A recurring topic of conversation at bar tables and in homes is “What’s your earliest memory in life?” In one of these conversations, Milton shared his:
The family lived in Praia de Botafogo, between São Clemente and Voluntários streets, in a small two-story building with four apartments, no elevator, and located above a Brahma brewery bottle distribution depot, now a lumberyard. This southern end of Botafogo Bay and its surroundings was known as “Mourisco,” a small part of the Botafogo neighborhood.
It likely got its name from a pavilion-restaurant built in a “Moorish” architectural style for the 1922 international exposition, similar to the Oswaldo Cruz Foundation’s little castle on Av. Brasil. By around 1950, the site housed a branch of the Botafogo Football and Regatta Club, with a semi-Olympic swimming pool (half the size of an Olympic pool) next to it, where children learned to swim before moving on to the Guanabara Club with its full-sized Olympic pool. The “Moorish Pavilion” was partially demolished during the construction of the Pasmado Tunnel, later replaced by a modern architectural complex designed by Oscar Niemeyer. It featured another semi-Olympic pool and a basketball/volleyball court, both with small bleachers, but this too was demolished (circa 1985). Today, the area is occupied by a commercial and office complex called the Mourisco Business Center, a set of glass cylinders of equally questionable taste. It seems the location attracts architects’ worst moments.
There were electric trams (urban trains or streetcars) identified by numbers. Tram 4 ran the route between Praia Vermelha, Mourisco, and Tabuleiro da Bahiana (which was located where Largo da Carioca is now, at the intersection of Av. Chile, Av. 13 de Maio, Almirante Barroso Street, and Senator Dantas Street). Always starting at Tabuleiro, it always passed by Mourisco, where the power generator for the tram wires was located. As I recall, Tram 5 went to Leme, Tram 11 to the Botanical Garden, and Tram 3 to Copacabana. I don’t remember the others.
After the end of the war (May 1945), many immigrants like Milton’s parents (he was 33, she was 32) allowed themselves to marry and have children. They had achieved some professional stability and were at the societal and medical age limit for starting a family. It was also common for newlyweds to move in with one set of parents for economic and practical reasons.
Milton’s grandmother then took on the role of household “manager” and, with the arrival of grandchildren, became their supervisor and nanny. She wasn’t easygoing or sweet—she was rough and practically illiterate, one of those European peasants who emigrated to escape hunger and lack of options.
It was 1951 or 1952, and there were two brothers: Milton, 4 to 5 years old, and Élio, 2 or 3. They went to the beach on Tram 4, from Mourisco to Praia Vermelha, with their grandmother and a young nanny, almost a child herself, as was common. The two women had to be vigilant—the sea there is treacherous for non-swimmers, with sudden drop-offs. The younger brother required more attention. A woman sitting nearby helped entertain the older boy, and suddenly, where was the older grandson? Milton?
Panic ensued. Shouts erupted. Someone remembered seeing the neighbor woman take him to buy an ice cream from a Kibon cart. But where were they? The frantic grandmother left the younger boy and the nanny with strict instructions not to move. Everyone began mobilizing to help, and she ran to the gardens of General Tibúrcio Square. Instinct led her to Tram 4, waiting at the final stop near the Sugarloaf cable car station.
The tram was waiting for its scheduled departure. She spotted her grandson sitting with the woman. She broke into a sprint, yelling in a mix of desperation and relief, shouting prejudiced insults she had heard, calling the woman a gypsy. A huge commotion broke out. Milton was yanked forcefully by the arm as his grandmother scolded him harshly.
The grandmother, around 55 or 60, with the deformed body of a woman who had done hard labor, tried to strike the other woman. People took sides, some even against the desperate grandmother because of her accent—she was a foreigner, from another “tribe.” A policeman who was usually stationed there intervened. Milton doesn’t remember all the details. What he did understand was that the world wasn’t easy and that he needed to at least help keep himself safe. He told us, now in his seventies:
“It was in the middle of that scolding that I realized how stupid I had been. The pitying looks others gave me still embarrass me today. That moment was like my second birth. That’s why it’s my earliest memory—it jolted my brain awake. Roughly, but it did. I’m grateful to my grandmother, who, with her tough and blunt style, showed me strength and the need to face and solve problems. She didn’t coddle me or take away my share of responsibility. I learned the lesson—not to wait for someone else to do things for you and to understand that safety isn’t just a right. Most people are good, thank God, but there are always some who aren’t.”
And we kept thinking, nothing changes. If it happened today, people would still say, “What is the world coming to?”
Miguel Fernandez, consulting engineer and chronicler, September 2023
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