Emanuel Melo torontonian azorean writer

Memória: An Anthology of Portuguese Canadian Writers, edited by Fernanda Viveiros and published in 2013 was an important debut collection that introduced, perhaps for the first time in English, Canadian writers of Portuguese origin or descent to the literary scene.

This new collection, featuring nonfiction, short stories, and poetry, also edited by Viveiros and published by her small Vancouver-based press, Arquipélago Press, brings back some familiar voices from Memória, but I was glad to see the introduction of new writers to what is becoming a growing body of literary work marking the presence of the Portuguese in Canada. Thanks to her efforts to bring together these various literary voices, we have the opportunity to get to know more writers of Canadian Portuguese heritage in Here & Elsewhere: An Anthology of Portuguese Canadian Writers, releasing this month.

It was a pleasure for me to open this anthology and discover the writers whose work graces its pages and bring a wide range of experiences and perspectives of what it means to be people of “here” and “elsewhere.”

“Inheritance,” Kelly Pedro’s short story of a father addressing his small daughter is a tender and moving epistolary-style writing that unfolds in an economy of words to reveal so much of his past and the legacy of that past that he wishes to pass on to his daughter with the hope that even though leaving the painful past behind, she could survive life on her own.

“Senhor Silva’s Last Ride” by Robert Piva Fielding, tells the story of an old man revisiting his past on a flight to his island of birth, revealing themes of disconnection, alienation, and eventual heartbreak. This story’s ending made me gasp for air with its powerful truth of a dying generation of immigrants replaced by the modern tourists who visit the islands but without roots tying them to memory and love.

José Avelino Gilles Corbett Lourenço’s short story “I Will Always Love You, But Can I Pleaser Have My Stuff Back?” is a reminder that just because you have a Portuguese name or background, your literary efforts don’t necessarily have to have a Portuguese theme running through it to be included in this anthology. It’s just good writing.

“Pico,” by Richard Simas is another story on the ubiquitous theme of trying to make sense of what it means for newer generations of Portuguese living in the diaspora searching for connection with their ancient roots, in this case, Azorean. The final sentence of this short story reveals the painful longing for a connection with the ancient volcanic world that is now fragile and tenuous.

Irene Marques is a prolific writer, of both prose and poetry, already showcased in the Memória anthology.  This time, she graces the pages of this new anthology with “Letters from the War: The Natural Bust of the Portuguese.” Written in the epistolary style, lyrical and textured with the usual trademark of Irene’s exquisite writing.

Humberto da Silva’s piece, “Variations on a Drowning,” about a tragic mining accident and the telling of truth or a version of truth one can only bear in memory, is told in a tightrope walk of humour intertwined with seriousness that leaves the reader in both smiles and tears. It was good to read Humberto again after his contribution in the Memória anthology.

Esmeralda Cabral is a captivating memoirist and storyteller, exploring her Azorean roots with candor and insight both in her short stories and in her recent memoir about her family’s trip to Portugal.  For this new collection, her contribution is titled “Daughter of Lagoa.”  It’s a delightful telling of her visits back to São Miguel, the island of her birth—and mine also—and I enjoyed her observations on the meaning of language and local accents as a fundamental part of one’s identity; as something not to lose over time living in Canada, but consciously practicing it and passing it on to her children.

A new voice to the anthology is Sonia Nicholson, whose “Good Citizen” walks us through the tense bureaucratic nightmare of trying to obtain Portuguese citizenship from Canada. Told through a weaving tale of adventure and hope, Sonia tells an entertaining yet profoundly real experience that I have heard before from others who can confirm the veracity of this first-generation Portuguese Canadian in search of a cartão de cidadão as a way to reaffirm their belonging to the ancestral world of Portugal.

The last entry in Here & Elsewhere is fittingly paulo da costa’s essay, “Beyond Bullfights and Ice Hockey: An Architecture of Multicultural Identity.” It’s always a deep pleasure to read paulo da costa, both his fiction as well as his essays on identity and culture. His philosophical ponderings can be appreciated by anyone who has thought about who they are and what is their place in the world. His invitation and suggestion that those of us who have more than one identity embrace all of the self and be at one whether in Portuguese or in the Canadian lives we of these double identity try to make sense of.

Finally, I must say a few words about my own writing which is included in this company of writers. I am grateful to see in print, “Tia Catarina,” a retelling of a true moment and event in time that inspired me to elevate it into a memory in honour of my partner’s beloved Aunt, now forever anthologized in Here & Elsewhere.

I will end by mentioning the presence of the poets in this collection but I will leave it to others to do their own reflections on the powerful words of Sonja Pinto and Paul Serralheiro. Their poems entice the reader to enter imagined worlds best savoured through their own reading. For me, poetry is such a personal thing and I am not equipped to write about it, so I’ll leave it here.

I hope you will read this anthology. There’s something here for everyone to appreciate and discover: those of us who came from the old world to those of the newest generations, like my nieces and nephews who have grown up mostly Canadian but who need, and hopefully will want to, get to know the heritage of their families. It’s also a window to those who are not of Portuguese heritage but who are curious enough to get to know us through stories and words that reveal who we are.

Also posted in Filamentos (artes e letras)

Available in Toronto at Saudade.

