Something happened to her in Grasiosa that made her leave.  Poverty was the prevailing story.  A beautiful girl of 15, climbing aboard a boat bound for a country she didn’t know and a language she couldn’t speak.   I don’t buy it.  She left something there and she never wanted to reclaim it, never waxed lyrical about the beauty of the old country.  When she inherited land there, she gave it back.  Not many events, aside from starvation, persecution or rape, would make a young girl leave and never, I mean never look back.  

Immigration laws passed in 1921 and 1924 created quotas:  how many immigrants and from what countries of origin were allowed into the United States.  Let’s just say, it was a good thing she immigrated before 1921 or I probably wouldn’t be writing this story.

Here, In America, she learned to read and write – something she couldn’t have done in the old country.  In America, she learned to stand up for herself, refused to be abused by her husband – something she couldn’t have done on her tiny island.  

She was a proud single parent whose seven children knew both languages.  She spoke Portuguese for no other reason than she spoke that best.  In her language, she could teach us her prayers, how to cook her food, how to make lace.  In her language she could express her thoughts, her love, and her pride.

She’d come a long way to escape whatever it was she left behind and her reward was American children and grandchildren with whom she shared her talents and knowledge through the nuances of her language.

Because of her, I must quibble with the idea that English is the official language of the United States.  The official language is the one that taught us about family, about food and about love.  America’s official language is love.  

She may not have spoken English well but my Nana spoke her language of love fluently and I’ll bet yours did, too.