A Lesson in Culture II: Furro Love (Tiffany Thomas: Maceio, Brazil)

June is a party month in Brazil. Throughout the month, there are many (and I mean MANY) parties to celebrate the saints. These saint holidays began as Catholic holidays but are now permanent markers of the culture and everyone celebrates the saint holidays, despite religious affiliation. The most popular way to celebrate the saint holidays is to have a Furro party. At Furro parties, people dress in the traditional garb and dance the traditional dances of the culture. The word ´´Furro´´ is a rather new term that developed in the midst of WWII. During WWII, the US built a base in Brazil and in an attempt to make the American soldiers feel welcome at the Saint parties, the people put signs outside of the doors that read, ´´For All Parties.´´ Over the years ´´For All´´ has been shortened and Brazilianized to ´´Farro.´´ I have been to quite a few Furro parties this past month. And I can say that times have not changed since WWII. The people have gone out of their way to make me feel welcome at their parties. They have this welcoming attitude not just at parties, but always. I have never experienced hospitality like I have experienced it here. These people have taught me to break down the barriers that I put up against strangers and outsiders. They have shown me how to love all people, not just the ones that I am close to. We have been filled with God´s love and this love is for all.

Complex Complexion: Musings on Race in Brazil

From a Discussion about race with a 25 yr old Brazilian woman:

Janile: I am branca [white]. But because I have mixed ancestry and my skin isn’t so white I am really morena [brown/mixed]. But because my skin is not so dark I am considered white.

Me: what am I?

Janile: You are negra but no one would call you negra. Black people take offense to being called negro. It isn’t offensive, it is a racial category but all black people call themselves moreno, not negro. I think they should call themselves negro because that’s what they are.


From a discussion with Pastor about race:

Pastor: what is the black to white ratio in your church at home?

Tiffany: it is 99.999 % black. What is it at your church?

Pastor: Ehh, everybody is mixed.




Race is a very complex subject in Brazil; it is almost incomprehensible. It is difficult for me to understand the complexities of race in Brazil because race in the United States is very objective. In the US, during the slave era and immediately following, laws were made to keep European Colonists (and their descendents) from mixing with the slaves (and their descendants). Of course, mixing did take place and laws were made to regulate the lives of those of mixed ancestry, referred to by many as “the one drop rule.” Law dictated that anyone with any definable or discernable African ancestry was considered black, and thus subject to the oppression and subjugation reserved for black people. No matter how light you were, if you descended from black people, you were black. This division in the US society birthed the black culture. The black culture extends far beyond skin color. When I say, “I am black” I am not just talking about my complexion. I am talking about an identity with a community of people with a shared history.
But in Brazil it is different. First, Brazilians classify race differently than Americans. There are three commonly used terms to talk about race: “Bronco” for white, “Moreno” for brown or mixed, and “Negro” for black (excluding the terms for people of Indigenous “Indios” or Asian descent “Pardo” which together make up less than 1% of the population*). Classifying race is done by the color of skin, rather than ancestry. A person with two black parents could be classified as white. As my conversation with the Brazilian woman suggests, race classification is very fluid. Second, racial mixing is very common. Unlike in the US, racial mixing is considered a good practice. Because intermixing is a common and a generally accepted practice, many Brazilians assert that race does not exist (as seen from the conversation with the Pastor). The statistics that haunt Brazil would scream the contrary. The majority of the poor in Brazil are nonwhite, and, the majority of those who are educated are white.* The question I have been pondering is: how is it that race does not exist but racism does?
Race does exist in Brazil. I, and my colleagues, have experienced race while being here in Brazil. When we walk down the street, our beautiful dark skin seems to glow, attracting all of the eyes of passersby, as if we were mythical creatures read about only in books but never seen in real life. The first question many people ask upon meeting us is, “Are you from Bahia?” Bahia is a state that has a high concentration of black people. When we were in a small village, little children followed us around making African tribal sounds because they assumed we were from Africa. I can attest to the fact that race does exist. Moreover, racism is an issue. I have seen, with my own eyes, the positive correlation between dark skin and poverty. My goal is to develop the vocabulary to have a serious conversation with the Pastor about race in Brazil.

* Telles, Edward. Race In Another America: The Significance of Skin Color in Brazil. New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2004.