When I read Descobri que era Europeia: Impressões duma viagem à América ­- Natália Correia’s trip to America in 1950 – it was with the knowledge that I would be collaborating with Katharine F. Baker on our English translation of Correia’s engaging account of her experience of discovering North America and the people she met, both famous and ordinary.  Natália, one of Portugal’s most significant writers of the twentieth century, gives us a vivid account of life set in a very specific time and place with astute observations and commentary, in a mix of diary and journalistic styles that is a thoroughly enjoyable read. She takes us along on her discovery of the world she encounters, which in turn leads her to reflect on her own identity through the encounter she had with the identity of the “other.”

There is something immediate and modern about her writing that is very much of our time, too. I suspect that if Natália Correia were writing today, her travel account to the United States would have been documented through her Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook pages.

In America, I Discovered I Was European reads like a delightful series of social documentary and travel snippets posted on various social media platforms. If the technology existed back in the 1950s, we would have followed Correia’s journey of observation, gossip and impressions of an America we can experience through her vivid writing. Katharine and I tried to be as faithful as possible to the original Portuguese text, but also conscious of certain terms, expressions and attitudes which reveal Natália as a person of her time, that might be challenging for a reader of today to accept beyond a social-historical context. With a translator’s skill, Baker acknowledges current sensibilities especially around racism and gender in rendering Correia’s travelogue to a modern reader.

It was a pleasure to work on this translation with Katharine F. Baker, and I thank her profoundly for trusting me to collaborate with her on this journey of bringing Natalia’s In America, I Discovered I Was European to English readers.

Also posted in Filamentos (artes e letras)

Available in June 2025 through the Tagus Press arm of the University of Massachusetts Press. You can also obtain the book through Indigo and  Amazon.

Today I felt like revisiting a short piece of writing I did in 2004 and published by my friend Lise Watson, founder and editor of the magazine ‘Twas (Toronto World Arts Scene), in Volume 8, issue One January/February 2004. I am grateful to her for encouraging me to write this reflection. As I read it again, I am caught up in the memory of that time, 21 years ago, and I resist the temptation to edit and revise this raw, but written from the heart, text. So, here it is:

My father, who is retired from full-time employment, has the fun job of delivering one of several weekly Portuguese newspapers to many of the Portuguese businesses in Toronto. Unfortunately, he was not able to work for a period of six weeks this past summer after a major operation. So, my brother and I, in the interest of helping our dad keep his job, volunteered to do the weekly delivery of the “Nove Ilhas,” a name alluding to the Nine Islands which make up the Azores archipelago. We both took a day off work from our administrative jobs at the University of Toronto each week to enter the fascinating world of newspaper delivery guys!

Our mentor and guide for our first time out on the route was our mother, who normally helps my father with the delivery each week.  She organizes the contact list, the number of newspapers for each drop off and, generally, tells my father where to go.  Now, she’s the one sitting in the back seat, teaching her sons the tricks of the trade.  But she’s more concerned about how my brother and I will behave.  “No goofing off….don’t embarrass me…All these people know your father….remember that you are representing him.” My brother, who is 28 and married with children, looks at me in disbelief.  This is the thanks we get for trying to help?  Where is the gratitude? Mom proves to be a tyrant boss:  she criticizes us when we ask to stop for a break.  “Your father is twice your age and never needs a break.  You are malandros, lazy.”  Later, we ask “Can we stop for a lunch break?”  Again, we get a cold response to this request.  Apparently, my parents never take a break and work straight through the 6 to 7 hours it takes them to cover the entire route.  Luckily, today happens to be my 45^th birthday, so mom takes pity and treats us to lunch at the wonderful Bairrada Churrasqueira on College near Dufferin.  We deliver the newspaper there anyway, so it becomes a good strategic stop.  The back patio is buzzing with a heavy lunch crowd, mostly speaking Portuguese and enjoying authentic regional dishes.  The patio has a stunning large brick oven with a roasting pig on the spit.  The place smells of Portugal.

The route is long and there are many stops close to each other.  My brother and I are constantly taking our seatbelts off and putting them back on.  It’s a natural reflex.  However, our  mother, the reigning monarch in the back seat overseeing her minions, laughs at us. “I don’t understand you boys… your father never leaves his seatbelt on when on delivery… not when he has to get out of the car every few minutes… this is a waste of time…”  My brother and I shake our heads incredulously. “What if we get a ticket?” we innocently ask.  “You won’t get a ticket” she assures us, “you’re on delivery!”  We make a mental note not to invite her back the following week.  She will have to wait at home to hear our weekly report on how it went.

I found the sheer volume of Portuguese owned businesses extraordinary, everything from banks, doctors, bakeries,  cafés, butchers, grocery stores, pharmacies, travel agencies, and, of course, ubiquitously, restaurants.  Most are located in the official “Little Portugal,” bordered by College, south to Dundas, and by Bathurst west to Lansdowne.  However, many businesses are still found in the original Portuguese settlement at Kensington Market, known forever as “Agusta” by the Portuguese, who like other immigrant groups found a welcoming space in this area.  You will also find Portuguese restaurants and bakeries spread out throughout other pockets of the city, some as far north as Eglinton and Keele.  All these establishments have a special place or box where the newspapers are left and picked up very quickly by news-hungry patrons.  One of them is an old man who would be waiting for us religiously at the same time and place every week.  Before I could get out of the car, there he would be with hands outstretched asking for two copies of the newspaper.  He must be too busy in his old age to wait for me to exit the car and drop my stack of paper at the café in front of him.

