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The Professor’s Return to Poor Students
by Urariano Mota
In a previous text, I wrote about teaching poor students, and I noticed that they were less ignorant than I was. They were wiser, despite their age, from 15 to 17. I noticed this because, instead of teaching them about my ignorance of adverbs, nouns, and sentences, they would ask me to tell them a story. They were wise, I realized, relieved. A story, yes, a true story, preferably one that happened to the teacher, who didn’t have the precious talent of storytelling, but had the advantage of being the main character, which means the teacher’s character was a ridiculous one that was already ready.
– Professor, that’s what they call me, professor, I can’t understand poetry.
Then I respond to all the poor students in the room, just like I was once.
– When you’re their age, people always look for poetry when they have a disappointing love experience. Then they read and understand everything. Have you ever had one? No?! You’ve never received a rejection from someone you loved? Hem? (Silence, but their sad eyes confirm. And that’s how I disarm their sadness, hinting at mine.) I’ve been there. It happened to me. But it’s a story, our time is short… let’s get back to the program.
– Tell us the story, professor!, the boys ask because they want to laugh, the girls because they want to cry and laugh:
– Tell us the story, please…
And that’s how I start.
The girl who revealed poetry to me was the daughter of a professor. She revealed poetry to me indirectly, or very directly, you’ll see. She was beautiful from her name, which I won’t say. Her name was a feminine version of a man’s name that sounds beautiful when translated to a woman. (“Antonia, Amarilda”, the guys shout.) No, not those, it doesn’t matter, I won’t say. So, she had a dark-skinned boyfriend, a dark-skinned Pakistani, that I still remember. (I feel like I’m getting lost.) So, at first, I went to the professor’s house for the professor. And sometimes, on Sundays, I’d go to pick up lunch. The professor, being a great humanist, knew that the best humanity was to feed a hungry student. At first. Later, when I saw her, I started going to the professor’s house every weekend, for her too. But I couldn’t love her yet. I’d arrive in a state of need, with no money, just a return ticket, sometimes not even that. I think that’s when my wandering qualities began. So, at that stage, I couldn’t love her. You know what it’s like: it’s not having money to take her to the movies, it’s not having anything to buy her a chocolate, a good breath mint that you can smell from a distance… You understand. It’s very difficult to have the right to love when you have nothing. You understand. (Their eyes get sadder. That’s why I give them a quick tap with a diversion.) But then I found a job. Yes, I started working. But I lacked courage. Look at you. The professor’s living room was a library. Can you feel what that’s like? In our homes, the living room is where we show off our financial level – good furniture, good TV, excellent sound, sofas… a bunch of junk. At the professor’s house, no, and now I’ll say his name, his name should be said: Arlindo Albuquerque, a humanist professor of French and Portuguese at the Colégio Alfredo Freyre in Água Fria. At his house, no… the books were displayed all over the living room. So, almost I’ll say her name, my girlfriend, my enamored… while the professor wasn’t there, she received me with a short skirt, with her dark-skinned legs, studying medicine books. (The students’ eyes sparkle.)
But I didn’t have courage. The more I wanted her, the more I closed myself off. Of course, she noticed this. So, at that time, a friend of ours finds his first job. And that’s why we should all celebrate, and celebrate is drinking, drinking, and singing. What we did. The right thing is that on the way back, those who were on top of the truck, I and others, on a cursed curve, were thrown to the ground. We quickly regained our lucidity. We were fine, shaken. So, that incident, with absolute impropriety, was told to her, or better, with absolute propriety, because it took the place of what couldn’t be said: that I was and was crazy about her. (And at that point, I won’t tell you how much madness there was, due to the existence of castes in a society of mixed-race people, how impossible that love was.) So, I told the incident and she laughed, smiled, guffawed, guffawed like the villainous women in TV soap operas, those beautiful villains who despise the virtuous heroes who don’t have what the periquito roams in their behind.
