BRAZILBILLY

By JesseLee Jones

One man’s extraordinary pursuit of the American Dream - a journey of hope, determination, honest apprehension yet deep faith, and great sacrifice, but far greater gain!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clovercroft Publishing
• Release date: Jan 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781942557227

Book preview

JLJ

INTRODUCTION

Every society gets the kind of criminal it deserves.

What is equally true is that every community

gets the kind of law enforcement it insists on.

- ROBERT KENNEDY -

Everything was happening so fast, and I remember that my ability to speak the language was still very limited. Because of those few months with the Lawson kids, my exposure to Sesame Street and Inspector Gadget, I had mastered speaking and understanding a few words. However, now that I had to look for and read the names of hotels, restaurants, private homes and hospitals, newspaper boxes on the street, and vending machines, those few words were woefully inadequate. I had many stops!

I cannot remember exactly how the law worked at the time, but I do know there was a temporary tag on the window of the car. Actually, I was completely unaware of the laws and regulations, and knew nothing really of the Rules of the Road. At 22 years old, I was a good driver though. Everyone knew that. I had, after all, been a taxi driver in São Paulo, Brazil. I was used to heavy traffic and defensive maneuvers. While driving in a little town that was so calm and peaceful, in the middle of the night, with no traffic on the road, I was thinking there is nothing to this.

I remember it being very cold outside, and I was delivering newspapers near the end of my first week alone on the job. It was a very difficult task, even though Mike Thurm had spent several days riding with me, and had done much to make it easy. He had spoken to me at length about the route, and pointed out some of the stops that required special attention. He shared unique details that I needed to know about some of the customers, in order to do my job well. He had even provided a tape player, and a cassette filled with step-by-step, and stop-by-stop, instructions.

So, sure, I was nervous, but very happy to be driving along in my blue-on-blue, 1973 Dodge Polara. The interior even had blue cloth on the seats and leather. Ah, it was absolutely beautiful, and I babied that car from the first day I had it! I was proud of all that blue!

Suddenly, I saw the flashing blue lights behind me on Main Street, right there in Morton, Illinois. When I saw those lights, I thought, oh, my goodness, what have I done? I was driving the right speed and stopping for the red lights. Perhaps it was just a routine stop. I grew up around cops, and it had always been a dream of mine to be a cop. I honor the uniform to this day. One of my favorite shows on television is Law and Order, and I love movies about police work. I really have a lot of respect for the law, so I rolled down the window, and there was Officer Smith. I could see his name tag on his shirt.

He had approached the car very slowly with his hand on his pistol; in the other hand, he had a flashlight. When he put the flashlight on my face, I covered my eyes and he quickly took it away. Then he said, Good morning, son, what are you doing out at this hour, in the middle of the night?

I said, I am delivering newspapers, sir. I have a paper route. I said those words the best I could, though I cannot imagine now how and what I would have sounded like. My English was so very broken back then. I had been in America for only a few months.

He shined his light over into the back seat, and said, Oh, I see. So, how long do you have to go?

I told him I was just getting started, and that I would be delivering papers all night long.

Then he asked, Can I see your driver’s license and your registration, please?

I reached into the glove compartment for the papers and handed the registration information to him.

He then asked, Who is Mike Thurm?

I said, "He is with USA Today, and the Chicago Tribune. He is my boss, and the car is his until I can get it paid for. Therefore, it is registered to him."

He seemed to understand me, though I do not know how. Then he asked for my driver’s license. I said, Sir, I don’t have one. I swallowed hard. Then I began to cry. I could not stop myself. I was afraid. The tears just started pouring down.

He looked at me and said, Calm down. Calm down. Everything is okay. I am not upset with you. Where are you from?

I told him, I am from Brazil, and I am of Italian descent, and I don’t speak very good English. I am very sorry.

He said, Where do you live?

I answered, I live right up the street. I could see the house directly across from Morton High School. I live upstairs in Ms. Pauline Phelps’ attic apartment.

He said, I know Pauline very well. How long have you been there?

I said, Oh, just about a week or so. I am new in the neighborhood, and I just picked up my papers at the truck stop in Morton. I came home, because I forgot something, so that was why I am just now leaving. Of course, I have no idea how much of that he understood, but that was why I was so close to the house when he pulled me over.

