For my Leadership in Action project this summer, I went to Rio de Janeiro to volunteer for Catalytic Communities, a non-profit that is working alongside favela community organizers to grant favelas collective ownership of their land through Community Land Trusts. As is probably the case with many other Laidlaw scholars, I find it incredibly difficult to summarize my experience in just a few words.
But I’ll start off by saying that this project came at a very existential time of my life. I suppose it is natural as graduation begins to loom, the thought of what comes next bleakly following every action of mine. The uncertainty was inescapable as I tried to contemplate what was my place in the world.
Being thrust into a completely new city, the customs and the language entirely unfamiliar, certainly did not help this crisis of mine. At first, at least.
I had spent some time learning Portuguese, but nothing could have prepared me for how rapidly Brazilians speak. I would simply stare blankly into people as I tried to decipher what exactly they were saying. Those who have spoken to another in a foreign language know: there is something tangible in the air when the meaning is lost on you, something that you cannot understand and yet know is missing. It is the same feeling when you read a translated novel, a sort of haunting of emptiness.
And yet, there is an indescribable joy when you finally reach that moment of understanding, even if it is a vague one of nods and smiles. A complete coincidence if you think about it; connecting with this stranger you did not know of who was once thousands of miles away, living a life different from your own, and now you stand inches apart, held together by a few scattered words. That miracle of connection, that mundanely human moment entranced me.
I think when living somewhere you call home, you forget all this; everything becomes routine, inconsequential. But when stolen away from it, it is as if you are reborn as a child, the world a limitless curiosity to examine with wide eyes.
As a student studying politics and international relations, I am always thinking in the abstract, of systems and institutions so impossibly vast that I would not dare to understand their endless complexities, let alone challenge and change them. But I had little time to think of such things when I was dedicated to learning how to properly order food and click the right options on the grocery store checkout without triggering some sort of catastrophe. I was wholly immersed in Rio de Janeiro during my LiA. My eyes lingered on every wonder possible, on the greenery that nestled the white concrete buildings and drank in the waves crashing on the rocks, the sand stretching for miles, dotted with the colorful garb of the vendors and their calls, the heavenly coxinha de frango with its crispy dough and spicy chicken insides, the sprawling urban rainforests filling the air with birdsong and leaving my skin sticky with humidity, but most importantly, the people.
I don’t consider myself much of a people person, but in Brazil, that is simply not possible. Every person on the street utters a greeting to you until it becomes second nature to reply back with bom dia and boa tarde and boa noite (and inevitably mix them up). Even with my terrible Portuguese, people were eager to talk, to learn more about where I come from and offer recommendations. It was lively in a way I have never known.
And when the World Cup games came around, the streets would swell with hordes in yellow and green, cheering for their country and, of course, switching off the ads during halftime to dance with those around them instead. Psychologists often talk of deindividuation in a negative connotation, but there is a sort of liberation when you are caught in the surge of the crowd. You become one with this heaving, joyous mass (smelling a bit too much like beer); your worries are lost and your moments of happiness are shared by everyone. Such an event, however, is not the only place with this exhilarating atmosphere.
For my internship, I visited quite a few favelas to help conduct community workshops. Alongside other non-profit staff, I would often have to venture at least an hour outside the city center, to places that were neglected and impoverished, and yet were bustling with life. It was at one of these workshops where I witnessed that feeling of unity and the glimmer of change in action.
We were situated semi-outdoors, the community center constructed with bamboo and facing the lush green of the mountains. It had just rained so dirt squelched under our feet while we trudged up the hill. People began to trickle in and assemble into rows of plastic orange seats as we set up a makeshift projector and loaded up the presentation. Even before we began, I was wrapped up in the camaraderie that infused the gathering. Attendees were trading stories and joking with each other, coffee and cakes were handed out freely, and many (and I mean many) hugs and kisses were exchanged in greetings.
Once everyone settled down, the plans for the construction of the new community center were presented by CatComm members. Initially, I thought the various pictures of the interior would be passed by quickly, enough for a cursory glance. But then, papers were handed out to everyone and preparations for a vote began. At the animated debate that soon commenced (in extremely quick Portuguese), I realized that the community was deciding on how exactly they wanted the interior to look, from major decisions to the separation of the rooms to minute details like the colors of the window frames.
I was shocked. I had volunteered for a non-profit in my hometown constructing a similar community center and though passionate fundraisers were held for the wider populace, it was the insular board that decided how exactly to allocate the funds and design the interior. Here, it was the opposite. The funds came from the non-profit and the people made the decisions. I had never seen before the energy of people united, working toward a singular goal, and I was enamored.
Later, one of the non-profit staff told me that it had taken years to get to that point. Creating change starts off slowly, he said, terribly slowly. Though the people eventually come together, it is often only a few individuals that bear the burden of organizing from the ground up and committing themselves to an ideal despite the sleepless nights and tireless days it would force them into. The community leaders I met were exhausted, constantly running to and fro, but the people looked to them for guidance, and in their integrity and ceaseless dedication, I saw my future. A vague notion still, but a path parted for me in the mists.
Strangely enough, that very day as I read on the metro, I stumbled on this paragraph:
“Things don’t have a purpose, as if the universe were a machine, where every part has a useful function. What’s the function of a galaxy? I don’t know if our life has purpose and I don’t see that it matters. What does matter is that we’re a part. Like a thread in a cloth or a grass-blade in a field. It is and we are. What we do is like wind blowing on the grass.” (Ursula K. Le Guin, Lathe of Heaven, 1971)
At the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey, there is a dizzying sequence of the universe and its swirling planets that renders humanity nearly insignificant in its vastness. And yet, I walked away from that film affirmed in the meaning, or rather the lack of meaning, of my existence. Somehow, knowing that my actions will not result in the end of the world (per se) assures me. I want to go into the world to improve my community, to run food drives and grow gardens and create art to share with everyone, to improve my languages so I can speak to more people, to learn from other perspectives and bring them together. There will always be those who lose hope, but I want to be the one who perseveres to incite that change, however small it may be.
What we do is like wind blowing on the grass, but the grass bends regardless, does it not? And in that minute movement, I find my purpose.