A Portuguese brotherhood

            There are a few times a year when I feel as though native-born Americans genuinely appreciate the immigrants of Portugal who have settled in this country. Those few times just happen during the Holy Ghost feasts spread across southern New England in the late spring and summer months of the year. During which, free entertainment and a hearty feast is provided and open to the public where everyone in the community is welcome to take part in whether you are Portuguese or not. This tradition began in America dating as far back as the early 1900's and blossomed in the late sixties, early seventies, when a larger wave of immigrants came across the seas from the Azorean islands. Historically, this tradition began in 1296, when Queen Isabel decided to build a majestic temple in honor of the Holy Ghost (spirit of God) if peace was restored between her quarreling husband, King Dinis, and their son, Alfonso, whose anger was being aroused by corrupt counselors and they were about to go into a major civil war with each other. Makes you rethink the little tiffs you once had with your own parents. No doubt, they never escalated to the point of going to war, no blood was drawn, and limbs were never chopped off and thrown across the front lawn.

            As history would have it, peace was restored between father and son, and soon after the temple was constructed with solemn pomp and the first mass was celebrated honoring the poorest man in the kingdom in an act of humbleness. The poor man would be placed on the king's thrown and crowned "emperor" for one day during a ceremony in the church, followed by a procession from the church to the palace where a banquet was offered in his honor to everyone in the kingdom. The sovereigns, headed by the queen, then instituted a brotherhood from that first celebration, to continue this ceremony of the Pentecost in tradition with grand festivities at the same time every year. From then on the celebration was practiced even more so in the islands of the Azores and Madeira then later introduced to the United States. Although, originally celebrated by royalty and noblemen, common men continued the tradition whenever a natural catastrophe happened or when a family member was seriously ill. In this case, that family would host the weeklong festivity by keeping the crown of the Holy Ghost in their homes, along with the flags and wooden altar for prayer, and preparations were made for a Sunday feast. Following a church mass on that Sunday, where the priest blesses the crown and the individuals who are "crowned," (usually the hosts' children or the hosts themselves) there is a procession in the streets from the church to the banquet hall where the honorees carry the crown on their heads, ending with a feast in the host's honor. On the islands of the Azores, at the end of the day, the hosts take the crown, flags and altar, again in a parade, to the next honoree's home, where a similar celebration begins for a new family. In the states, however, it doesn't quite end in this fashion, so to speak, it just continues in a different city with a host from a different parish where other communities in the same city or state commute to and gather all the same to celebrate that host, who is likely suffering some inconvenience in their life, and support their cause.

            In the magical lands of Massachusetts and Rhode Island, some of the largest Portuguese communities are known to have settled in America, and every weekend, in a different city, those members gather at the nearest Portuguese social club to celebrate this tradition. Dozens of volunteers assist in the tradition and hundreds of guests take a seat for the Holy Ghost banquet that is served with a soup that consists of country bread soaked in a beef broth flavored with mint and cabbage, beside platters of boiled beef, sweet bread and carafes of Portuguese wine. It's quiet a beautiful tradition and something I didn't appreciate much when I was growing up, because it was all I ever knew. I had even "volunteered" a few times when I was younger, either helping the hosts distribute the food or I sold little rolled up raffle tickets called rifas. These 3x3 inch square papers, rolled and bent to look like little boomerangs would be purchased ten for a dollar and played like a lottery. If a lucky person happened to unroll one with a number, that person would win that numbered prize and the proceeds would go towards funding next years feast. Living away from all of the traditions rich with a strong sense of family and community back in my home town, definitely gives one a new prospective on those things we once took for granted.

            This weekend I drove home to Massachusetts with my brother Jason and the first thing we wanted to do on Sunday, was hit the festival in our neighboring city and lap up some of those soups and wash them down with a few glasses of good ol' Portuguese vino. At noon, my three brothers and I, with their children and significant others, stuffed ourselves into two cars and drove over to the Holy Ghost Society of East Taunton to graciously stand in line under the sizzling heat of the sun, like the homeless at a soup kitchen, for our seats at the banquet. Looking around I couldn't help but notice how much these events have changed since we were children. It used to be an occasion where hundreds of recent immigrants, who barely spoke more than a few words of English, toted their young, first generation American-born children, all dressed like they were attending a wedding. Bands played the sounds of traditional folklore music for hours over a three-day celebration, while folk dancers traveled from different cities and states for the very purpose of these feasts, dancing in the tradition of the earlier galas, clad in the fashion of the days when King Dinis and Queen Isabel reigned. It was a true celebration then. Now, I look around and all I see is a few empty benches to my left and a small group of middle-aged members of what look like the Hell's Angles, rolling up in their Harley's sheathed in leather and ripped jeans. In line in front of us, a group of goth-kids with their mohawk clad toddlers hanging off their hips stand melting in the rays of the hot sun beating over their unnatural, vampire white skins. Surrounding us, some thirty others are scattered about or in line with us who seem to have no idea what any of this means. They just came some free grub and wine. I don't blame them...I'm there with my brothers for the same reason. Although, we were there for something a little more significant than just hot soup and soggy bread, even if it is followed by free booze. We also yearned for something that we lost as adults...family bonding and tradition.

            Once the members of the procession, lead by the family of the hosts, filled their bellies and the tables were reset with large bowls of steaming soup, platters of boiled beef and sweet bread, we all entered and took our places at one of the tables. It felt good to be there even though it wasn't what it used to be, with my brothers under the same roof, showing the next generation some form of the culture we still cherish very much. Watching my niece gobble up those soups with a toothy grin after every bite was as warming to my heart as the soup in my belly. When our bowls were empty and our cheeks were rosy with wine, I paid my respects to one of the hosts and gave a donation at the altar where a replica of one of the famed crowns sat in homage to what the brotherhood of Queen Isabel started so many years ago. Then our first generation family walked out toting our second-generation descendants into the great unknown with more hope for our future than we had before we entered. Until we meet again, brothers and sisters of Portugal, Saúde.