How to Start a Blob

A brief history of one half of me.

My grandmother, Thereza DeMello, is the reason for the title of this post. “How am I going to read your blob, your glob or whatever?” She asked, trusting me to understand what she meant, and that it was a sincere question. I have been anticipating starting this blog without a clue as to how, but Grandma’s funny question led the way. Under a thick creole accent, her English is nearly flawless. But at times the unfamiliarity of it seeps through, and she pushes through the momentary roadblock anyway. I cherish and delight in this. 

She sees the humor in it too, and is proudly the most quoted person in my ongoing phone note titled, People Quotes. “I heard the people who moved down the road are foreeners,” she said once, which sent my cousin and sisters and I laughing all afternoon. It was probably 100 degrees outside, characteristic of a midsummer day in Fair Oaks, and we were sitting on her living room floor as we often did after a generous Portuguese meal. The soothing hum of the AC unit promised us sanctuary. “You need to take my phone to ATAT,” is another line of hers when working an iPhone is more trouble than it’s worth. One of my favorites was after I told her about frequently running into an ex at a certain surf spot, to which she replied, “tell him to find another sand.” (I did tell him, but with my eyes).

To my surprise, my heart started to pound when I approached this blank page—my first post. It was odd, my physical reaction to starting a blog. I started typing on a standing-desk at the front of an amphitheater-style classroom, full of high school seniors. For that my heart rate did not increase even slightly. I was substitute teaching as I’ve done regularly in the past year, and the students had their own papers to work on. In a way, we were all writing essays together. How sweet.

With the increase in heart rate came a satisfied smile, I’m really doing this! Quickly succeeded by: Hm. So why do I feel interesting enough to start a blog? Who cares about a 24 year old substitute teacher in Morro Bay trying to make it as a writer? It felt like stepping weird on an ankle you’ve rolled before, the discomfort finding its way back in. I decided to walk it off, and see how it feels later. I looked out at my classroom full of bright teenagers, some completely unmotivated and I thought, I bet they’d read it. Morro Bay High and I have a fun new thing going where I no longer get mistaken for a student. Despite the students’ interest in my age and how I ended up here, I try to keep the mystery alive.

I know writing here will only become more natural, and I am choosing to have patience with myself. I only ask that you, the reader, enjoy a story. Though I don’t expect the size of the audience of Blue Tuesday to warrant such a nervous response, I do intend to be bold here, and honest. I think this project has an identity of its own, and I am just here to feed and water it. 

Me, last spring in Cayucos.

Imagery of the past is something that I relish; the way listening can take you deep into the life of another. How a story endures the changes of generations, and still holds the love, fear, pain, or sense of humor from the subject of the past. I love to hear Grandma’s stories from the island of São Vicente, Cabo Verde where she grew up.

She asked me how she would be able to read my “blob” over the phone while I walked along the driftwood-littered beach of the Cayucos pier. I had called her to tell her that I’d heard a song by the late Cesária Evora (a childhood friend of hers) at a restaurant that morning. She reminisced about the two of them as young girls sharing clothes. She talked about the folk music of the island that bathed their town of Mindelo when you walked in the street. About Cesária’s mother’s cooking, which warmed their little bellies, and left its savory aroma in her memory. 

She told of how small things, like the sound of the ocean and the soft warm sand on your back are the same. But the music, the art, and the culture seemed to change rapidly with her distance from them, and years between family visits made the Cabo Verde of old feel like a fuzzy dream.

1st: The whole fam in Fair Oaks, CA, 1978. Vasco Jr., David (my dad, giving some tude), Grandpa Vasco, Tatiana, Grandma Thereza, and Maisa. 2nd: Grandma Thereza in São Vicente with my little uncle Vasco Jr., 1961.

I want to savor these stories before they slip away. Thereza is my father’s mother, and I am my father’s daughter. If I can tell a story half a well as he can, I’ll be proud. After that phone call, I knew this train was full speed ahead. That this project needed to start. Because grandma wants to read my blob. And even if no other set of eyes reach this page but hers, the project will be worth its trouble. 

The brief history, summed up: Grandma was born on the tiny island of São Vicente, Cabo Verde. In 1969 at age 30, she moved to the States with 3 kids in tow. My dad was a surprise, born 2 years later in Fair Oaks near Sacramento, where they settled. She still lives in that house to this day.

In that same neighborhood in 1989, my parents would meet for the first time as high schoolers. 10 miles down the road and a decade later, I came into this world. Hallelujah, welcome to Blue Tuesday.