I know she will probably be a gamer and a geek at a really tender age, if her father get’s his way. And he probably will. The love I feel for the two of them right now is overwhelming. I know the feast of hormones raging through my body has much to do with it, but I don’t care. It’s uncanny and blissful to be able to love like that. It’s almost liberating to be overrun with your own emotions in such a way. My husband’s smile is precious to me like never before. The connection I feel with him has never been stronger and it has never ache so much to be away from him, even for a short while. I hope he’s willing to accompany me every step of the way in this adventure, because there’s nobody on this planet I’d rather share this with.

I can’t even describe what I’m feeling for that tiny speck of life inside my belly. Although I know that pregnancy is a perfectly normal and straightforward biological process, I’m still in complete awe of my ability to generate a complete new life. That an independent conscience is forming inside me is still a miraculous event to me. I have never felt so totally immersed in another human being and she hasn’t even come out yet. It has never been so easy to give up or sacrifice anything for anyone else. I’m almost afraid of the eagerness I feel to begin to watch her bloom and grow out here with us, to witness every aspect of her discovery of the world. I hope I never let her down as a mother, because I already know she can never let me down as a child.

My kid sister is a wonderful mother. I’m awed by how easily and calmly she deals with my nephew. I mesmerize at the love that emanates from her, even when a scold is in order. My admiration for her as taken a giant leap forward since my nephew was born, as I watched her cruise through her first pregnancy, facing every challenge with serenity, never loosing the wonder of discovery. Then, I marvelled at the way she cared for her first born, taking everything in stride, learning when to hold on and when to let go. Today, I marvel at the way she teaches her toddler, at the patience she shows him, through his natural whims and tantrums, having become a master at diffusing them.

Through all of this, she never lost sight of herself. She remains confident in who she is, and in what she can do to make this world a better place. She is, today, a far more accomplished woman than I am. She turned into a woman I would be proud to know in any circumstances, a role model to me, when I finally decide to be a mother myself.

Thanks, sis’!

The dogmatic use of labels in american culture to define and classify people always seemed to me a funny quirk that only added to the amused acceptance of the tough negotiation between different ethnicities the USA were forced to make. Today, they seem to me just dangerous.

I’ve been reading about a story of a New Jersey Med School student who got into trouble and was suspended because he defined himself as a white african american. Paulo Serôdio is a 45 year-old student, born and raised in Mozambique,  now a naturalized USA citizen. For all intents and purposes, and forgetting the color of his skin, he is an african who acquired american citizenship. And he happens to be white (or at least more white than black).

In a cultural exercise in class, when asked to define himself, he said he was a white african american. Some of his black colleagues took offense in this and the case found its way to the dean’s office and eventually to his suspension from school. In an attempt to explain his position, Serôdio wrote an article in the school’s newspaper. The comments I have seen label this article as racist and stereotyped. And I don’t get it.

I read the article and the positions Serôdio defends seem everything but racist. No matter how wide the range of skin color among the so called “latinos” in the US, the fact is that most of time, I would be classified as one, even before I opened my mouth and spoke. By the way, my native language is latin based, just like the spanish most central and southern americans speak. For most portuguese native speakers, the accent is much the same as a “latino”, when they speak english. Just ask Joaquim de Almeida who doesn’t seem to get any other roles than those of a “latino”.

I live in Portugal. From a very early age, I remember listening to racist comments from random people around me and not getting it. I was fortunate enough to be born to an extremely tolerant set of parents and the rest of my environment was also conducive to that tolerance. So when I heard a racist comment made around me, it felt alien and wrong. Furthermore, as I studied Portugal’s history, it dawned on me that the portuguese were extremely good at two things: sailing from one place to another and making babies with whomever.

Today I know that between the people who came and settled in Portugal (Celts, Phoenician, Goths, Greeks, Romans and Moors) and the places the portuguese sailed to and settled in (Ceuta, Cape Verde, Guinea, St. Thomas and Prince, Angola, Mozambique, Brazil, India, Malasia, Timor, Macao, etc.), defining ourselves as white, black, brown or yellow, is a visual artifice. It is known today that northern africa is in our blood, in our words and in our music. In at least 10% of us there are sub-saharian DNA markers. Without excusing the abuses that did took place during the portuguese colonization process, not forgetting that the portuguese were the first to capture and sell african slaves, the fact is that I am descended from both opressors and opressed. Although I would be classified as caucasian, mainly because of my immediate family, the fact is that my skin is darker than that. There is a hint of India and Northern Africa in my facial features and tone of skin. I have two sisters, one of which is even darker than me, while the other might almost be considered milk skinned. And I love it that it is so.

I love the fact that the mix of cultures that permeated my own is fully expressed not only in my language (there are a lot of arabic words in portuguese, and some celtic and gothic based too) and in the traditional music of my country (fado being the best known but not the only example), but also in the miriad variations of skin color and facial features around me. Labels don’t make much sense to me. Dogmatic separation of people by groups, be either by race, language, ethnicity, or any other criteria seems to me stupid and senseless. It is an artificial crutch for our fears, a prop to inflate our own ego or exarcebated sense of self. It is not real and tends to crumble in face of true and genuine human relations.

I hope that the New Jersey courts have enough sense to understand this. I hope that racism and self-righteous indignation don’t prevail ever, no matter where they come from.

“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. ” (Martin Luther King)

We spent most of the time in the one den that had a fireplace, where we played and had our meals. In that one room, it was possible to function and think. We played two sessions a day, a long season of PTA and Storming the Wizard’s Tower. (well, at least the first level ).

My main problem was going to the kitchen and cook our meals. Having your hands dipped in almost frozen water and then trying to operate a chef’s knife is an adventure on to itself.  But it gets very scary, if on top of that you just can’t stop trembling with cold. Never have I wished for an “Endure Elements” spell so hard in my life!

Bedtime was hardly a comfort. Had we known in advance the conditions in the house, we would have prepared with hot-water bottles and the like. But we didn’t know, so changing clothes became an almost unsurpassable challenge. When we finally got ready to go to bed, we almost didn’t want to, because it would be colder inside the sheets than it was outside of them (at least for the first half hour, after which your body heat would make the bed almost, and I do mean almost, comfortable). To make you get the full meaning of how cold it was, let me tell you my husband as a very particular attitude about the cold. And I saw him shiver seriously. So seriously, that at times it seemed he had swallowed a small diesel motor. That was the fun part ;).

With all that, we managed to have fun playing, nonetheless. Although I can tell you that I don’t recommend a long season of PTA to a small group (there were four of us). The filler episodes tend to be too many. Storming the Wizard’s Tower turned out to be a fun game to test. I hope my husband posts his comments on the subject. I’m eager to have the whole game written and ready to play on all levels (kudos for you, Vincent! ).

So now, we’re back to our all-year round campaigns and our projects to start some new ones. Let’s see what 2009 has in store for us.

It wasn’t the first text in the genre. In 1789, on both sides of the Atlantic, two different charters were created, both with the goal of establishing a set of inalienable rights of man: the American Bill of Rights and the French Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen. Even before that, as early as the 13th century,  the Magna Carta already established a set of rights that every subject to the British Crown would have assured, effectively binding the decision and power of the monarch.

In 1948, however, the universal scope of these rights reached its peak. Every single member of Mankind, regardless of gender, race, culture, religion, economic conditions, nationality or any other differenciating factor was recognized these rights, above any creed, government or any other decision power in their lifes.

For all due purposes, being part of Mankind took precedence over any other bond to any other social institution. Discrimination was condemned in all its forms, the right to property, privacy, freedom of association, religion, opinion and thought consecrated as paramount to the full development of the human condition.

Yet, sixty years later, the situation is only marginally better. Human Rights ONG’s are still profusely busy, having ample ground to dennounce abuse. In some cases, the situation has worsen rather than improved. And it’s our fault, our collective fault that it is so.

Whenever a political, economic or diplomatic decision has to be made, human rights are constantly shoved to the bottom of the priority list. They’re still looked upon as an utopic ideal, good for show, but totally impractical. They’re the first to be trampled, because they’re never part of a quick fix or an easy solution. Short term solutions never care for the whole picture and governments and corporations tend to go for short term fixes. Or, worse, they look at human rights as a huge threat to their power, since it inhibits them from the use blind force. And, in most of the western world, they’re the governments we choose and the corporations we support.