I took delight in hearing people speak Portuguese in their everyday environment.  With each delivery I would hear a different sound of Portuguese; perhaps the  heavy and mumbled closed vowels of the  Azorean accent at the local bar/café; or the  easier to understand (because more articulated) continental Portuguese at one of the bakeries or grocery stores; or, of course, the melodic Brazilian accent at the billiard hall further down the street.   Believe it or not, it is not unusual to find men already hanging out at local bars before lunch, to watch all the latest soccer games via satellite and to have the mandatory pick me up beer. I go inside each place to leave my bundle of papers.  At each stop I am usually greeted with a polite “Bom Dia.”  I like this act of civility, a last rite from the old country.  In some places, the owner or store clerk will ask me how my father is doing.  They always send him their cumprimentos (best wishes), and remark that we are such terrific sons for filling in for him like this.  The family, after all, is sacrosanct to the Portuguese.  All these people who frequent the bars and cafés, the bakeries and grocery stores, eagerly await the weekly papers as the source of news for the abundant upcoming social events, held at numerous social clubs and local parish churches. So, they are happy to see me and my stack of newspapers arrive on time.

I also enjoyed the sound of music!  If you want to get a sense of what the Portuguese listen to, pop your head into a bar/bakery, bookstore, or just walk along Dundas and Ossignton area.  You will catch a note of fado as sung by Amália Rodrigues, known as the “Queen of Fado” and revered all over Portugal as a national icon; but, more likely, you will hear the fresh young voice and interpreter of fado, Mariza.  Her youth, beauty, and hip videos have attracted a new generation of listeners. It might prove even more difficult to hear the sad and haunting music of Madredeus, the most internationally known Portuguese group of the late ‘90s.  Their sound, with the luminous yet melancholic voice of Teresa Salgueiro, to the accompaniment of traditional Portuguese guitar, the cello and the accordion is a mixture of fado roots and other traditional styles. Sadder sounding than the fado, the music does not please the sensibilities of many of the older Portuguese immigrants who, like my mother, prefer to hear ‘musica alegre,’ popularly known as Pimba.  Pimba is happy and bubbly sounding and borrows from traditional folklore musical styles but adds modern guitars and drum beats. You can hear this sound everywhere but it does not represent the more interesting side of Portuguese music.  Compare it to listening to Britney Spears versus Annie Lennox!  Finally, at Cabo Verde restaurant south of Dundas on Ossington you will hear the sound of Cesaria Evora and also other less known African/Portuguese roots music.

Needless to say, I have not focused on the tedious details of life as a newspaper delivery guy, of what it’s like to go early morning to pick up thousands of newspapers from the printers, load them in the car, organize the paper route, get in and out of the car every few minutes, organize the paper route, get your hands covered in black ink, dodge the heavy traffic of the day, avoid getting ticketed, and so on.  But what I wanted to leave you with is the memory of my weekly journey into the heart of Portuguese community life, a fitting participation on my part, during the year in which we celebrate the 50^th anniversary of the official arrival of the Portuguese to Canada.  Thanks, dad, for this memorable opportunity! And, oh, yeah, mom, too.

trust the bluer skies: Meditations on Fatherhood by paulo da costa

It had been a while since I last saw you and I was eager to see you again, this time on a cold February night at Casa do Alentejo in Toronto where you came to spend an evening with a group of Portuguese readers interested in hearing what you had to say about your new book, trust the bluer skies: meditations on fatherhood.

It was worth staying up late, me who likes to go to bed early in winter, not just to connect with you for a few moments in the physical world, but to come away with your book, your latest words to savour and digest in the silence and stillness of my home, where I spent time with you again, through the pages you gifted Koah, your beloved four year old son; and so generously shared this intimate father and son epistle with your readers, querido paulo.

It felt intrusive at first, like coming upon a letter meant for someone else, revealing intimate details and a revelation of the soul meant only for the eyes of the beloved, and yet, as I read on, I was drawn in to learning about your five month journey to Portugal’s Vale de Cambra, where you gave your little son the richest gift of all: your time, your instruction as a father, your family back home, your landscape of mountains and farms and the beauty of a Portugal you had spent time in your youth before settling in Victoria, Canada.

You took your family; your wife and little daughter are there, too, powerfully present but silent, so that we, as readers, won’t be distracted by the relationship you have with Koah.  How lucky he is, your son, to have this memoir you have written for him. I hope that when he’s older he will come to appreciate the value of the experiences you have given him when he was a little boy.

I can’t tell you how many times, as I kept on reading about your tenderness for Koah, I wished my own father had left me something as profoundly beautiful as your written account of a visit to the past, to discover a rich paternal heritage in the hills of Portugal so that your son could bring it back with him to Canada for his future.

A journey into Portuguese culture, at times amusing, especially the chapter on futebol, questioning that national sacred symbol of identity for most men and boys, when Koah simply just wants to kick a ball around and have fun. The chapter on the relationship with farm animals is heartbreaking to me because I share your values, dear paulo, and so I understood the struggle to make peace with dear family members who continue to live with an old-fashioned treatment and understanding of animals.