Fighting the Fear

If I were to do an honest analysis of myself I would have to state that I have a lot of growing to do as a minister. Effective ministry is the ability to make human connections with conviction, enthusiasm, and boldness. I have conviction. I have enthusiasm. I lack boldness, particularly when the humans I am supposed to connect with are different from me. When I meet people who are sick, deformed, dirty, my first instinct is to back away, not to move forward with open arms. It takes a lot of courage for me to do the opposite of what my instincts are telling me to do. Two particular incidents allowed me to see this weakness within myself:


I had the opportunity to visit a boy who suffered from cleft-lip and palate, his lips and teeth were completely misshapen. He was a very pleasant boy and he loved to sing. He was very excited to have visitors and he performed two or three songs for us. For the majority of the visit I looked down at the floor, studying the dirt. I did not stare at him because I did not want to be rude. More importantly, I looked down in order to control the impulse to run away. But I realized that in looking down at the floor I was being more hurtful and harmful in the situation than I would if I stared at him. So, I worked up the nerve to look into his eyes. His eyes were so bright and he was so happy. I could see that he was genuinely happy to have company and to be able to sing for an audience. When I finally put my self aside, I gained a connection with an amazing boy that I would not have had otherwise.

Also, I had the opportunity to meet the oldest woman in Cha Preta, Brazil. She was 103 years old. When we went to meet her I was petrified by her appearance. She was very thin and frail, and, there was just an empty socket where her right eye should have been. After glancing at her from the living room, my legs became cemented to floor and I could not bring myself to enter the bedroom. But the pastor insisted that I come in and take a picture with her. I swallowed my fear, entered the room, and said hello. She said hello back and articulated delight to meet Americans. Then, we took a picture together. I’m thankful for the opportunity to meet her and make a connection with her because she died the next day.

These two incidents showed me that a shepherd cannot be afraid of sheep. There is no place and there is no time for fear.

*The accompanying pictures have been removed out of respect for the people. I do not want to confuse presentation with exploitation. For further information about the Cleft-lip and Palate condition please visit www.hopkinsmedicine.org/craniofacial/Gateway/CleftLip.cfm*

A Lesson in Culture Part I: Afro-Brazilian Worship

I recently had the opportunity to observe an Umbanda worship ceremony. The Umbanda religion is a mixture of ancient tribal African beliefs as well as Christian beliefs. The worship service I attended was extremely fascinating. The service took place in a house with a large open room in the front. In the corners of the room were two altars that stood opposite one-another. The altar on the left consisted of red objects and images that I am unfamiliar with. The altar on the right consisted of statues of Jesus, Mary, and various saints of the Christian tradition. The participants of the service were primarily females of various ages. The leader of the group was a woman dressed in white; she was introduced to me as a Holy Woman. They began the worship service by kneeling at the altar to the right. Next, they began chanting and singing in a circle. Afterward, they began to dance and sing in a circle until a deity or spirit possessed one of them. When a person became possessed, they moved to the center and began to prophesy to and greet each person in the room. John the Baptist was one of the spirits possessed a woman and greeted me. Unfortunately, due to the language barrier, I have no idea what he said. I really wish I had a better understanding of Portuguese!

I am not sure what to make of the worship service but I am glad that I was able to witness it. I want to say I believe that the worshipers were actually communing with deities and spirits but I do not believe. I want to believe because I am so fascinated with and envious of their cultural memory. They have held on to a belief and a tradition that extends back to Africa, prior to slavery. I am inspired to see their African roots prevailing despite hundreds of years of slavery and oppression. I, too, long to remember Africa.

Cha Preta I

This past weekend I went to a small city called Cha Preta. The name literally translates “black land” because many years ago there was a fire that caused many of the trees to look black. I stayed in a house that doubled as a church. The whole experience was very difficult. The house/church was poorly structured so when it rained (which was often because it is currently the winter/rainy season) water would leak into the rooms. This caused everything to be damp all of the time. Furthermore, it caused an infestation of mosquitoes. I know I accumulated over thirty mosquito bites during my five-day stay. Also, on Saturday morning the water ran out in the whole city so there was no running water, which made bathing and using the bathroom a challenge. Eating and drinking became a challenge as well because of the sudden lack of cleanliness due to the lack of water. My co-interns and I heavily discussed the idea of leaving the city due to the health and sanitation concerns but we decided to stay and I am glad we did. I kept thinking about the people who lived there. The people who were enduring living conditions worse than us. People who didn’t even have running water to lose. People who did not have the option to leave. These thoughts in mind gave me the strength to stay one more night. Being there made me consider a few things:

