BOSSA NOVA Julie Derraik
like me
SOUNDS
I sound like Bossa. My Vovó Dida is the original “Girl From Ipanema”; she’s not tall, tan or young, but she is most definitely lovely. She has lived in her tiny, streetside apartment in Tijuca for forty years now, hogging a simultaneous view of Christ the Redeemer and the intersection where Aunt Andrea was shot (don’t worry, Tia is alive and livelier than ever). Vovó always leaves the windows open to let in Rio’s salty breath and, consequently, the dissonant engine sputters of every Carioca driving by. Underneath these mechanical tones I can hear her serenading the city from the windowsill: always proudly and always Bossa Nova. Bossa Nova, which my American friends dismiss as elevator music, emerged in Brazil during the 1950s. Bossa musicians sourced inspiration from mellow beach sounds and classic samba, incorporating echoes of American jazz and its chords of social revolution. The double bass’s soothing strum and the surdo’s grounding downbeats always still my soul and center my mind in cathartic, cultural euphoria. Through Vovó’s influence, Bossa has become my allpurpose rhythmic remedy. Throughout her tumultuous life, Vovó found resilience in the savory notes of Bossa Nova—the way it sounds like waves washing over the shores of Copacabana, like the gentle creaking of cable cars climbing Pão de Açúcar. Bossa brought her hope, and now (bless my tone-deaf mom and brother) she has passed this gift on to me. Despite being thousands of painful miles away, I still hear Vovó Dida’s gentle melodies when she sends recordings on WhatsApp. A simple request accompanies her tender vibrato and audible grin: “Ju, will you learn this Bossa song for me?” I always do, spending however long it takes rehearsing each complex harmony because I know these cherished requests may soon disappear. Vovó’s Bossa especially is like honey for my spirit. I replay her recordings when I feel nostalgic, but, mostly, I listen to feel Brazilian. Growing up in predominantly white spaces, feeling
92
Brazilian was not as easy as my genetics implied. Oftentimes I was the only Latina in the room. Because of my pale skin and green eyes, it was easy to herd behind the white kids, hiding my black-sheepness by codeswitching. Though, over time, this white comfort became costly; I was losing my culture. My Portuguese stuttered, raucous relatives brought red shame to my cheeks, and my dear Bossa even began to sound like elevator music. My growing concerns peaked the summer before ninth grade when Vovó called. I had forgotten how to sing happy birthday. We had not visited Brazil in over five years, and I desperately wanted to reconnect with my ethnicity. Despite my parents’ concerns about Rio’s rising crime rate, they gave in to my persistence Christmas break freshman year. Naturally, the first place I landed was Vovó Dida’s apartment. As soon as I entered that kitchen/dining/living room and heard her humming her Bossa melodies, my worries melted away. From the stovetop, her delicate notes danced with the chiming of the pots. Upon arrival she winked at me with the very same sagetinted eyes I inherited from her, almost as if to say: “Ju, this is where we belong.” And she is absolutely right—not that I belong in Brazil necessarily, but that I belong in Bossa. That acoustic glee rings through my blood, rising from tapping feet, floating through winding hips, and finding its home in my beating heart. Once in a while, I still catch myself regressing toward cultural assimilation, but now I know to play that sacred sound. Only then am I reminded of my fierce pride because Bossa Nova sounds like Tia Andrea’s laughter. Bossa sounds like liberation. Like Vovó calling us to dinner. Like loving myself. Like churrasco sizzling on the grill. Like Brazilian romanticism charged with American resistance. And, although I am the one listening, I am being heard because Bossa Nova sounds like me.
