Padja

Introduction

You have to understand the times… In the early 1940’s there were no televisions in the homes, radio programming was sketchy at best and local entertainment on the island of Nantucket for Cape Verdeans was virtually nonexistent. As a result, women sought and found their own means of diversion from reality. Gossip. Oh, Nantucket continued...

Gossip can be trivial, hurtful and socially and intellectually unproductive. Or it can be a lighthearted way of sharing information and passing the time. A feminist defined gossip as "a way of talking between women, intimate in style, personal and domestic in scope and setting, a female cultural event which springs from and perpetuates the restrictions of the female role, but also gives the comfort of validation.” Sounds a bit misogynistic, but a feminist said it, not me!

For Aunt Mabel there was no need for intellectualizing or classifying her conversations with Mai. They would get together most days for a forty-five-minute session of dissecting events of the previous day, dishing the dirt Aunt Mabel had uncovered in the past 24 hours and depending on the circumstances, poking fun at the people involved. One of the local newspapers, on the island, was called “The Town Crier”, the purveyor of news, but Aunt Mabel was equal to the task when it came to timely news reporting. In addition, her accounts were livelier. They mimicked a soap opera, of sorts, produced and directed by Aunt Mabel and starring whomever she selected as today’s “object of ridicule.” Mai was a willing co-conspirator but always a supporting character, careful not to upstage Aunt Mabel’s performance.

It was a peculiar dynamic, since Mai was the older sister, but she was no match for Aunt Mabel’s domineering personality.

I had earlier mistakenly attributed the nicknaming of people to Mai, but it was really Aunt Mabel who transformed those nicknamed from people into the caricatures she envisioned them to be in her mind’s eye. Aunt Mabel took to the task of creating nicknames for people as if she had been commissioned for the job. No one was spared. There was an explanation that went along with each assigned moniker, many readily apparent to the observer, others, not so much.

She nicknamed Mai, Zikie, Pai, Poop Deck. No clue why. But then there were all those whose nicknames accentuated an aspect of their persona; Boneka, Cabezon, Pretu, Marie Malada, Piskos, Boka Muku, Cabeza di Balensia. English translation of the list; Doll, Big Head, Blackie, Dirty Mary, Neck, Toothless, Watermelon Head.

While the nicknames related to physical features other labels went to the person’s imputed character and were generalized to describe many, not just one person; Pe di Katxor, Prigisozu, Buru; Dog’s Feet, Lazy, Stupid. These nicknames and characterizations made the storytelling easier to visualize and certainly more entertaining.

However, I think dog’s feet may require an explanation. It is meant to be more conceptual than visual. Anyone assigned the sobriquet—dog’s feet—was either always on the go, could not stay in one place for long or the label could insinuate the person was running around—a common summer activity.

Having set the stage, now let’s talk about padja. Not exactly a nickname, padja, means hay in Kriolu but when used as a descriptor for a person’s hair it takes on a whole new meaning. It provides an image that congeals in the mind’s eye as the mental comparison is formed.

The term is employed pejoratively to describe unruly hair, coarse hair, even kinky hair in others. But it is also applied affectionately when referring to the identical circumstance with a friend or a family member’s hair.

Where is this all coming from, the need for this “oblique” descriptor? It lives in the cultural psyche, that part of the brain that is conscious of the issue of skin tone and grade of hair as they related to social acceptance, in the 1940’s.

In my personal experience the vast majority of Cape Verdeans have what we term as “good” hair, straight or wavy, passed down through our Portuguese genes while a minority have padja, “bad” hair, unruly, kinky hair emanating from our African ancestors. The labels of “good” and “bad” are projections from white societal standards unconsciously internalized by people of color.

In those days a person with “padja” was concerned with how to rectify the condition, through hair products and styling and how to direct attention to their other affirming attributes with makeup and apparel. Padja was also fruit for gossip. And that gossip covered a broad area, from who in the family tree was responsible for it, to how they choose to deal with the problem; scarves, short hair, curling iron, relaxer and finally the success of their chosen approach in addressing their problem.

The men had it easier. Guys with “bad” hair could just cut it short. In our family, my uncle John was the only one with padja, inherited from our father’s side of the family, I’m sure.

Uncle John was a chauffeur. He was often required to drive his boss on trips through the South. He would often tell the story of one particular encounter in a movie theater in Georgia. Uncle John was light-complexed and with his hat on and in certain lighting, with his Cape Verdean features, he could almost pass for white. In the 1940’s in the South, people of color were required to sit in the balcony of the movie theater. Now I don’t have to remind you that Cape Verdeans, at the time, did not see themselves to be the same as southern negros.

On this particular day Uncle John had time to kill so he decided to take in a movie. He purchased a ticket and once in the lobby decided, to ignore the sign directing coloreds upstairs. Instead he chose to sit in the orchestra. He hadn’t been seated for very long when an usher approached him from behind and ran his hand over Uncle John’s head. Uncle John turned, ready to confront the stranger who had just violated his space. But before he could act, the usher spoke.

“You gonna have to sit upstairs in the balcony, negros are not allowed in the orchestra.” Uncle John replied spontaneously, “I’m not a negro, I’m Kriolu”, (pronounced Cre-ole). Uncle John said the usher responded in a tone of impertinence, “I don’t care how “ole” you are, you need to sit up in the balcony.”

Today, padja is a nonissue. Going natural, if preferred, is natural, as it should be.

But the beauty of expression and nuance in the Cape Verdean language still amazes me. A word like padja spoken with a certain inflexion can disparage or flirt with humor.