You offer Koah alternative thinking and options on everything from the environment, social media, food, culture, and what it means to be a Portuguese Canadian.

Your journey ended five months later with a return trip to Canada, your home. But the question of where is your home remains there for the next time you take Koah back to Portugal, another home.

Readers can look forward to a good read in your trust the bluer skies; they will be able to question their own values and their own ideas about gender stereotypes, identity, belonging and fatherhood; for this alone, I give you a grande obrigado, a big thank you, for letting us inside your world of father and son.

Devin Meireles is a young Portuguese-Canadian writer whose two self-published books celebrate his love of family, The Portuguese Immigrant: Atlantic Heritage Story, and his love of the place his family comes from. Finding Madeira is his latest book. You can find information on both through his blog, lusoloonie.

Devin’s contribution to the Portuguese Canadian diaspora dialogue is to be applauded. It warms my heart to know that the history of Portuguese immigrants to Canada continues to be written  and that the stories of individual families become part of the collective narrative of the luso experience.

By writing about his grandparents in The Portuguese Immigrant, Devin gives his family the greatest honour I can think of: perpetuating them through the written word; by writing about Madeira, he honours his place of family origin.

My interest here is not to provide a review of Devin’s writing but rather to celebrate him for his efforts in sharing his personal family history with everyone who cares about where they come from. I hope he will inspire a new generation of Portuguese-Canadians to write their own family stories while discovering and claiming their heritage of both family and geographical place.

My parents, Berta and Antonio de Melo before coming to Canada

I am grateful to Susan K. Riggs for her insightful read of A Journey of Promise

In this compelling, autobiographical tale, Melo relates the story of his move from Portugal to Canada, assuming the persona of his father, who left the six-year-old Melo and his mother in order to pursue the promise of a new life in North America with (eventually) his wife and son.

The narrative weaves a complex diasporic tapestry of plot and character, portraying a journey that segues into the psychology of the author, raising important issues, concerns and questions about how change can affect those too young to truly understand it.

The imagined journey of the father unfolds chronologically and has a familiar tone to readers of diasporic literature–fear of rejection in a new land juxtaposed with painful emotional memories of the stability of home and hearth left behind.  Religion is carefully and consistently woven through the narrative as a continuing force that can never quite quell the doubts about life in a new land with unknown relatives whose acceptance and support is unknown.

Through the imagined “memories”, Melo paints a vibrant picture of his parents, especially his father, whose observations and self-questioning create a comprehensive profile for the reader, who senses too the heartfelt mutual adoration of the couple, expressed through narration and shared correspondence, providing the reader with a rounded, palpable sense of these characters.

Unlike the parents, the son remains an enigma throughout. We learn in the prologue, through the voice of the adult Melo, that the child existed in a cocoon-like uncomprehending “grief” over his father’s absence, and the little boy remains a constant but peripheral figure throughout the narrative, identifiable only through the eyes and emotions of the parents. Indeed, the reader senses that, despite the circuitous nature of his portrayal, the boy may be the one most profoundly affected by the cultural earthquake that has uprooted his world. At one point, the father questions the effect of his leave-taking on his son, asking “would it break his heart the way it broke mind?”  For the reader, this question will remain rhetorical.

In the final analysis, paternal love is the guiding North Star that motivates and eventually guides the family to its new abode, indicating perhaps, that it is the son who will be left with the more existential questions that only time and perspective may solve.

Overall, the “journey’s promise” is just that—a deep dive into the psychology of a family on the move–with a happy ending.

Promises made.

Promises kept.

Susan K. Riggs is currently a writing instructor for students at Trinity College, and Victoria College, University of Toronto.

A Journey of Promise has been published in Filamentos, Arts and Letters in the Azorean Diaspora

I spent the weekend sitting in my garden, with a most enjoyable read of How to Clean a Fish: And Other Adventures in Portugal by Esmeralda Cabral.

I haven’t been to the Costa da Caparica, near Lisbon, but after reading Esmeralda’s travel memoir of her family’s stay for eight months in Portugal, I felt like I had been there each step of the way, from the cold winter months to the start of summer when the family, including their beloved Portuguese Water Dog, Maggie, return home.

Esmeralda invites her readers to share in the most intimate details of that journey as she tries to make sense of her cultural identity, belonging, and reconnection with a place called home.  But the question of what is home is difficult to define, especially when you are torn between two worlds, that of your childhood and where you live now. The writing is crisp and smooth and before you know it, you are drawn into her family’s exploration of a geographical setting away from their home in Vancouver, Canada.

Esmeralda was born in the Azores and came to Canada at the age of seven. Reading her account of childhood I could not help but see so many similarities between our journeys from a mid-Atlantic island to the wide open spaces of Edmonton for her, Toronto, for me.

I could feel her struggle with the self-identity question of “where do I belong,” as each place claims a part of her.  The Azores, mainland Portugal, and Canada.  It’s a question I have asked myself for most of my life and a question most immigrants ponder on.  The sense of home is ultimately where you are with those you love and Esmeralda found that sense of belonging with her husband and children beside her on this journey.

