The advantage of being framed

He stepped off the plane in late winter, or early spring. The exact time doesn’t matter…what matters is that it was freezing cold. Much colder than Sao Miguel, the island he lived on for the first 25 years of his life. The landscape was white, with mere skeletons of trees dotting the landscape. The wind whipped across, sending debris, snow, and a cold chills in his direction. Canada was much different than the Azores.

                What am I doing here?…he must have thought. He left a relatively comfortable life back home, one where he had financial security, family, and a green landscape that never was too cold, or too hot. Now he was in a land with no job, no family, and white all around for the near future. But duty called.

                You see, Arturo was fortunate enough to obtain the proper paperwork to come to Canada. Why he would want to do this was purely out of love for his family-opportunity lied west, and little opportunity was left for his children in the Azores. Sure, he had a job, but also the equivalent of a third grade education-his children would need to have more in the changing global climate. Canada was essentially an outpost for him to gain a little money and a home, so his wife and children could follow. Then, when the paperwork cleared, they could join the rest of the family in California. But that would come later.

                Arturo looked around, the white landscape’s desolation burning his eyes. He slowly trudged into the airport, not knowing a word of English or French, wondering what lied ahead. A bench sat unoccupied in a small corner of the ramshackle building. Arturo sat his bags down, straightened his collar, and held his head in his hands. What am I going to do…?

                Moments passed, and a blur of voices spoke in languages he did not know. He knew he couldn’t sit on that bench forever; eventually he would have to get up. His head in his hands, with his elbows propped on his legs seemed all too comfortable for the moment. At least in this vantage point no one could see the fear in his eyes.

                “Hello friend, do you need any help?” A hand touched his shoulder. Arturo looked up slowly. A man not far from his age stood smiling, patting Arturo on the back.

                “Yes, I would like that very much.”

           Arturo Resendes is my grandfather. Obviously, I owe a great deal to this man, who had the bravery to step out of his comfortable life in the Azores to one of complete and utter mystery in North America.

                His courage has been a constant example I have tried to live up to in my life. No matter what challenges I have met or will meet, I always will have his memory as inspiration. This frame, among others, has produced and how I see the world.

                I shiver to think of what my life would be without his example, or any of the other frames I have in my life.

                Bessie Smith is an example of a person who did not have the same luxuries that I had. “I have always been just me, with no frame of reference to anything beyond myself,” is one of the autobiographical reflections Smith once spoke. She never knew her true parents, was raised until thirteen with no knowledge of her true parents, and had her life completely torn into pieces by a missionary who divulged her true past. She was born of an African farm hand and a Scottish woman in a mental hospital, and promptly removed from her mother. She bounced from the care of different families. All before the age of thirteen.

                Now imagine yourself back when you were thirteen. Typically, this is when a child begins to feel or has already felt the challenge of hormones, and also is usually beginning to become somewhat independent. It is a difficult time for nearly every child. Bessie Head had to go through this time with a sudden knowledge of her tragic beginnings. Additionally, she had to deal with the fact she was living in a society that was split down the middle by race, and she happened to be half African, half white. So who could she identify with?

                While I sympathize greatly for what was her plight, I cannot say that I can relate. I have been fortunate not to have the uncertainties Head lived with. My parents are divorced, but it happened when I was so young that them together was never a frame I saw the world through. I never had any amount of shock anywhere near what Head had to experience. Her past and heritage were complete mysteries, without any sort of footing to gain answers or any way to incorporate them into her own self.

                This is what truly makes me feel for Head more than anything. She never had the examples of others’ like I do with my Grandpa. She had a frame of those who raised her, and a whole deal of mystery to accompany the rest.

                Bessie Head’s life, in my mind, was not much different than my Grandpa’s experience in Canada. She stepped into the world like he did in Canada without a friend or knowledge of what to expect. However, my Grandpa was much more fortunate than Head. You see, my Grandpa had one frame that made his efforts in Canada a success-his ethnicity. He was Portuguese, and the man who helped him could tell. The man spoke Portuguese to him, and because of the frame my Grandpa was raised in he was able to make the best of a difficult situation. The man helped him get a job roofing, a job so miserable that my Grandpa once wrote to my great aunt (his sister in law) “the work is so hard, and the land is so cold, that when the day is done some times all I can do is cry. Please do not tell your sister about this, it would break her heart.” He had a hard job, a hard life, but the advantage of frames to aid him along the way.

           Head, however, did not have the same luxuries. Her life started out a blank slate. She was sitting on a bench like my Grandpa, head in hands, the world to figure out all on her own.