How Did I get On Wattpad? — The Hat and the fater

Among my uncles, one held a special place in my heart — Uncle Cláudio. From childhood, I adored him. A funny and charming guy, he added an extra layer of coolness by residing in the United States.

Uncle Cláudio rushed back to Brazil upon learning about the health struggles of another uncle, Carlos. He visited the hospital, joined us at the funeral, and regaled me with tales of crossing the border with friends he whimsically referred to as “coyotes.” As a preteen, the term fascinated me, and only much later did I discover its true meaning. Regardless, he remained a beloved uncle, funny, intelligent, perhaps even my favorite, though I never voiced it.

Now, let’s delve into the peculiar dance of synchronicity that threaded through my life in my early thirties, especially as I ventured abroad. The journey, you see, doesn’t unfold linearly. Despite the apparent order of past, present, and future, our sensations, emotions, dreams, and desires blur throughout existence, transcending the linearity of time.

Consider this: recollect a profound hurt, buried deep within. That ache, so intimate that even your closest confidant remains unaware. If it still lingers, summon it into your consciousness. Feel it. You’ll find that the pain echoes as sharply as the day it was inflicted.

Now, picture the funeral, a point in my life where synchronicity took center stage. After acquiring the mysterious ring, hunger gnawed at me. Lost and penniless, I sought my cousin Carlos, ready to request a bakery excursion. Midway, Uncle Cláudio materialized.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, as if he’d read my thoughts. I smiled, answering, “Yes, uncle.” His gaze flickered to my finger, surprised. I had never shared details about relationships, yet there I was, adorned with the ring I discovered in the bathroom.

“Are you dating? Your father didn’t comment on that…” he chuckled, and I found myself blushing, struggling for a response.

“No, but I found the ring beautiful and wanted to wear it,” I finally admitted. It struck me, for the first time, how my uncles mirrored my father. Indeed, all the men in the family shared remarkably similar features — strong, tanned skin, a wide nose, and a broad mouth. As far as I knew, our family was a blend of Black and Indigenous ancestry from the heart of Minas Gerais.

“It’s a beautiful ring. Sandro, my cousin, had an identical one,” he casually mentioned as we entered the bakery. Whether my uncle sensed the unfolding story or simply made a casual remark, this conversation lingered in my thoughts over the years.

Seated at the counter, right in front of the savory delights, he ordered coffee, and I opted for a chocolate treat alongside ham and cheese rissoles. Between bites, I returned my attention to my uncle and his cap, a piece of headgear that intrigued me.

“Do you like baseball?” he noticed my lingering gaze and flashed a smile.

“I’ve never played. I prefer basketball,” I replied, possessing about as much basketball knowledge as advanced nuclear physics. “Which team is this?”

“It’s the Toronto Blue Jays, from Canada, actually.” The cap featured an arm adorned with hollow blue letters spelling out the team’s name, and in the backdrop, a stylized circle represented a baseball. Above it, a bird’s head, its light blue mane bearing the iconic Canadian leaf in red. Despite the white bird head, its beak, neck, and eyes were a deep blue.

Uncle Cláudio removed the cap and adjusted the clip behind my head for a better fit. We spent a considerable amount of time at the bakery, talking. He shared tales of my father’s childhood — how he was the natural leader among the brothers, organizing and commanding even when they were dirt-poor, sharing a cramped room in the interior of Minas Gerais.

One story stood out: during a game of ball, my father accidentally kicked it onto the roof. Unfazed, he retrieved a ladder, climbed up, and unknowingly disturbed a nest of hornets hidden among the tiles. Despite being stung, my father calmly descended, ran to a water vat, and plunged in to avoid transferring the hornets to his younger brothers.

“If he had panicked, he could have fallen or unleashed the hornets on us. We were too small to endure so many stings,” my uncle recounted. I was in awe, not knowing what to say, but brimming with pride for my father.

He followed up with another story, one he would repeat at a future funeral.

“Your father was the first person to take me to the cinema, you know?” he said, finishing his coffee.

“Really? What did you watch?” I asked, my curiosity piqued, as my father rarely delved into his past with his brothers.

“It’s been a while…” he reminisced. “‘Marcelino, Bread and Wine.’”

“I’ve never heard of it,” I admitted. The film, dating back to 1955, was a success in its time and directed by Ladislao Vajda.

“One day, you watch,” he suggested as we got up, paid (he paid), and made our way back to the cemetery across the street.

It struck me when he said, “One day you watch.” Little did I know that, indeed, one day I would watch that movie — unleashing a series of magical events and a spiritual transformation akin to Marcelino’s.

Amid the familial chaos at the cemetery, I momentarily lost track of my uncle, unknowingly stepping into a tale where a Toronto Blue Jays cap would hold more significance in my life than I could fathom.

Back then, at the tender age of fifteen, life seemed to lack clear prospects, and dreams were elusive, if not entirely absent. Honestly, I hadn’t given much thought to my future as an adult — my aspirations were as vague as “having a job and a family.” Magic had yet to weave its spell in my existence, and my relationship with literature was just budding, with a fledgling interest in writing. I couldn’t even recall if my uncle had gifted me the hat or merely lent it for a few hours, but that Toronto symbol proudly adorned my head. Little did I fathom that, in the future, I would journey to that very city and witness a Blue Jays victory in the 2013 season.

The intricacies of synchronicity and its connection to magic struck me as amusing. It’s not always automatic, you see. I’d speak of person X, and, lo and behold, she’d call! Destiny, it seemed, wove subtle signs throughout our lives, nudging us toward the universe we longed to inhabit when the time was right.

According to Jung, synchronicity involves events linked not by direct causation but by meaning. Picture this: you’re contemplating your favorite team, and suddenly, someone strolls by in that team’s shirt. Many psychologists argue that such occurrences are a constant presence in our lives, but they often slip beneath our notice. When your attention hones in on a subject, anything related to it grabs your brain’s focus, intensifying your contemplation.

This perspective aligns seamlessly with the principles of magic. Your attention sharpens on a subject when you think about it frequently, causing you to notice more instances related to it. Yet, as I discovered in the realm of magic, life thrives on contradictions that coexist rather than cancel each other out.

Now, ponder this: how do you explain receiving a message seconds after thinking about someone? Or the moment when, lost in thoughts of immigrating to Canada, you stroll past a restaurant named “Quebec”? How does one make sense of coincidences occurring precisely when they should?

In my view, synchronicity serves as the universe’s voice, subtly guiding us toward our destined paths. I hold a strong belief that, in a way, our lives are fated, and these Higher Forces work tirelessly to steer us toward our intended histories.