Having to translate from Portuguese to English for her Canadian family was a disruption from simply just being able to dive fully into one language: always aware of the need to translate what others are saying.  I could identity with Esmeralda’s desire to be fully immersed in the Portuguese language while she was in Portugal and yet having to temper that desire with the need to communicate to her family what locals were saying.

There are delightful scenes that draw you in to the flavour of the local markets, the people who work and live in Portugal, as Esmeralda, who is not shy to interact with the friendly people she meets, learns how to clean a fish, for example, a skill which gets elevated to the title of her book. Food, in fact, is so interwoven with her storytelling, that I could taste the delicious recipes along the way.  These recipes are thankfully included at the end of the book, and I plan to try them this summer.

Esmeralda ends her travel account after returning to Vancouver with this thought: “And that is the essence of my saudade – one of many leavings, but also, always, of returnings.

At times heartbreaking with loss and longing for loved ones, at other times hilarious with mishaps along the way, How to Clean a Fish is a great read.

Photos by Antonio Cabral de Melo

The second procession of Senhor Santo Cristo in Toronto was held on April 30, 1967. My father’s photographs document, each with a caption written on the backside, a moment in the history of Portuguese immigration to Canada.

I am grateful for these images which I first saw while still living in the Azores and which are still in my possession as tangible evidence of my father’s care and love, not only for the religious significance of the festa but for thinking of me and my mother, so far away at the time, and sharing with us his life in Toronto.

These photos of a public event were taken to be shared as a private moment with his wife and son, at a time when neither Facebook nor Instagram existed for the sharing of every moment of life on-line with everyone you know.  But in the spirit of the 70 anniversary of the Portuguese coming to Canada, I make these images public in honour of my father who in life never sought the limelight nor ever did anything for the glorification of self but simply for the pleasure and delight of his family.

These photographs have started to fade after so many years, but they are still a vivid and impressive record of a day in the religious life of Azoreans who brought their love of Senhor Santo Cristo with them from their island home.

For many years, as a member of the Irmandade do Senhor Santo Cristo dos Milagres, my father had the honour of being one of the men chosen to carry the andor in procession.Antonio Cabral de Melo is the third man from the front in this photo taken in 1972.

“à saída da igreja” 

The first festa do Senhor Santo Cristo in Toronto took place in May of 1966.  I was still living in the Azores then but my father, Antonio Cabral de Melo, who had immigrated to Canada the previous year, documented the first procession with his camera, writing “à saída da igreja,”  on the back of his photograph.

On this 70 anniversary of the Portuguese in Canada, I honour my father’s coming to Canada with these few photographs which are a witness to the love of a 37 year old who left wife and child, as did thousands of others, in the hope of establishing a better life for themselves and their families while creating the traditions of their past into their future.

This year, there will be another procession at St. Mary’s Church on Sunday, May 14, and I will be attending in the desire to connect with a feast that had been important to my father throughout his life.

428 Wood Street, New Bedford, Massachusetts

I started my blog seven years ago as a way to explore and hopefully come to an understanding of my place in the world as an Azorean-Torontonian. My first blog entry on January 11, 2016 was a tribute to both David Bowie, who had just died a few days earlier, and to my father, who had accompanied me and my cousins to Bowie’s Toronto concert in 1976. I would like to share a new reflection I wrote as another tribute to my father, using his voice in the telling of his journey of immigration 59 years ago this year.

*

When Antonio Cabral de Melo left the Azores in November of 1964 for North America, he stayed in New Bedford, Massachusetts for a short while before moving permanently to Canada. Several years ago, I visited the house where he lived with his mother’s sister, Aunt Penny, her husband Frank, and their little boy Chico. Seeing where he had gone to live while I was still a six-year-old back in São Miguel was an experience that moved me deeply; to be inside the house where my father had started out, before my mother and I joined him three years later to live in Toronto.

My memories of the time during my father’s absence are shaped by the letters and photographs he sent my mother and me about his life in New Bedford and later in Toronto. For most of my life, I never considered what my father must have felt about his journey of immigration. All I ever focused on, with the introspection and self-centeredness of a child, was my own grief over his absence. It was only after his death in 2005 that I began to imagine what might have gone through his mind and heart as he left my mother and me for a journey that promised a better future in a faraway land.

A Journey of Promise

I booked a flight as soon as the Non-immigrant visitor’s visa arrived, the Consulate of the United States of America stamp on my passport allowing me to stay only for a short time, but enough for me to venture out and take my chances that, once on American soil, I would be able to extend my visa easily. When the day of leaving arrived, I woke up with my stomach heavy as a stone, regretting my decision, but knowing that I had no choice. My wife, Berta, was already up, quietly packing last-minute socks and underwear in my suitcase by dim light. My little boy slept soundly. I caressed his head, wished him good dreams, and whispered into his ear, “Filho, não te esqueças do pai.”

We were silent, my wife and I, so that we would not wake up our son. My in-laws, who lived with us, would stay with him while she saw me off. I put on my sobretudo, the overcoat too warm but it would be cold in America, so I had been told.

I went back into the bedroom for one last look at my son. As I stood over the bed, my wife begged me to stop crying, to be quiet, and not to disturb the boy. “He’s too young to understand why you’re going away,” she said. She would tell him later, she promised. I reached down and picked him up, I held him in my arms and would not let him go. She pried my sleeping son out of my embrace as I kissed him over and over again.

