Sangria Forever : An Opposites Attract, Sweet Sports Romance in Portugal by Lynn Joseph

Author:Lynn Joseph [Joseph, Lynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Mermaid Press, LLC
Published: 2024-01-05T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-Six

Itap my pen on the edge of my journal and stare out the window at the Dom Luís I Bridge. A steaming cup of tea sits next to me.

It’s the first week of November. I’ve just come back in from walking Sangria.

I had to brush his coat to dislodge the twigs and leaves caught in his fur after he’d rolled on his back in the grass.

The trees have shed their multi-colored leaves, pieces of which now litter my apartment.

“Bad boy,” I pretended to admonish Sangria.

Arf! He licked my face and raced around in circles.

Now he’s sitting by my feet as I do my daily fifteen minutes of journal writing.

Midterms are approaching and students are spending more time in the library and less in cafes drinking sangria and flirting with the idea of living permanently as an expat abroad.

I’m still finding it difficult to make inroads with the Writers & Poets Club. It’s as if they don’t take me seriously.

My pen beats harder against the page as I recall the meeting yesterday.

Several male writers asked if my background as a Black woman would affect how I translated their books.

“What do you mean?” I’d asked.

“Well,” said one of the writers, “Do you harbor any innate anger or resentment toward us?”

“Toward you?” I still wasn’t getting his point. I was stumped on how to respond.

It was Carlos who spoke up and said one word. “Slavery.”

I’m aware of the atrocities committed against Africans by the Portuguese for over four hundred years. I’m ever more aware that much of the beautiful city of Porto was financed by the slave trade. But I’d never connected that history to my goal of being a translator of Portuguese books.

My college education and the ability to travel gives me a unique privilege.

One that I’m starting to recognize can open doors for others like me who may want to consider learning languages as a career goal.

I looked at the trio of male writers. Without getting huffy, I said, “My education and experiences highly qualify me to be a translator. Not my skin color. In fact, my heritage is an asset, not a liability.”

I smiled diplomatically at them. They didn’t return the smile.

Carlos spoke up behind me. “It’ll depend on what you write.”

They frowned. I knew then I’d never be asked to translate their stories and poems.

It was disheartening to come up against these unexpected barriers. Especially since I’ve been welcomed by everyone I’ve met here.

Maybe Salvador has a point. Maybe they’re pseudo-intellectuals. They’re not open-minded. And often talk as if they are right and everyone else is missing the point.

I’d hung around a bit, hoping someone would approach me and say they were sorry they’d asked me such an insulting question. But no one did.

Later as we’d walked out of the cafe, Carlos had comforted me by saying, “They’re not the only writers in Portugal, Corrine. They’re just a small handful.”

“You’re right,” I’d said. “I need to expand my world a bit.”

But it still hurt a lot. To be rejected before I’d even gotten a chance to show my skills.

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