“Are you chateadinho? Do you want some água?” I say to my crying one-year-old in ‘Pinglish’ – the weird mix of Portuguese and English I sometimes use. Pinglish has not been my language for more than a decade, not since I first arrived in Australia from Brazil. But when I became a mother, I realised my culture wouldn’t be passed on to my son unless I did something about it. So I started speaking Pinglish again, like the former and embarrassing migrant me.
I arrived in Sydney in 2011 as a 23-year-old backpacker. I went to an English language school full of South Americans, and partied hard every day. Eventually, one of my teachers said: “Your English isn’t improving. If you want to learn a new language, get as far away as possible from people who speak your language.” So I decided to move to the most isolated big city in the world: Perth. My plan? To master English, then go back to Brazil to become a journalist superstar.
Thanks to a connection I made at my new English school in Perth, I found a waitressing job – earning good money and giving me access to Aussies with whom I could practise my English.
Slowly, I was falling in love – not with any boyfriend, but with the amazing city of Perth. It seemed so promising. Every little suburb was expanding, young people were buying houses, the mining industry was booming. I felt like Perth was evolving with me, and I didn’t want to leave.
Becoming a journalist in Australia seemed impossible, so I decided to go to university to study human resources instead. I worked hard, winning prizes and eventually placing in the top 5 per cent. The whole time, I was following that teacher’s advice: I had no close Brazilian friends and I rarely spoke my native tongue. I didn’t read books or watch movies in Portuguese. One of my Brazilian friends likes to recall how we met around that time: apparently, I told her on the spot that she was nice, but that I didn’t really hang out with Brazilians.
In 2015, I landed a job as a recruitment coordinator at a big company, and that’s where I met my husband. Fast-forward to 2022, and I was a new mum in a fog of postpartum depression.
Writer Nadia Heisler with her son and husband. Source: Supplied
When my son was eight weeks old, I took him to our first mum and baby hydrotherapy class. Everyone around me sang: “Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall…” and other nursery rhymes, but I didn’t know their rhythms, lyrics or meaning, as I hadn’t grown up with them. Why couldn’t they just put Humpty Dumpty together and make the song a happy one? I envied the other mums bonding with their babies. I craved that close connection. When I returned home, I downloaded nursery rhymes on Spotify and screenshot their lyrics. I was ready, once again, to fully assimilate into Australian culture and shed my Brazilian roots.
But the more I heard these songs, the more my baby and I grew bored. Was it my accent? Could my baby sense my lack of passion?
One day, my mother-in-law came to help me with the baby, and she seemed surprised I didn’t know any English nursery rhymes. With a sinking feeling, I realised my intensive in-home studying wasn’t doing much to transform me into a truly Aussie mum.
I felt that if I sang to my baby, he would learn the words the way I spoke them: distorted, wrong
A few weeks later, she took my baby to a pram jam session while I finally got my hair done. When I returned home, she enthused, “Oh, he had so much fun.” I was devastated. I felt that I could never have that experience with my son if I didn’t know how to sing the songs. But if I sang to my baby, he would learn words the way I spoke them – distorted, wrong.
A couple of months later, I celebrated my 35th birthday with my son, my husband and his family. I made a point of singing “happy birthday” to myself in Portuguese. I sang alone, blank faces staring at me. When I finished, no one clapped, no one shouted, “E pra Nadia, nada. Tudo, tudo.” That day, I realised I didn’t want to turn my back on my Brazilian roots any longer. I decided to retrace my steps, collecting every single memory and any words I’d left behind.
Part of me felt like I was stepping backwards, and the other part felt embarrassed that I’d neglected my culture for so long
At first, reaching out to the Brazilian community wasn’t easy. Part of me felt like I was stepping backwards, and the other part felt embarrassed that I’d neglected my culture for so long. I posted on the Mães Brasileiras Facebook group, asking for suggestions for Brazilian songs to listen to with my son. I downloaded every playlist recommended, and now my son and I listen to these songs every day.
My next post was about getting a cook. My husband loves cooking, but we were exhausted with the reality of being new parents. Then I thought: why not a Brazilian cook? Introducing my baby to my cuisine would mean so much to me. That’s how we met the talented Adriana. My baby has tried her black beans, escondidinho, carne moída, and even canja – a type of chicken soup that can cure any disease (don’t quote me on that, but it really is divine).
I also started a South of the River Brazilian mums’ group. The best thing about it is to see my baby interacting with others from the community. My latest discovery is roda de música for kids – basically a Brazilian rhyme time, but messier and more animated. Now I’m part of a Brazilian book club that meets once a month, too.
Today, the most important thing to me is that my son knows he is half Brazilian. I want him to feel his Brazilianness when he eats feijoada, listens to bossa nova, sees someone clapping during sunset, hears a Brazilian accent, and when he watches the World Cup and cheers for the yellow and blue team.
I want my son to know both my Brazilian and Australian sides, so that in time they might shape who he becomes
I’m grateful that my husband is with me on this journey, even though he’s Australian and doesn’t speak much Portuguese. On his birthday, he took our son to an activity where the parents were asked to make their babies laugh. As I watched from a distance, my husband tickled our son, singing: “A formiguinha não parava de subir” – the lyrics of a Brazilian song. That was a moment of hope, a small sign that my Brazilian heritage might survive the next generation.
It has taken me years to realise just how important my culture is to me. Becoming a mother forced me to think about the childhood memories and relationships that shaped me. Now, I want my son to know all of me: both my Brazilian and Australian sides, so that in time they might shape who he becomes. Only time will tell if my mission will be a success.
And for what it’s worth, it felt pretty good to ditch “Humpty Dumpty”.
Nadia Heisler is an emerging writer who has been published in the short story collection and the flash fiction collection . Find Nadia on Instagram:
