On Streets and Such

I have always liked history at school. I think it is one of the most fascinating subjects because it says a lot about who we are and where we come from.

To this day, I remember a homework assignment our history teacher gave us. Each of us had to research the street where we lived and write about the person it was named after.

Through carelessness or lack of attention, I ended up not turning in the assignment. I told the teacher I had not found anything about Ronaldo de Carvalho in the encyclopedia (yes, we still used those from time to time) or on Google. The truth was that our street was named Ronald de Carvalho, not Ronaldo. In fact, I remember there being two street signs with both names on my street, just to make things even more confusing.

What I remember most is the teacher’s astonished “How could you not?”, suggesting I had not searched hard enough, which was true.

As a belated history lesson: Ronald de Carvalho was a poet, a contemporary of Fernando Pessoa, took part in the 1922 Week of Modern Art, and died in a car accident. If I had lived on the next street down, Rua Assis Chateaubriand, the assignment would have been longer.

But I am writing this piece to talk about my past, and about two streets in Jundiaí that are far apart but closely connected.

Dionísio Galdino, my grandfather, was born in Espírito Santo do Pinhal, moved to Jundiaí, married my grandmother, Maria Aparecida Prado Galdino, had four children, and spent more than 50 years building his life in Jundiaí.

Claudemir Galdino, the son of Dionísio and Maria, was born in Jundiaí, got married and had a daughter, founded Jund Breq, an auto repair shop, worked for years, and died in a car accident on his way back from a fishing trip.

It is hard to sum up someone’s life in a paragraph, just as it is hard for a street or a square to do justice to someone’s life. But it is a loving way to pay tribute, a way to let someone live on. It gives me both comfort and a sense of wonder to know that many of the streets, squares, and places we visit are shadows of people who have passed away but remain alive when we speak their names. It is almost a ritual.

Anyway, I digress… I can only be glad to know that at the end of the street named after my uncle, a long stairway leads to a block where children play soccer.