Go Magellan, go!
Sometime in the latter days of the 12th century two armies clashed on the west coast of the Iberian peninsula. The land where this battle took place would soon become the nation of Portugal. The general who commanded the army that won that battle would become that nation’s first king.
Because he had designs on becoming a king, and because it never hurt to have God in your back pocket, this soon-to-be king decided to commemorate his great victory by decreeing that a church should be built somewhere in the vicinity. Surveyors were sent forth. They found a good spot where the River Alcoa and the River Baça met. They built their church. A town sprung up around it. A sea-faring empire sprung up around the town. A line of kings gave way to a dictator. A world war was fought. The town grew. Many buildings went up, including one that went right up against the River Baça. Another world war was fought. My grandparents met. My father was born. The three of them moved into the top floor of that building right up against the River Baça. My father met my mother. They were married in the church that was built to commemorate that battle. They had me. They immigrated to the United States.
This is a story about turds.
At the end of the school year, my immigrant ass got shipped back to Portugal to spend summers with my grandmother. This wasn’t my choice. I wanted to spend the summers with my friends riding bikes through the neighborhood, playing baseball in the abandoned lot, and going to the arcade. In short, being an immigrant kid, I was constantly looking for activities that made me more like my friends. Being shipped off to Portugal for the summer had the opposite effect. It reminded the other kids that I was different than them. Shipping me back for the summer also wasn’t my parents’ choice, but since they were scared of my grandmother they did it. So every year, my parents would pack two giant suitcases, mostly with contraband (my grandmother would send a list), drive me to JFK, take me to the gate (this was pre-9/11), a flight attendant would put an “unaccompanied minor” pouch around my neck with all my documents, and walk me to my seat. I’d read chapter books for six hours. My grandfather would meet me at the gate at the Lisboa airport, and we’d drive the two hours to the house at the edge of the River Baça where my grandmother was always poised in the window waiting for us. At which point, I would immediately forget that I hadn’t wanted to come, because I loved my grandmother.
My grandmother’s house was laid out so that the kitchen and the bathroom were at the end that looked directly down on the river. Three floors up, and directly below. Over the years most of the river that ran into town had been covered up and turned into city streets. One of many underground rivers lost to urban planning (or misplanning, depending on your take). Her house, being on the edge of town, was the last house before the tunnel the river disappeared into.
My grandmother, being of a certain generation, was very liberal in her use of the river as a trash can. She’d peel potatoes, open the kitchen window, and toss the skins into the river, where they would flow out to sea. She’d kill a chicken for dinner, pluck it, and toss all manner of viscera into the river, where it would flow out to sea. Leftovers? In the river, out to sea. Moldy bread? In the river, out to see. Grandpa pissed her off? There’s his favorite hat — in the river, out to sea. The real fun, however, was in the next room.
Like I said, this is a story about turds.
My grandparent’s house was old and the plumbing was simple. The toilet was fed by a gravity tank and flushed right into the river. The plumbing went down three stories, and plop. Into the river, out to sea. Being a kid, there was no better diversion than taking a shit, flushing, poking your head out the window, and watching your turd fly out the drain, into the river, and eventually out to sea. On your own, this was a great little diversion, but if my Portuguese cousins were around this was a party. We would always announce when any of us was about to take a shit, and then wait patiently for the protagonist to scream “I’m flushing!” at which point we’d rush into the bathroom and take our places by the window to watch the turd plop into the river. Then we’d sit and watch as the turd slowly disappeared into the tunnel, under the town, and out to sea.
This is a story about one particular special turd.
One particular Saturday in the middle of summer we’re all sitting on the porch reading comics when we hear a scream from the bathroom. We go running.
“There’s no way that’ll flush.”
“It’s massive.”
“We need to try.”
And so we did. Twice. And on the second flush it finally went. Down the drain, building up three stories of speed, and taking flight as it plopped right into the middle of the river. A majestic explorer, sailing into the unknown, under the town, and out to sea. Our gift to the world. And as it disappeared under the tunnel my cousin shouted a last phrase of encouragement: “Go, Magellan. Go!”
Hey, if you want to learn more about Portuguese history I'm doing a special event with AIGA Los Angeles tomorrow at 7pm PST. You can sign up here. It’s free if you’re a member.
I still have a few copies of the My People Were in Shipping zine, which you can get here.