Even in our daily lifes, we look at human rights as something remote and detached from ourselves, something that has no bearing in our private lives. But every single time we shun somebody, because he looks, thinks or believes different, we’re trampling human rights. Every single time we label someone, based on a differenciating characteristic, as a person of “non-interest”, every time we refuse to know someone based on a superficial evaluation, everytime we let our own selfish interests be more important than someone’s suffering or discomfort, we’re trampling human rights. Everytime we refuse to listen to an opinion, merely because of who the person is, everytime we feel we have the right of feeling superior to anyone else, we are disrespecting human rights.

I said before that I really believe that we can only change the world one person at a time. It is true in this case also. Starting with ourselves, we can build a personal code of ethics that never falls second to any decision in our lives. We limit ourselves to the that framework and never surrender it and we demand to be governed by those who feel the same way. Ever respecting, though, the right of others to feel differently…

One of the things that always bothered me in DnD was the amount of metagame knowledge that you had to have, so as to keep the sessions within a manageable time frame. The sheer number of spells and their different effects was overwhelming. The amount of options in building the different classes was huge and, worse, it was as diverse as the number of existing classes and races. Each time I had to create a new character, I had to enter a different world of rules.

I don’t know if I’m just a lazy player or if I’m just not enough of a geek to take pleasure in mastering the different chapters in the PHB, plus the different options in the DMG. ;) I do know, however, that it felt too hard and too confusing to choose the right build and the right tactical option.

The 4th Edition solved all my problems. Since every single class acts through powers, and since powers work the same for everybody, choosing classes when building a character became extremely easy. On the other hand, encounters aren’t limited to combat anymore and for the first time I find myself looking carefully at my skill list to take actions beyond killing things and taking their stuff.

I confess I was a bit weary at first. When I first started looking at 4th Edition I feared that it had been turned into a glorified miniature game, closer to CRPG than my idea of what role-playing games are. My game experience told me it was not so. Moreover, since everything else was made considerably easier, I can concentrate more on the unfolding story and my character’s dilemmas.

So, I’m a happy camper, right now. :D. And I’ll get happier, when all my ongoing campaigns return to their normal rythm of play, now that everybody is back in town. To all my co-players, welcome back and let’s play!

I know I can’t even begin to imagine the intensity of their suffering. There’s nothing I can say that will even begin to adress that much pain. All I can do is offer my shoulder and my arms, live through this horrendous time with them, if they want me to. Help with the little things that have to be done, when they think that even that is too much for them. Let them curl up in my arms and cry with them, if they don’t want to cry alone. Be at arm’s length, without imposing myself on them, and their need to grieve alone, if that’s what they want.

I wish I could offer them hope, at a time like this, but every word rehearsed in my head seems void and superficial. Most of all I don’t want to say anything that will only appease my own grief, and will do nothing for them.  

So I want to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry you have to go through this. I’m sorry about my ineptitude to help you through it. I’m sorry if even this carefully chosen words, with only you in mind, will never be enough to help you and soothe you.

Most of all, I want to say I’m here. Whenever, wherever and however you need me, I’m here. For as long as you need, my body, my heart and my soul are yours. I’m here.

Yet, there was never a time without opposition. There was never a time without someone willing to speak out against the regime, at the cost of their own lives. No matter how many books made the forbidden list, there was always someone willing to risk everything to distribute them.

I don’t really care what ideology those men and women professed. I know there were a lot of communists risking their lives in clandestinity, as there were socialists and anarchists. But there were many who weren’t communists, socialists or anarchists, who also risked their lives, who also stood up for their democratic beliefs in the face of impossible odds. No matter what ideological background they had, they all had in common the dream of a better society, a better country, where learning, talking and discussing were possible. A country where art and literature were seen as more than a propaganda tool, where every individual spirit could grow and search for knowledge.

My generation was born immediately before or after the revolution. We never knew what it was to live in a non-democratic society. Though we can understand and relate to a degree, we have no personal experience of those times and our feelings aren’t half as strong about the revolution, as are our parents’ and grandparents’. The younger generations are even more distant from it and seem to have some difficulty, at times, to understand the full consequences of living under such a regime. To them, I propose some reflexion on the following:

If the regime would have been able to perpetuate itself, there would be no free and open internet services in Portugal. Writing a blog like this would be consider subversive. Role-playing games would probably be forbbiden and considered morally corruptive. So would computer games. The remarkable command of English that my generation seems to have would have never come to be. All the music we’ve been hearing for the last three decades would probably never reach us. The technological gadgets we love so much and can now order from anywhere in the world would be dificult to get and expensive beyond all limits. The rampant poverty in which more than half the population lived in those days would be our reality today. Our literacy rate would be laughable and those few that would be able to rise above this limitations would probably flee the country or end up in jail. The European Union would be a distant dream for us. Brand name products would be a mirage.

