The Valeditztorian Read Online Free PDF Page A

than life-sized image of Bob Marley’s face. Brotas is a palette of contrasts.  
    “Is reggae music big in Salvador?” I ask.
    “Are you kidding?” Grace answers . “Bob Marley is like a folk hero down here. The local drumming groups, like Olodum (pronounced ‘Oh-loh-doon’), are also really popular.”
    “Olodum ? Who are they?”
    “I’m sure you’ve heard their music . You just don’t recognize the name. They collaborated with Paul Simon on Rhythm of the Saints .”
    “Right,” I answer, and a dim light goes off in my head.
    Since I was raised by a couple of Dead Heads on music from the sixties and seventies, I’m a huge Paul Simon fan. In using the term “Dead Head,” I should clarify that my parents weren’t drug addicts. At least I don’t think they were.
    “Sure we experimented,” said my dad when I questioned him, “but no more than anyone else in the sixties.”
    “What did you take?” I asked.
    “I don’t remember.”
    “That’s because you lost too many brain cells,” said my mom.
    “Not because it was such a long time ago?” said my dad.
    “That too,” said my m other.
    “You di dn’t answer my question,” I pressed.
    “Oh, I don’t know, Emma,” my d ad continued. “We smoked a little pot, but not much. Maybe we tried a few hallucinogens.”
    “Like LSD?” I said.
    “Yes,” said my mother , “and you should know I only tried that stuff once.”
    “How come?”
    “It was a completely terrifying experience. After I took it, I didn’t know which end was up.”
    “So you’re not recommending LSD ?”
    “Definitely not,” she said .
    Though they apparently didn’t care for the drugs, my parents loved the music from that era, and they shared it all with me . As a child, I was raised on the songs of the Beatles, Joni Mitchell, and Crosby, Stills and Nash, amongst other quintessential folk-rock artists from that time period. Unfortunately, this early education ruined my taste for “modern” music. Since about 1990, I’ve been unable to listen to any of the crappy pop that’s played on the radio. Flipping through the stations always makes me feel like I was born about 20 years too late.
    “I’ve heard Olodum play a few times in the Pelourinho (pronounced ‘Pel-oh-reen-yoo’),” says Grace. “Maybe we’ll see them before you go home.”
    Speaking of home, I really start to miss New York when we arrive at the so-called super market. From the outside, the place appears to be little more than a tumble-down shack. Though I eat my share of junk food in the city, I also consume fresh fruits and vegetables on a regular basis, and it’s doubtful whether I’m going to find anything like that here. Indeed, even before we cross the threshold, the rancid smell filtering through the doorway decimates what’s left of my appetite.
    “Umm, Grace,” I say, “ I’m not sure I want to go inside.”
    “Don’t you want to see the food?”
    “Why see it when I can already smell it? What’s that noise, by the way?”
    As I stand in the entryway, my eardrums begin vibrating in response to an intense buzzing noise. When I reluctantly step forward, the source of the droning becomes obvious. Hundreds of flies hover thickly over a series of wooden stalls holding an assortment of rotting bananas, apples, pears, and some local varieties, like jack fruit. Even for a bug advocate like me, the scene is vile. What a waste. When I try to locate a refrigerator, or any fresh vegetables, I’m similarly disappointed. However, I do notice some canned greens, including peas and string beans, which look decent, at least externally.
    “Have you got a can opener?” I ask hopefully.
    “Nope,” sighs Grace. “I’ve been trying to find one since I got here. Sorry, Emma. I should’ve told you to bring one.”
    “ That’s okay. I’ll be sure to mail you one once I go home.”
    Then i t occurs to me that Grace isn’t malnourished, and for a moment I study her physique. With her full