I was so afraid. I thought I was going to jail. I thought all kinds of awful things in those long moments. Then, this kind officer told me again to stop crying, and to wipe my tears. Just calm down; I’m going to help you get a driver’s license, okay? You have to have that, if you’re going to be driving and delivering newspapers.

I said, How do I do it?

Hasn’t anyone talked to you about this here in Morton? In America? he asked.

I said, No, sir, not that I can remember. The truth is I could not always understand everything people said to me.

Then, he said, Okay, the first thing we’re going to do is we’re going to take you to a Social Security office tomorrow. There you will receive a temporary social security number, and then you can get a temporary driver’s license until you get your papers squared away.

I stopped crying, and said, Oh, I would love that! I found that gesture to be extraordinarily kind of him. He was so nice to me.

He continued, I’m going to help you to get that done, because I can see that you’re a good person. I want to help you. Then he starts trying to just have a conversation. Oh, my goodness, I was clueless.

He asked, Have you ever seen the Cardinals play?

I said, What? I don’t know what cardinals are.

He said, The St. Louis Cardinals. Like baseball. Have you ever heard of them?

I said, No, sir, I haven’t.

He said, I tell you what. Let’s get your papers all in order. We will get you fixed up and then I want to take you to a St. Louis Cardinals baseball game.

I know now, with the general effort at easy conversation, he was trying to help me relax. I still have trouble believing how nice he was being to me. Where I had come from, back in Brazil, police officers were not always nice to people who disobeyed the law.

He said, You know the rules of the road right?

I don’t think so, was my honest response.

He then said, "There is a book called Rules of the Road. I want you to get hold of one of those tomorrow. You apparently are used to traffic in big cities and to the rules in your country. You are driving in a small town, and it may seem easy, but this is a new country, a new culture. Everything is new, and the rules may be different. Get the book."

I said, Yes sir.

Then he said, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. I don’t think I could do it, but you are a very courageous young man, and you are very polite. Let me be part of this. I will see you again.

I did not know what to say. For a moment I was speechless. I eventually thanked him, and he gave back the registration, then tapped the top of the car, and said, Roll up the window so you don’t get too cold, young man, and went on his way. That was my first experience with a police officer in America.

It had been a long and winding road that had brought me to what was a routine traffic stop, on Main Street, in Morton, Illinois, in the fall of 1984. It would be a long and winding road that would lead me on, and it would be many years before anything in my life ever could be considered routine again.

Like I told the officer, I am, indeed, of Italian descent and Brazil was my home for 22 years. Today, I am proud to be an American citizen, and Nashville, Tennessee is my home. I will honor where I come from, however, and impart a few of my earliest memories. On these first few pages, what I share will be sketchy, for so it is when one attempts to go back as far as one can…

Home is where your story begins.

- UNKNOWN -

FIRST HOME & RANDOM MEMORIES

I have been told that, as a young man, my father left Northeast Brazil to find a job in São Paulo. He was working at a gas station. He was not wealthy, but the people where he lived back in the northeast thought of him as being a success, and having money. So my father went back up north to visit relatives, with the intention of getting married.

On that visit, he stayed at his aunt’s house (my nice and sweet grandmother Lilly’s). He wanted to marry one of her daughters. He first picked the one who was to become my Aunt Elza. She was not into it at all! Such an abrupt marriage was not for her! Therefore, my mother, said to be the most rebellious one of the family, the real adventurer, the one they always described as forever-a-handful, said I will do it.

That is how my parents met. They got married within a week of meeting each other and my father took her down south to São Paulo. I believe, to this day, my mother still is haunted by the reality that very little happened as she had hoped it would following her impulsive marriage.

Before I proceed with my personal memories, I would like to tell you what my mother has told me about my birth, as well as things that happened leading up to it. She has talked of how, prior to my birth, when she was alone at the hospital, in labor for four days, and in so much pain, she wanted to die. She said she repeatedly would get out of her bed, go to the window of her room, in the high rise building, and contemplate opening it, and jumping, and killing herself and me. She said those were her thoughts all the time she was in the hospital, waiting for me to be born. She just wanted to die.

However, she said she did not end her life because there was a crucifix hanging on the wall up above her one window. Every time she would walk toward it, she would look at Christ on the cross and then she would change her mind, and go back to bed. She was miserable, and there had been no joy and excitement at coming down south with my dad from the poor farm life she had always known in the northeast. Nothing happened like she had imagined it might.

