ve been through, but the truth is that millions of people go through similar experiences, and much worse, every day. We humans are amazing creatures! We’re built to take significantly more than we think we can. But we’re often selfish, and when everything comes to a head, when it’s a matter of survival, most people choose to fight at the expense of others. I wish I hadn’t had to witness this. I’m neither bad nor good, better nor worse. I’m a human being, just like all the rest who carry this kind of heavy baggage. But I did receive something fundamental that all people need: the knowledge that there’s love and that extreme poverty does not prevent love. My biological mother, my brother, Camile, and Patricia taught me that in Brazil. My adoptive mother and father and my good friends in Sweden did, too.