Part 3: My Portuguese Identity
The final installment in a dilemma of contraditions. How do I define myself?
There is something to be said about being alone in vast open spaces. It inspires endless possibilities. When I see this photo of my father (above) I cannot help but think of what was ahead of him and the seemingly endless potential his life held. The promise he had been searching for. But to find that life and unlike many Portuguese in our Toronto community, my father chose to look for answers in spiritual nature. In doing so, he turned away from his past and a religion that could not sustain his answers for a brighter future.
Navigating my own religious identity seems more clear cut. Growing up, the church loomed large. It’s reach extended to the rituals at home: crucifex in every room, saints under domed cloches, and the portrait of Senhor Santo Cristo dos Milagres—an image every Azorean boy was frightened by—plastered on a wall of distinction or framed atop a table. I attended St. Mary’s Catholic Elemntary School and St. Mary’s Catholic Church, both on Portugal Square in Toronto. Weekends, both Saturday and Sunday, were devoted to catechism until the age of fourteen. Every religious festival became a significant affair filled with Portuguese delicacies, family from both near and far, and prayer. The feast days in the religious calendar were always preceded by regular visits to the confessional, where women under lace veils sat close enough to hopefully hear a small tidbit of our childhood transgressions. There was the occasional shuffling along a parade route dressed as an angel or, if I was lucky enough, Joseph. I never questioned my role in anything; it was far too important to my mother and grandmother, in particular. It was the world I knew intimately and its affect in shaping my identity was tremendous. As I grew older, I began to see the careful orchestration that went into growing up Portuguese and catholic—the manipulative guilt used to control our behaviour that unfurled like one of those science filmstrips where a flower unfurls its petals in high speed trickery. But if I ever questioned God or stepped out of line, my grandmother would remind me, Jesus não gosta. The reprobation of Jesus doesn’t like it always worked with me and I’d get back in line. Until I didn’t.