– Do you know the expression “not having what the periquito roams in their behind”? That expression (I feel the air of disappointment for any explanation)… So, her laughter shocked me, and that’s why I tried a poem in prose. It said… “A distant woman, with dark skin, with amendoaded eyes, walks over my life. Januária distant, Januária without a window, she smiles and mocks pretenders who fall drunk from trucks… Who wouldn’t smile so much, who can’t stay like this, indefinitely waiting for that woman who took my life”. Then what did I do? You know, the foolishness is a mark of your age. What did I do? In a beautiful afternoon, I go to her house, and on the way out, I give her that written piece, and run, and leave, and disappear, and come back. And so the three months passed, three long times, until a certain morning when I return. And between us, this brief dialogue takes place:
– Did you read?
– What?
– The poem… (“innocence is an art!”, I say to myself.)
– Ah, that?
– Yes, I swallowed, “that”.
– Ah, I don’t know how to read poetry.
Then she taught me there what was and what wasn’t poetry, then she told me there that poetry doesn’t cross the skin of those who are immune to the suffering of others. You don’t imagine how much I threw myself into reading poets. You understand?
And they understand, they get it, they get serious, they smile. I don’t know if that’s pedagogical, I don’t know if that’s a good Portuguese lesson, or even if that’s remotely educational. I don’t know. But these stories of mine for poor students have had a great success. They always ask for another.
So, this week, something wonderful happened. Walker Luduvice sent me a message on Face, and I could update what those classes were like in 2004. It’s been 20 years, Fala, Walker!
“In the Portuguese classes with Professor Mota, we were Walker Luduvice, Paulo Sobrinho, Ivana, Tatiane, Jefferson, and Camila, among others. It was a totally different class from something conventional. Because we would discuss our experiences in simple conversations, and we would correct each other’s mistakes. Any verb placed incorrectly in a sentence, we would conjugate. The laughter was inevitable, because we all made mistakes. However, we learned the importance of reading as a great developer of writing and speaking. We shared our life experiences, making each week unforgettable. Thank you, Urariano Mota, for the classes to the Minor Apprentices of the Banco do Brasil.”
Mota, in literature, I remember that we would read excerpts from some famous books, such as Dom Casmurro, A moreninha, A viuvinha, A vida de adolescentes pobres, reading texts that I wrote and brought to the class. Topics about our conversations, I would ask for a writing about the first kiss. He talked about the differences between colloquial and normative language.
We had 16 years at the time. The year was 2004. I’m now 35 years old.
Ivan was the youngest at Setap. She was evangelical. But very crazy. And then there was Tatiana, who was very sad too.
I lost contact with Tatiana. I know that Ivana got married, had children, and recently separated.
Paulo Sobrinho is in the United States. Jefferson makes planned furniture and is married to his girlfriend from that time and has children. He lives in the Coelhos. Camila, I have no news.
And how did the students see me? I ask. Walker responds:
“We thought you were funny because of your beard. It reminded us of Ed Mota. But very intelligent and gained our admiration and gratitude for the lessons and encouragement to study.
To me, even to this day, you were the best professor of Portuguese, and the best counselor and friend. As an employee, one of the best examples I’ve seen there.”
Did I have any influence on their lives? I ask.
“Yes. In mine. Because I understood the importance of speaking well and writing well. Today, I’m an analyst of Operations, a position where I present my results every month. And I have to write well the emails I send. Good language is part of my daily life.”
At this point, I was going to ask Walker for a video call. But I couldn’t anymore. I got very emotional. And Walker concluded:
“My friend, thank you very much. The lessons I learned from you, I take with me to this day. Thank you very much.”
Walker and the other students may not know, but they were the best students I’ve ever had. Students? No. Professors of life, of life and life.
*Red https://vermelho.org.br/coluna/a-volta-do-professor-para-estudantes-pobres/
Urariano Mota is a writer and journalist. Author of “Dicionário Amoroso do Recife”, “Soledad no Recife”, “O filho renegado de Deus” and “A mais longa duração da juventude” (translated into English as “Never-Ending Youth”). Columnist for Vermelho and Brasil 247. Collaborator of Jornal GGN.