She said she finally had me on the weekend. The doctor was not at the hospital at the time. I was delivered by one nurse and the cleaning lady who had to use forceps to get me out. She said I came into the world pretty bruised and cut up, that I was black and blue for days. She said my dad was so shocked by my appearance that he could hardly believe I was his child.

One of my first real memories is of my mother taking me with her to Sears and Roebuck shopping. I can remember everybody saying, Oh, what a beautiful baby! What I remember quite vividly in reference to this is becoming separated from my mom in the department store that day. I recall how everybody passed me around. They just kept passing me from arms to arms to arms until my mom lost me. I remember well being in the manager’s office when my mom came in and found me. She was crying. I was crying. My tears stopped once I was back in her arms.

In my very early childhood, we lived above a general store that was owned by a Japanese gentleman, Mr. Sakamoto. I have a vivid memory of a lot of Japanese music coming from downstairs. I loved it. The building was such that if you stood out front and looked at it, to the left of the store, there was a door, and just inside that door, a staircase went upstairs to our home. It was on a corner. I lived there with my mom and dad and sister Monica, who had been born a year after me. She was born in the northeast while my parents were vacationing up there. I remember my second little sister being born in this home above the general store.

Aunt Edneuza, my mom’s sister, was living with us at the time, and I once ran desperately fast with her up this little hill near there to get a woman, a midwife, to come and deliver my mom’s third baby. It is almost like a dream, but I remember running up that hill, and coming back with my aunt and that lady. All the commotion and excitement around my mom giving birth to her baby there in our house remains clear in my memories. My parents named her Meiry Anne, and she is three years younger than me.

There were many visits from relatives and friends who were moving from up north to São Paulo. They were constantly coming from the northeast. They often stayed with my mom and dad until they got settled. I have very fond memories of my Aunt Elza, before and after she married my dad’s brother, Uncle Ruy, living with us for an extended period of time. I remember when my dad’s mother, my mean grandmother, Nona Eulalia, would come to visit us at that first house. I am not fond of recalling those visits. Lilly was my mother’s mother, and she was adorable, so sweet. She also spent some time living with us there. It is important to know that my mother and father are first cousins, so both my grandmothers are sisters. Yet, it was odd how different those two sisters were.

Oh, how well I remember a big outdoor celebration we had while living in that first house. There was a great bonfire outside. I was playing with my little sister. We were celebrating a holiday in Brazil when everybody dresses up country. You put on a hat, and jeans, and boots. I don’t know why Brazil has that holiday, but I think it may have been the Day of St. John. When it is celebrated, a fire is built, and all kinds of corn, cooked and roasted on the fire, are shared. Certain other foods are served that day, as well. I am not sure about the details, but I do know it was some religious holiday that was being honored. We kids were playing around that fire when my little sister kicked the embers. When she did that, one of the coals, or a little piece of very red wood, went into my boot on my right foot. My mom quickly tried to take the boot off me. In doing so, she pressed the coal harder into the flesh. It was pretty miserable for a long time. I still have a scar on top of my foot from that burn.

I recall tripping, and falling, and hitting the right side of my face on the corner of a table at that home, as well. That’s why I have a dimple on my right cheek. People comment about my dimple all the time, and it’s not even where a real dimple should be. It is much too high.

I don’t know how this next information, or story, will set with you, but it was real to me, so I will share it. Of course, there are those who thought back then, and who still believe today, that it was a child’s imagination. I don’t know what it was. I only know the memory remains very vivid.

There was a large picture of Jesus Christ, in a gold frame, in the living room of this first home. He was kneeling with his elbows resting on a rock. It was a profile picture of him, and he was looking up to heaven. He had a red mantle, cloak, or robe over him, just over his shoulder.

I was sitting on the couch, and my mom was next to me. I can’t recall what was happening, or who else was there, but my mom had a tiny baby on her lap at the time, my sister Meiry Anne. We were sitting there and the picture was directly across from us on the other side of the room. I was looking at that picture and his face turned to look at me. He just slowly turned, and looked directly at me. Then the face began to turn back, very slowly.

I grabbed my mom, and tried to tell her that the man in the picture was looking at me. She would not listen. I was so scared! I really was gripped with absolute terror. His face had looked straight at me. I will never forget it! After he turned his head back, what I remembered most were his eyes. Oh, how vividly I still remember his piercing eyes! I do not know why I would have had that thought, or could have imagined that I saw that. I only know it remains in my memory.