It was still dark on that late-November morning when our shoes broke the silence with a loud echo along the cobblestoned road. We walked side-by-side, without saying a word, all the way down to the city centre where we sat in a quiet café, ignoring the coffee in front of us. The minutes hurried into the final hour. I looked at my watch and then at the sadness in her eyes.

We walked around the corner to the igreja da Matriz where we had agreed to have our final farewell. The church was a dark tomb, except for candlelight flickering at the altar. Only whispered ave marias broke the silence as we sat on a black-lacquered, stiff wooden pew, on the Blessed Sacrament Chapel side. I had never noticed how hard the seats felt before and now I would miss sitting there every Sunday morning with my wife and child.

The priest and an altar boy appeared. The first Missa of the day was about to start. We looked into each other’s eyes for the last time. I squeezed her hand and whispered “Adeus, Berta, coragem.” Her lips quivered like a little girl. She then looked toward the altar of São Sebastião, the patron saint’s statue full of arrows piercing his body, hurting him just like the pain I was feeling in mine, and she faintly whispered “Adeus, meu querido Antonio.” I walked toward the church doors as the priest started the Mass.

There was still a bit of time before I had to take a taxi to the airport, so I waited outside until Mass was over. I wanted to see my wife one more time. I hid in a doorway and watched her come out, her head kerchief accentuating her pretty face as she walked towards the urbana. She got on the bus, and sat by a window. I waved one last time, but she didn’t see me.

I wondered what my son would say when his mother arrived at the house to explain to him that “O pai foi pra América,” followed by an assurance that I would return. Would it break his heart the way it broke mine? I would write to him as soon as I arrived in America to tell him I loved him. I would tell him that I would be coming back as soon as I paid off our dividas. I would have to explain how so much debt had accumulated, faster than I could pay off, how I tried to make everything work but couldn’t.

Berta wanted the new house, the new car, she encouraged me to open up my own grocery store; but I was a lousy businessman. I gave too much credit to everyone, and I was lousy at collecting what they owed me. After a year of trying, I was forced to shut down the mercearia, across from the Convento de Santo André. To pay my creditors, I started borrowing: at first, small amounts of cash from one friend; then another; and then having to borrow larger amounts from someone else to pay the first friend back; until I owed money to everyone I knew, without the means to pay any of them back.

That’s when the idea of leaving the island for America came to me. My parents, too, agreed that this was the only way out, but they feared that my wife would never let me go. She was too attached to me. We had been together since she was thirteen and I was the only man she had ever known.

To my surprise, she eventually, but reluctantly, agreed to let me go. Everyone knew that the only way to fix an impossible financial situation was to immigrate to the land of money. Berta knew that, too. She had to swallow her pride and submit to the truth that this was the only possible solution that would save our lives. She agreed only on the condition that I return as soon as our debts were paid off.

How could I say all this to my little boy?

How would he understand?

It was a long day of travel from Ponta Delgada but I finally arrived in America. Luckily, without knowing a word of English, I managed to get through customs. The Boston airport was bigger than anything I had seen on our island. I tried to find my way toward the exit doors. I held on to my small suitcase with the address of my tios in my hand to show the taxi driver.

“Ó, senhor Antonio!” I turned around and was surprised to see someone I knew from back home. “O que é que o senhor Antonio está a fazer aqui?” my compatriot asked what I was doing there. “Ó Senhor José, como é que isto é possível? How is this possible, to meet you here, so far away from our island home?” I replied, overjoyed. I showed him the piece of paper with the address of where I was going. He recognized the address in New Bedford, and said that it was outside of Boston, very far from the airport. Massachusetts was a big place, he said, but luckily, he lived in Fall River, and he would drive me all the way there and then I could take a taxi from his house to my final destination. I smiled with relief. O Senhor Santo Cristo dos Milagres always had a way of taking care of me.

Senhor José kept an eye for the relative he had come to pick up and when he spotted him he waved and soon there were embraces of reunion before we headed out to his car. Senhor José drove for a long time. There were lights along the highway that kept on going forever. I think we could have circled the entire island of São Miguel more than once by the time he stopped the car. His wife welcomed me and their relative with a big smile. I hoped I would get the same happy reception when my tios saw me at their door. I waited by the warmth of their front hall until the taxi arrived. Senhor José said something I could not understand to the driver, wished me boa sorte with a firm handshake and promised that we would see other again.

The ride to New Bedford felt like a long way to go and I worried about having enough cash on me to pay the driver. I was very tired after a long day of travel. Two flights, the first from São Miguel to Santa Maria on the small SATA, and from there, to the biggest airplane I had ever seen.

It would be about three o’clock in the morning back home. My wife and son – my family – would be asleep. I wondered what os tios would say when they saw me. Now that I was almost at their house, I regretted that I hadn’t written to ask permission to come stay with them first. But what if they had said no? It would be much harder for them to send me away once they saw me at their front door. I prayed an ave maria that they would take me in.