1. Why am I here?
When we met the different people in the city one of the first questions was always, “why are you here?” That is such a good question. It made me analyze and articulate my purpose and intentions for not only Cha Preta but also my visit to Brazil as a whole. It made me realize that I was there not to get an impression of what life is like in Brazil or to give an impression as to what Americans are like; I was there to make an impact. Moving from impression to impact was difficult because there is a temptation on both sides to focus on the spectacle aspect of the visit. When we arrived to the city is was if we were a traveling circus that had just come into town. The people, young children to old adults, followed us around and just stared at us. We invited the people into the church to talk to us and they refused. They preferred to stand outside and watch us as if were a live show. Initially, I was really irritated that they were watching me as if I were this unknown exotic creature, there for their amusement. I then realized how hypocritical I was being. I entered into their city, walked around their town, and entered their houses with no intention to actually stay and help with their various needs. My intention was to look and leave. But in the short amount of time there, I feel I was able to make an impact rather than an impression. The people finally began to respond to our attempts to talk to them. They eventually came inside the church to talk to us rather gaping from a safe distance. We also ventured out to be with them in the streets. I played soccer with the kids and I taught a couple of the older kids to play American football (who knew growing up a tomboy would become a ministerial tool?). When it was time to leave many of the children and adults said they were sad that we were leaving and made us promise to return.

2. What can I do?
When I saw the devastation of the city I became very discouraged by my desire to fix the problems. I walked the streets of the people and saw their problems. I broke a shoe trying to get down the dirt road of the poor communities. I saw, first hand, how badly they needed streets and sidewalks. They needed clean and running water. They needed a hospital. They needed a facility to cater to the high concentration of people with physical and mental disabilities. They needed teachers. They needed so much. And my first response was to calculate the need and to figure out how to provide the solutions. If I just had enough money, I could fix these problems. If I just had enough people, I could fix this city. But then I realized that even assuming that I could get enough money to rebuild this city [which is a VERY liberal assumption] what about the people in the next city? What about the people living in my city? What about the people all over the world? I realized that no matter what I do, it won’t be enough. So then I began to think, “Why do anything?” It was very discouraging but I think it was a lesson in humility and was very helpful. I am not God. I can’t heal the whole world. But I can do my part. I can’t ever do everything but may I never be content to do nothing.

Accepting Hospitality as a Spiritual Practice

In Lauren Winner's book, Mudhouse Sabbath: An Invitation to a Life of Spiritual Discipline, she states that hospitality is a spiritual practice. She proposes that being hospitable to others is a tool to gain spiritual growth. I would like to add to her proposition: accepting the hospitality of others is also a spiritual practice. Being a stranger in a foreign land is quite an arduous task. I have always considered myself independent and self-sustaining. Accepting others' kindness and hospitality is very difficult and has forced me to do two things:

1. Conquer the Inner Five Year Old

My mother has always traveled a lot and when she left for more than two days I came down with a form of homesickness that I have coined “momsickness.” When I was “momsick” everybody suffered. One particularly acute case of “momsickness” took place when I was five years old and my mother left for California for a week. While she was gone, my brother and I stayed with a friend of the family. I really liked the woman but I was so unhappy that I could not accept her attempts to make my stay more comfortable. I refused to eat the food she cooked, I kept a foul temperament, and I cried all of the time. I can still see the hurt in her face when I refused to eat the dinner that she cooked for me.
Here in Brazil, I feel the momsick child in me rising up and I have been trying very hard to conquer it. I first realized that I was developing homesickness when my appetite vanished. One of the ways that Brazilians show their hospitality is by feeding me. A LOT. Breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, dinner. The snacks are large enough to be considered meals and dinner is eaten very late, anywhere between 8:00 -11:00 pm. I have been struggling to accept their hospitality by eating everything that is put in front of me. I am not hungry. I haven’t been hungry for days. But I eat couscous at 9:00 am and chocolate cake at 12:00 am and everything in the middle (including really strange things that I would much rather not put into my mouth) because in their offering, they are being hospitable. And in my accepting I am trying to show my gratitude.

2. Conquer the Introvert

I consider myself an introvert with extroverted tendencies. I am naturally shy and quiet, and I like to keep to myself. Over the years I have trained myself to fight these natural inclinations and I have learned the art of conversation and charisma. I have taught myself to be outgoing. I have always prided myself on my ability to walk into a room and begin and maintain a conversation with anyone. But the language barrier here in Brazil has severely hampered my ability to be outgoing. It is easier to follow my natural inclinations to be quiet than to attempt to communicate. It is easy to be present and yet not present. It is easy to be in my own world, completely disconnected from the conversation or the people I am with. Conquering the introvert requires new learning, new skills, new talents, new ways of communicating despite the lack of knowledge of the language. And it requires new presence. It is tuning into a conversation even when the only words I understand are “he,” “she,” “and,” “go,” “is,” and “there.” When I figure out how to do this, I will be sure to report my findings.