For all those reasons and many more we cannot afford to forget what this date means. Every new generation should be made aware of what transpired that day and why. Again, I don’t care what was the starting point of every individual group that fought the regime and ultimately brought the revolution into existence. I don’t care about the different agendas. I don’t care about petty political differences. What I do care is that the collective result of all that courage was the dream of a better Portugal, where I’m able to write without fear. A country where I know my 4 month-old nephew will have the opportunity to be the best he can be, and where his voice will be heard, no matter what he choses to say.

Madrugada

Dos que morreram sem saber porquê
Dos que teimaram em silêncio e frio
Da força nascida do medo
Da raiva à solta manhã cedo
Fazem-se as margens do meu rio.

Das cicatrizes do meu chão antigo
E da memória do meu sangue em fogo
Da escuridão a abrir em cor
De braço dado e a arma flor
Fazem-se as margens do meu povo

Canta-se a gente que a si mesma se descobre
E acordem luzes arraiais
Canta-se a terra que a si mesma se devolve
Que o canto assim nunca é demais

Em cada veia o sangue espera a vez
Em cada fala se persegue o dia
E assim se aprendem as marés
Assim se cresce e ganha pé
Rompe a canção que não havia

Acordem luzes nos umbrais que a tarde cega
Acordem vozes, arraiais
Cantam despertos na manhã que a noite entrega
Que o canto assim nunca é demais

Cantem marés por essas praias de sargaços
Acordem vozes, arraiais
Corram descalços rente ao cais, abram abraços
Que o canto assim nunca é demais
O canto assim nunca é demais

José Luís Tinoco

Once again, I was caught by surprise by how different it is to be on the other side of the game. Although this particular game is not very taxing on the GM, and counts heavily on the participation of the players, it demands a bit of prep work, more than I ever had to do in any RPG I played. I have to add that I first started playing with a group of very experienced players, most of them also experienced GM’s in different games. All of the players in this retreat fall in that category and I was a little bit scared of being “in control” of such a gaming table. I must confess I had some self-confidance problems when it came to making arbitrarial decisions, but I think that in the end it went pretty well.

My husband is intense in his passions. When he likes something passionately, he wants make the most of every single second he has, when he’s given the opportunity to do it. And he really likes role-playing games. I know that whenever we organise a retreat, he’s going to spend all his waking hours either playing or coaxing everybody else to sit down at the table and start playing. And I love to see him so happy and eager to play.

This time, however, our tempo was slightely slower. We had a lot of “downtime” moments, when no one was doing much of anything. And I have to confess I loved it. No matter how long we have all known each other, for me, those little moments stolen from play mean sharing. Sharing thoughts, feelings, hopes and disappointments, getting closer to our friends, interweaving our worlds just a little bit tighter.

And then, there’s the other side of it. Being alone in the kitchen remembering all those moments and putting all the love and care I can in the preparation of our meals. The food is seldom fancy or elaborate and, although I’m relatively proficient in the kitchen, sometimes things go a little bit wrong. I always come out of it with a wonderful sense of elation, though. The kind of feeling you only get from a truly heartfelt gift to others. It doesn’t really matter if they are conscious of it or not, it’s completely irrelevant if I get validation from them or not. I’m at my best cooking for them, inspite of them. And it’s a wonderful feeling. So thank you guys, for letting me give you that small token of my love for all of you, and for letting me discover abilities and talents I never knew I had, through our games and our shared times. Love to you all.

I confess I don’t know much about Gary Gygax or his life. However, I know he changed my life deeply with the game he co-created. I think I’m a better person and a more creative one for having played his game. For that, my gratitude will never be fully expressed.

I’m not the traditional RPG geek. I came in touch with the game relatively late in my life. Most of the players around me have been playing since their teens. I started playing when I was already in my twenties, mainly because my husband asked me to check it out and see if I would like to play with him. My group of friends grew, as I discovered more co-players and attended RPG meetups.

But it all started with that AD&D campaign. So, thank you Gary, and may we meet again in whatever plane you dwell in now.