The taxi cab slowed down and stopped. The driver pointed to the corner house. I paid him with my new American dollars and waved for him to go. I didn’t want him to be there in case my relatives told me that I could not stay. If I was without a ride, they were more likely to let me in. Once the car drove off, the silence of the night was unbearable and I trembled in the cold air as I walked up the front steps and reached for the doorbell of the house all in darkness.

A startling loud ring announced my presence but it also determined my future.

There was silence again, and it felt like I had been waiting for hours before I heard any sound. Finally, a light went on, the door opened and a tall man, groggy with sleep, wearing pyjamas, looked out into the darkness with surprise. It had to be Uncle Frank. I gave him the biggest smile. I hoped he would not see how nervous I felt. “Sou o Antonio, o filho da Maria.” I said to reassure him who I was.

“Antonio? Como é que você chegou aqui?”

Before I could explain how I got there, Aunt Penny appeared, timidly standing behind her husband, clutching her bathrobe around her chest. She, too, peered out to see me with unexpected disbelief. The couple stood still as if guarding the entrance to their home, perhaps hoping that they were only dreaming and that I would soon vanish.

I begged them for forgiveness for this late-night intrusion and also for not warning them of my visit. I asked them to, at least, allow me to stay for the night. I would be happy to leave in the morning, I said, immediately regretting saying it just in case they took me up on my word.

They looked at each other and said something in English. They then looked at me. To my relief, Uncle Frank waved for me to enter but warned me that I had a few days to find another place to stay. They had been severely let down before by other relatives and family friends, he said, who knowing that Uncle Frank had already made a success of it in America, descended upon their home with the hope of tapping into their good fortune. All of these relatives had proven to be ungrateful for the assistance given to them and Uncle Frank and Aunt Penny had sworn that they would no longer try and help any of the increasing number of arrivals from the homeland who knocked on their door, announced or not.

I assured them that they would not regret taking me in. I would not let them down. I had come for work, any kind of work I could find. Aunt Penny nodded as she looked me in the eye, but I could sense that she was doubtful of my sincerity when she looked away.

She showed me to their kitchen, spotlessly clean, full of modern appliances Berta could not even dream of. “Luckily we just finished Thanksgiving dinner and there’s plenty of leftovers in the refrigerator. I’ll put a plate out for you.” I sat down at the kitchen table and never ate with so much pleasure in my life. When I finished, she took me to a small room next to the kitchen and said that I could sleep there for the night, and that we would talk further in the morning. I thanked her for everything. The worst was over. I was now safe and warm, at least for that first night, and I tried to sleep, dreaming of my wife and son, missing them terribly and wondering how their first day went without me.

Cartas (Letters)

30 de Novembro de 1964, New Bedford, Massachusetts,

Querida esposa e filho,

É com muita saudade que escrevo esta carta para dizer que, graças a Deus, cheguei a New Bedford e tudo correu muito bem. Os tios ficaram surpreendidos quando me viram à porta, mas depois, no outro dia, disseram-me que podia ficar por algum tempo. Tenho andado a trabalhar no armezem do tio, arrumando as coisas, limpando tudo, que ficou como uma maravilha. Tenho brincado muito com o Chico, o filho deles. Às vezes estou cansado e preferia dormir mas tenho que lhes agradar para ver se me deixam ficar aqui até eu poder arranjar algum emprego. Como está o meu querido filho, que tantas saudades tenho dele. Um grande beijo e abraço para ti, minha querida, e para o nosso filho. Adeus. Antonio

My darling wife and son,

It is with much longing that I write to tell you that, thanks to God, I arrived in New Bedford and everything turned out well. My aunt and uncle were very surprised when they saw me at their doorstep but, on the following day, they said that I could stay for a little while. I’ve been working in Uncle Frank’s warehouse, organizing the cluttered shelves, cleaning everything, making it all look good. I play with Chico, their son. Sometimes, I am tired and would prefer to sleep but I have to please them while I live in their house and until I can find some other work. How is my dear son? I miss him very much. A big kiss and hug for you and our son. Goodbye for now, Antonio.

14 de Dezembro de 1964, Ponta Delgada

Meu querido e saudoso marido,

Foi com lagrimas nos olhos que li a tua carta, que fiquei tão contente em saber que tudo te correu bem. Eu vou indo muito triste como podes calcular mas, paciência, teve de ser assim. Espero que voltes mais cedo do que mais tarde. O nosso filho está bom, continua a gostar da escola mas tem muitas saudades tuas. Não te demores a escrever-me o mais breve possível com notíçias tuas. A tua esposa que te ama até a morte, Berta.

My darling and missed husband,

It was with tears in my eyes that I read your letter. I was very happy to learn that everything went well upon your arrival. I am very sad without you, as you can imagine but, I have to be patient, it had to be this way. I hope that you will return to us sooner than later. Our son is well. He continues to enjoy school but misses you terribly. Please write back as soon as you can.

Your wife, who loves you until death, Berta.

3 de Abril de 1965, Ponta Delgada

Ofereço esta fotografia de mim e do nosso querido fillho ao meu sempre querido e saudoso marido como prova do grande amôr que te dedico. Aceita o coração cheio de saudades da tua espôsa muito amiga e filho, Berta e Emanuel.