"What is your staple food?"

(written June 8th)

Since today was my first meeting with one of my English sections, I began class with an extended introduction about myself and then let the kids ask me questions (I’ll be teaching two sessions of English at the secondary school, and Math and Religious Education at the primary school). Ronald asked me, “What is the staple food where you come from?” It’s a common question, yet I always struggle to answer it. The staple in this area of Uganda is matooke (mah-TOKE-kee), a strain of not-sweet bananas that are prepared like mashed potatoes. It’s usually served with one or two sauces over it, along with any and every other dish piled on top of it (e.g. beans or greens). It tastes pretty good. We have it with the priests almost every lunch and dinner, as in the picture (which includes a sister from India who works at the health center on the compound--an occasional lunchtime guest). Other areas of Uganda eat posho (POE-show) as their staple, corn powder mixed with water and boiled into a mush. Because it’s cheaper than matooke, the students at the school here eat posho and beans everyday for lunch and dinner. Your staple food is a part of your background. It testifies to the region you come from; the land and the climate that made a certain meal most popular.

But how should I answer Ronald’s question? Hamburgers? Pizza? Casserole? That there’s no simple answer in itself doesn’t bother me. What embarrasses me a bit in front of Ronald and his classmates is that as an American and Westerner, I have the blessing of not being bound to a staple food. At my dinner table at home, there can be foods grown and produced from a different part of the world every night. I have no doubt that there are benefits to having a diet constrained by the land, climate, and season—such as a greater appreciation for the mere fact of food arising from a closer connection to the processes that produce it. The way the priests enjoy lunch and dinner, you’d think they had discovered the ambrosia of Olympus. I’m sure many Ugandans here appreciate their food far more than many Americans, despite the difference in variety. However, when asked, I can’t help but feel uncomfortable over the disparity between my “staple” diet and that of my students.

Funny note: two teachers from the school walked with me to the Internet cafe, so they were able to translate the squealed exclamations of the village children we passed. As usual, one child yelled out (in Lugandan), "White man!" But then his friend responded, "No, he is not a white man! He is an albino!" =)

A reflection on human suffering and the broken body of Christ:

Yesterday, we spent most of our time with the children at the hospice day care in Makindye. There weren’t very many because school is back in session, so the children that were there were especially sick, because they had to drop out of school. Most were pretty active, most likely because they are HIV+ but are on ARVS, so they feel healthy enough. Except for Patience, who walks slowly with a crutch, due to a bad leg, or perhaps something more grave, as in neurological.

The daycare for children doesn’t consist of much programming, for better or for worse. Just a lot of sitting around, talking and joking with one another. For those who feel healthy, perhaps a game of football or catch. They speak mostly in Luganda, so it’s difficult to know what’s going on, but they all seem genuinely happy, easy going, despite their grave diagnoses. I’ve wondered what this sort of experience would be like in the US – spending the afternoon with dying children, children who are supposed to surpass me in years, but will likely die within the next 5. I’m not sure if the atmosphere would feel the same in America….I have a hunch that it would be pretty difficult, even though (or perhaps because) America has much better health care. In a place where sickness is the norm and medicine is not a god (or at least an unreliable deity), one must learn to live with illness better, or accept it as a normal fact of life.

In America, to be sick is to be a leper; few terminally ill people are seen in everyday life, just like people with disabilities. Their illnesses or malfunctioning bodies do too much to remind us of our own mortality and frailty, and in a nation so obsessed with the Baconian project of immortality, it’s best to shut up the ill and frail in institutions rather than allowing the incurable to teach us something that Amy Laura Hall describes as ‘embodied discipleship’ through caring for real bodies, bandaging real wounds, seeing real scars and imperfections on the human body, scars and imperfections similar to those witnessed by the disciples when Christ appeared to them in the Upper Room after his resurrection.

I saw a man yesterday with a gigantic hole in his leg, maybe an inch wide and an inch deep. Both legs were extremely swollen and he said he was in pain. When he pulled up his pant leg, my first instinct was to look away, as we are apt to do in America out of respect (or, more realistically, out of fear and revulsion). But this man, Richard, seemed to take comfort in our presence there with him, knowing that he could reveal his broken body to us without judgment or disgust on our part. There is some sort of imparted dignity, some sort of empowerment or respect that comes with witnessing the wounds of others. In my witnessing, I bear the pain and burden of the one who is sick. I begin to have compassion (which literally means “co-suffering”). The wounds of others are there and they are real, and I, a mere observer, am only a witness to that pain. But through that witness, I must come to grips with the reality of what I am seeing, rather than pretending to live in a world where bodies are perfect and suffering is nonexistent.

