Saudade. (/souˈdädə/
or "saw-DAH-jee") It's one of my favorite words in Portuguese, and
yet it's a challenge to describe. In English, we say we miss someone or
something--it's a verb, and it means we feel the lack of that person or thing.
In Portuguese, saudade is a noun, and
has a deeper, more melancholic tone. An English word that tries to come close
is longing, which suggests desire, but fails to capture the magical, nostalgic
feeling that saudade evokes.
Of course, living far from my family and the community that
I loved in the U.S., I feel saudade
quite often. It's common to say, "I'm with saudade," of the laughter and wisdom of my grandparents who
have passed away, of my baby niece with her puff of soft hair and irresistible
smile, of the quaint, bustling streets of Boston, even of a gooey, sugary treat
like rice cereal squares with butterscotch and chocolate topping, which you
just can't replicate here. Thus, saudade
seems to have different levels, ranging from a craving for a special taste that
can't be satisfied, to a yearning to be in a special place or with a special
person far away, to the bittersweet memories of a loved one who has died--and
yet each level has its own depth and poignancy.
A place that constantly stirs feelings of saudade for me is Saint Mary's College
of Maryland, and the enchanting river on whose banks I studied, painted,
danced, laughed with friends, cried over the death of a sweetheart, and watched
countless sunsets, each sky a unique canvas of color, each reflection on every
ripple full of vibrancy and surprise. And there is something about September,
the month when a new school year begins, and also the month of my birthday,
that brings a particularly potent wave of saudade.
The Saint Mary's River has a magical scent in September, unlike any other time
of year, and it sings sweet unknown songs together with the luminescent algae
that seems to reflect the Milky Way that is sometimes seen sparkling above. How
I wish I could be there to put my feet in the water and be a part of it again!
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| Sunset over Chancellor's Point, Watermedia, Danielle H. da Silva 2017 |
I don't think I've been to Saint Mary's in September since I
was a student, but, I have been able to take advantage of winter break here in
Brazil, and get away for a few weeks in July to visit my homeland, my family,
and, sometimes, my alma mater. And it's always after I return to Brazil that
people ask me a question that never fails to baffle me as to how I should
answer: "Você já matou a saudade da
sua mãe?" "Did you already kill the saudade of your mother?"
So, first of all, it would seem to me that, "Did you
kill..." and "your mother," should never belong in the same
sentence, especially one of the casual "how was your trip" kind of
tone, but maybe that is just my English-speaking-ears cringing unnecessarily.
Secondly, saudade is such a powerful
yearning that permeates every part of ones' being--is it something that can be
"killed," (and, of course, I understand that by "killed,"
we mean "satisfied,"), and then, even if it could be
killed/satisfied, it is something that should be? Such a beautiful yearning, a
nostalgic pining after something so dear seems to be a feeling that,
bittersweet or even heartrending as it may be, should be held onto, even
cherished.
Of course, my understanding of Portuguese and Brazilian
culture are limited, but every time I have brought this up in conversation with
a Brazilian, they have laughed at my dramatic reaction to "killing my saudade," and agreed that it is a
little odd when you think about it. So, when people ask me if I've killed my saudade after a visit to the U.S., I've
come to say something like, "I'm not able to kill it, but I did have a
good visit," or "I came back with saudade."
If anyone--especially a Brazilian reader--has any advice of a better answer,
please feel free to comment!
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| Afterglow and Moon, Watermedia, Danielle H. da Silva 2017 |
I will, however, give one example of a saudade that I was able to successfully kill, and to do that, let's
return to Saint Mary's County in Southern Maryland. In recent North American
summers, it's become a sweet tradition for my dad, my oldest American niece,
and I to spend a day visiting Saint Mary's College, where we wander around my old
haunting grounds, take in the nostalgia-inducing scents of the art building
where I spent countless hours, venture out with a few kayaks gliding over the
shimmering, brackish water, polka-dotted with jellyfish, and, later, watch as a
sunset, quietly and ever so gracefully, rolls back the skies into an inky night
and the mysterious chorus of crickets take over. Not being able to fully
satisfy or "kill" the saudade
that we all feel for this beautiful place, we reluctantly go back to the car,
where, a few miles up the road from the college, we stop at Sheetz gas station.
Sheetz, for those of you who are not familiar with it, is
not only a place to fill up your gas tank, but also your stomach. Its
convenience store is an oasis to hungry college students in a barren land, a
wonderland boasting every kind of junk food you can imagine, a seemingly
endless lineup of bottled and frozen and fountain drinks, and, at the touch of
your fingertips upon a glowing screen, a custom-made sandwich or burger appears
for you in minutes!
My niece and I, hungry from our river romping, gleefully
pore over the interactive menu and push buttons as our cravings dictate. One of
these times, having felt saudade for
good Mexican-American food in Brazil, I picked out a burrito with almost every
option that could go with it--jalapeño peppers, pico de gallo, guacamole, and a
few other things, like pickles and olives, that I thought tasted good, but
definitely shouldn't go on a burrito. My niece did something similar with a
burger with onion rings and mozzarella sticks. As we waited for our greasy
prizes to come to us, wrapped in shiny paper, we each filled up a cup (small
sizes are enormous in the U.S. compared to other places!) at the fountain
drinks. My niece, to my disgust, mixed all the flavors of frozen drinks into
her cup, and I, indecisive between which saudade
to try and satisfy, mixed Dr. Pepper and Root Beer together. After getting
some kind of sour candy or spicy chips to accompany our meal, we loaded
ourselves and our indulgences into the car for the long ride north on Route 4.
I had forgotten how dark Route 4 was, and, as my dad
patiently drove, no doubt not as delighted with the smells from our custom-made
calorie bundles as we were, we fumbled around and tried to eat, as well as keep
all the mismatched toppings we had chosen from falling out of the wrapper.
Eating something you can't see, no matter how much you might have been craving
it beforehand, is just not fun. And when you get such an odd mix of
flavors--all the flavors you've been missing--together at one time, it sure
does something to take away your desire for it. I didn't get sick, and I ate
just about all of it, and I can't say I regretted it, but, I have to say, that
combination, eaten on a lonely dark road, rife in itself with memories, is one
sure way to matar--to kill my saudade once and for all!
And, so, it seems, some kinds of saudade are lifelong companions, rich, colorful shadows of
something or someone dear that follow and call deeply to you from long ago or
far away. And other kinds of saudade,
the kind that call to your cravings and don't let you go until you have tried
to satisfy every single taste, can actually be killed--almost for good--by
overindulgence on a late-night Sheetz run.
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