I send this photograph of me and of our dear son to my always dear and missed husband as proof of my love. Accept this heart full of longing from your wife and your son, Berta and Emanuel

19 de Junho de 1965, Toronto, Canadá

Berta querida,

Quero que saibas que estou agora em Toronto vivendo na casa da minha irmã Ilda. O tio levou-me até á fronteira e atravessei para o Canadá perto de Niagra Falls. Que grande país é este. Estou a trabalhar na construção, tenho que me levantar pelas quatro horas da manhã e o trabalho é duro mas, graças a Deus que já te posse enviar algum dinheiro para começar a pagar as nossas dividas. Não sei quando poderei voltar. Talvez que eu fique aqui mais um ano para ver se endireitamos a nossa vida. Dá um grande beijo e abraço no meu querido filho, que tantas saudades tenho dele e de ti também, minha querida. Teu esposo, Antonio

Dear Berta,

I want to let you know that I am now living with my sister Ilda in Toronto. Uncle Frank drove me to the border and I entered Canada at Niagara Falls. What a big country this is. I’m working in construction now. I have to get up at four in the morning; the work is hard but, thanks to God, I can already send you some money so that we can start paying off our debts. I have no idea when I’ll be able to return. Perhaps I’ll stay here one more year and let’s see if that will allow us to straighten out our life. Give a big kiss and a hug to my dear son, I miss him so much and you, too, my darling. Your husband, Antonio.

27 de Junho de 1965, Toronto, Canadá

Desejo ao meu querido filho uns anos felizes na companhia da mãe e avós, deste teu pai que te ama tanto. Estou muito contente que vais passar de classe, recebe um beijo e abraço deste teu pai, Antonio.

I wish my dear son a very happy birthday in the company of your mother and grandparents, from your father who loves you very much. I am glad to know that you will are doing well in school. A kiss and hug. Your father, Antonio

21 de Maio de 1966, Toronto, Canadá

Meu querido filho,

Parabéns pela tua primeira comunhão. Envio-te esta fotografia para veres como celebramos aqui no Canadá o teu dia tão feliz. Um grande abraço para o meu filho com muitas saudades. Teu pai, Antonio.

My dear son,

Congratulations on your First Communion Day. I am sending you this photograph so that you can see how we celebrated your happy day here, in Canada. A big hug for you, my son. Missing you very much. Your father, Antonio.

18 de Agosto de 1967, Ponta Delgada

Querido Antonio,

Como se passa o tempo tão lentamente e eu sempre com tantas saudades tuas. Envio-te esta fotografia que tirei juntamento com o nosso querido filho em frente da forte de São Braz para veres come ele está a crescer, ele com nove anos e eu com trinta e quatro. Um grande beijo e abraço desta tua esposa, Berta.

Dear Antonio,

How slow time is going by and me always with such longing for you. I am sending you this photograph of me and our son, taken in front of forte São Braz so that you can see how he’s growing, he at nine and me at thirty-four years of age. A big kiss and hug from your wife, Berta.

1 de Dezembro de 1968, Toronto, Canadá

Querida Berta,

É com muita alegria que te mando dizer que estou proximo a regressar à nossa querida ilha de São Miguel. Espera por mim no dia 20 de Dezembro. Até aquele dia feliz. Um beijo e abraço cheio de saudade, Antonio.

Dear Berta,

It’s with great joy that I am letting you know that I will be returning very soon to our dear island of São Miguel. I will arrive on December 20. Until that happy day, I send you a kiss and a hug full of longing, Antonio.

*

I walked down the stairs of the same SATA airplane that had taken me away, and touched the soil of my native land again eager to be reunited with my wife and son. And there they were, she looking beautiful and smiling and he so tall, already a young man. I rushed to embrace her and she hugged me tight but when I reached out my arms to my son, he stood stiffly, not even looking at me. I imagined he was just shy but that he would soon warm up to me again.

It felt good to be back after three Christmas away. I watched my son arrange the presépio, the Nativity with the old clay figurines of the shepherds and their little sheep, the Three Kings with their gifts, the tiny houses and animals, all made of barro, and the village scenes of a matança and a procession. I had missed the sweet fragrance of pine branches and cedar boughs with golden bells, tied with red ribbon, covered with silver tinsel; the plates of trigo on top of the bedroom dresser; coconut balls with Rum and other sweets she and her mother made; and a bottle of sweet licor de Maracujá on the dining room table.

When the New Year came, I told my wife that there was a good life waiting for us in Canada and that we should start it as soon as possible. “Vens comigo, mas vais ter de trabalhar.” She would have to work in our new country. Everyone worked in Canada. She worried about taking our son out of school in the middle of the year but I assured her that he could start school once we arrived in Toronto.

It was hard for my wife to leave her parents but she would not let me go back alone either, and on February 4 of 1968 we left for Canada. I assured my in-laws that we would come back one day, but I already knew that we most likely would never return. A life of opportunity was before us and so we ventured out to start a new home.

My father’s venture into a new country turned out well. He enjoyed a good life in Canada, surrounded by his parents, sisters, nieces and nephews. Luckily, we always remained a close-knit family and could rely on each other to remind us of our origins in the Azores. I am full of gratitude for my father’s journey of promise.

Review of A journey of Promise by Susan K. Riggs

Published in Filamentos, Arts and Letters in the Azorean Diaspora, 2023