Jesus laid his wounds bare for us. St Francis, when he received the gift of stigmata, struggled with whether or not show his wounds to the world, though he eventually decided that they could serve to edify the Church. Mother Theresa, whose feet were deformed from years of wearing the cast-off shoes too small and ill-fitting for her (or anyone’s) feet, let her feet serve as a witness to her discipleship. I think there is a lot of mystery surrounding the physical healings that Jesus performed, but I think we can glean some meaning from the fact that Jesus didn’t heal everyone. The healings he did perform were, according to the author of John, SIGNS of God’s power, glimpses of heaven, of God’s intention for the world. But those left broken in body were no less loved and blessed by God. In fact, through Christ’s death on the cross, their brokenness has itself become a sign of God’s love for the world. Just as their bodies are broken, so was Christ’s, on behalf of the sinful world. Just as they experience the pain of mortality and falleness in their bodies, so Christ bared that pain in his own body, thereby redeeming human flesh through the incarnational mystery.

In no way am I trying to idealize suffering nor am I attempting to make it sound better or more holy than what it actually is. I do not want to minimize the need for good medical care, research, and institutions. But in light of modern medicine and ever-growing medical technology, we cannot forget the cruciform Christ, the body BROKEN for us on the cross and at the altar. Each time the Eucharist host is broken, we remember Christ and God’s saving work. Could it be, also, that when we gaze upon the wounds and brokenness of our fellow brothers and sisters, that we, too, can remember Christ? Could the suffering we experience in our mortal bodies serve to remind us of the suffering servant, our lord and master, Jesus Christ? Perhaps suffering is not an absence of God or a question of theodicy. Perhaps instead it is an opportunity to identify with Christ’s own suffering, for as Christians, the cross lies at the center of our faith.

Tommy touches down.

After about twenty-four hours of boarding announcements, stewardess questions and in-flight movies, I arrived in Uganda with my classmate and summer cohort George at about 9pm yesterday. We gathered all of our luggage (praise God), and before I could begin to read the collage of cardboard signs held by the anticipating mass outside, our supervisor—Father Joe—emerged to give us a welcoming embrace. We loaded his pickup truck with our bags, drove through Entebbe and Kampala, the capital city, and arrived at Father Joe’s parish two hours later. I was happy to discover the route to be paved the whole way. Another priest and a brother woke up to welcome us, and we retired for the evening after a late night snack of bread and tea. Thank you for your prayers for safe travel.

We’ve been given today off to recuperate and unpack. George and I walked around the school complex for a bit this afternoon. There are about 950 total students who attend the primary and secondary schools. I’ll find out soon what I’ll be teaching. It looks to be a challenging task—there are about seventy students per class! Tomorrow, we’ll officially become acquainted with the school, beginning with daily chapel at 6am (!), and we’ll meet a committee who will assist us with any questions and problems we have. Wednesday will offer a unique experience. We’ll gather outside of Kampala with throngs of people to celebrate the national holiday of the Ugandan martyrs. The day commemorates the martyrdom of faithful Ugandan Christians more than a century ago for their refusal to worship the king’s idols. There will be no American succinctness that day: mass begins at 10am, and will last more than four hours, only to be followed by more speeches. I’ve been told people will be there on pilgrimages from Kenya, Rwanda, Ethiopia, and all over Africa.

Building relationships here is like exercising an atrophied muscle. I’m so used to ending interactions as soon as the common ground has been covered. Once the first prolonged pause arises, someone generously creates an escape (“Well, you’ve got work to do…”), and the day can continue. Here, though, I can’t escape to my cell phone, my car, or my pressing schedule. There’s no day that’s so important that it takes precedence over relationships and their entailments. Prolonged pauses are incorporated into the rhythm of conversations here with the same openness as outsiders are incorporated into living community. The warmth and charity of my new Ugandan friends provide an exercise in learning the extent to which we’re not “to neglect to show hospitality” (Heb 13:2).

(The red brick building in the awkward picture above is where the parish’s three priests live. I’ll take my meals there. It has a parlor with a tv. Before dinner, I’ll join the priests and others to watch the news. The blue house is where George and I are living, called “The Duke House.” We each have our own room with a desk and a bed, with a common bathroom joining us.)