 "Photo: Katherine Judd '11")
 "Photo: Katherine Judd '11")
 "Photo: Katherine Judd '11")
 "Photo: Katherine Judd '11")
The concept of personal space in Brazil is completely different from in the U.S.—and by ‘completely different,’ I mean that it doesn’t exist.
I’ve been able to adjust to most of the cultural differences here: the way people dress, especially on the beach (some people should not be allowed to wear that little clothing. Ever.), the abundance of tropical fruits (most of which don’t even have English translations), the drinking age (18) and the fact that Brazilians take pride in serving their beer bem gelado wicked cold, the food (rice and beans is standard fare, so it’s pretty easy to be a vegetarian here), the soccer (Brazil just qualified for the World Cup 2010), the slang (legal means cool, sweet, sick, amazing, and awesome, rolled into one). But the personal space issue still throws me for a loop.
This was the last thing I expected, since I’m comfortable with sharing. Last year, I lived in a tiny one-room triple in Tower. My roommates and I basically lived on top of each other. However, when I arrived in Fortaleza, Brazil, I can say with certainty that I was not prepared for this level of intimacy with the rest of the world.
I’m involved in a program that focuses on social justice issues in the north of Brazil. The 13 of us in the program spent our first four days orienting ourselves in a house on the beach, where the program director warned us, “Brazilians love to share, and the concept of personal space doesn’t really exist here.”
I’m living in a homestay with a mother, Fátima, and Duda, her 11-year-old daughter, and I have absolutely no privacy. I share a room with Duda. I have a mattress that gets pulled out from under her bed at night and pushed back under in the morning. I have one drawer in her dresser and a little less than half of her closet.
The thing is, sharing a room would have been a big deal for me when I was 11, back in the States. I would have cared. However, I’ve slowly come to the conclusion that Duda really doesn’t mind.
The fact remains, however, that I don’t have a bed to relax on. I don’t have a desk or bookshelf to put my books on. I don’t even have my own laundry basket to pile dirty laundry in for weeks on end! I study at the kitchen table, and her mom can see what I’m doing over her shoulder. ‘Alone time’ here doesn’t really exist. When you’re home, it’s family time.
Since I came here not speaking the language, communication is always difficult. My Portuguese has rapidly improved out of necessity, but I still have to be 100 percent focused, even when having a casual conversation. I can’t zone out, I can’t lose concentration for a second, or I miss whatever that person was trying to say. This gets draining. Fast.
The flip side of the personal space issue is that I’ve found Brazilians to be incredibly welcoming and kind and willing to share anything with me, a foreigner. The first time I rode the bus, it was really crowded. There was no place to sit anywhere. I had a bag on my shoulder and was pressed against people. I felt someone tapping on my shoulder and hoped it wasn’t someone wanting money. I ignored it. Tap-tap-tap again.
I turned to look at the person in the seat, and he asked me something in Portuguese. I uttered the one phrase I already knew by heart: Não falo Português. I don’t speak Portuguese. I then received a smile and some complicated gestures. He seemed to be motioning that he wanted my bag. I shook my head no and tried (with limited success) to move towards the front of the bus. I later learned that it’s customary here to offer to hold other people’s belongings if one is seated on a bus.
Everywhere I go, I’m continually surprised by how much Brazilians are willing to share. They’re eager to show me everything about their culture and way of life—one that’s so different in many ways from mine in the U.S. They are frequently exchanging music, food, conversations and compliments. Their generosity and habit of going out of their way to make me feel welcome and included leaves me speechless. True, the lack of command over the language leaves me speechless first, but if I were ever to find speech, I’d most likely just lose it again.
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