Conversations with Gizelle

This is a to-be-continued series of short, broken Portuguese conversations (translated into what they would sound like in English) I have had with my co-worker, Gizelle. Gizelle speaks absolutely no English; she has yet to even master “thank you.” Thus, we speak in her native tongue – or what we both know that I know of it. Gizelle and I work with vegetables, fruits, and greens. She has a photo album of the day she gave birth to her now 18-month-old daughter, Christiana, which she showed me not long ago. Quite graphic. To me, she looks like a stout, light-brown pear. She is exactly my age.

“You look like you’re in a good mood,” Gizelle says accusingly.
“I am,” I smile. She looks me up and down, slowly raising her eyebrows.

“What you do at night?” I ask Gizelle.
“Play games of video.”
“Oh! Video games!” I consider telling her my true thoughts on video games, but I don’t know the words in her language for waste of time or rot your brain. “What does your daughter do while you play?”
“I give her other controller, and turn the power off. She think she play.”

“How are you go to Argentina?” Gizelle wonders.
“Bus, then airplane.”
“Did you go on a bus to Brazil from your house in America?” I take a moment to catch myself. I wonder how long that would take. Three weeks?
“No, I fly in airplane.”

“What you do on your day off tomorrow?” Gizelle asks.
“Sleep, read, walk in park, call to my sister.”
“You talk to your family a lot. Dad Monday, sister Saturday. You are close. When talk to mom?” I consider lying. Telling her that I talk to her just as often, or that she’s always busy. But I sift through the words I know in Portuguese and realize I can probably get the truth across.
“When I had 11 years, mom : cancer.”
Gizelle looks confused.
“Mom of me,” I point to myself, “Is not here.”
Gizelle looks perplexed.
“Mom of me,” I point to my belly, “cancer.”
Gizelle starts to nod.
“Mom of me,” I point upwards, “does not have life. She is there.”
“Ah, yes. Sad,” she considers me for a moment. “The mom of my husband, does not have life also.”

“You like broccoli?” Gizelle asks, seeing me pop a stem into my mouth.
“Yes. Much.”
“I no like broccoli.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a vegetable. I no eat vegetables.”

“How long on bus from house Lisa to Graciliano in morning?” Gizelle inquires.
“15 minutes,” I answer. “How long on bus from house Gizelle?”
“One hour and half.”