I often have asked myself why it happened, even if it happened. It puzzles me, but I think it would be hard for a three- or four-year-old boy to make up such a story, and still have such clear recollection of the incident, all these years later. I just know I cried for a long time that day, and I was very upset. Although she did not look at the picture when I asked her to do so, later, my mother did try to comfort me. When my dad came home, I told him what I had seen. I was still upset, and he tried to comfort me, too. They just said to me, over and over, that everything was okay, and were constantly assuring me it was my child’s imagination. A Latin proverb tells us that imagination exercises a powerful influence over every act of sense, thought, reason - over every idea. Perhaps it does. I did not know what imagination was back then. I just knew what I had seen.

My grandma Lilly, her two younger sons, and a daughter, lived with us for a time. One day, my uncle who was not much older than me, was bringing groceries up the stairs to where we lived above the general store. He dropped a big gallon of oil, and the mess was awful. He also cut himself deeply. Blood and oil were everywhere. The oil turned the staircase greasy, and that became a huge problem for a while. It was one of my mother’s younger brothers who had moved from the northeast. He wasn’t all that much older than I was, but he had chores. We all did.

I remember how my mother once took my father’s belt to us, to my cousins and me. I think, unfortunately, that may have happened a little too often to me. My mom would lose her cool quickly. It did not have to be something very bad at all. I remember the worst whipping ever. I was four years old, and my cousins were visiting. We were playing doctor, and were touching each other in ways a doctor would probably touch you. My mom thought our curious play was some kind of promiscuous act. She thought we had bad intentions, but we did not know what we were doing. We were just playing. We took a nice licking for that one, and we sure did not know why. We did not know what was happening. It was just childish curiosity, but it cost us pretty good!

At one point, my father worked in a restaurant at a gas station, and we sometimes rode the bus to go see him there. One time, we were getting on the bus to go visit him, and I had boarded, but my mom got locked out. She had to hold on, and run along with the bus, because the driver had shut the door. Of course, that terror didn’t last very long for me, because everybody was screaming for the bus driver to stop. I loved my mother and father, and oh, how well I remember my father coming home in the evenings, and we kids would run and jump all over him! I loved seeing him come through that door!

I liked to walk in Brazil. It is not like America. Maybe New York or Miami or a few other large cities have some areas like São Paulo where the homes are very close together, but most cities and towns in America are very different. In Brazil, we had what we called little villages. There would be gates that led into these villages. You could walk through a gate into a hallway and then there would be many small shacks or houses. Space is very valuable, so they build a home wherever they can, just like in Italy.

As a young boy, before I ever started going to school, I liked to walk through all those gates into the various villages, and just disappear for a bit. I loved to explore. One day, my mother was talking to a lady in the street, and I saw a gate open. I ran through the gate, and it closed behind me. When I turned around, there was a massive German shepherd dog staring me right in the eyes. That was the last time I ran away from my mom, and went exploring through a gate by myself!

Brazil was such an eclectic country, and still is today. The culture is so different from that of America, where everybody tries to speak English. There you have the Japanese, Germans, Dutch, Italians, Arabs, Chinese, and Negroes. They all speak Portuguese, but they speak in their own languages as well, just as they learned in their home country. I grew up listening to all of those sounds. As I look back on those days, I do so with much gratitude for the degree of diversity I was so blessed to know.

SECOND HOME & MORE RANDOM MEMORIES

We moved from that first house above the general store, because my dad bought a bar in another part of town. Our second home was just up the street from the bar that he had bought, after he had worked for several years at the restaurant and gas station. At that point, we were in a far distant suburb, well away from downtown São Paulo.

I was still very young. Shortly after that move, I was given, for Christmas, a little red tricycle with a front wheel and two little wheels on the back. It had a seat behind where I sat, so I could carry my two little sisters, Monica and Meiry Anne, for rides. I was racing down the sidewalk one day, in that little thing, and went flying over a wall. I was sorry to have hurt my sisters, and I felt really bad about wrecking my tricycle, too!

One day I was helping my father, at the bar, when a police officer friend of his came in. When cops came in to order a drink they had to surrender their arms. It was my father’s rule. His gun was a .38 caliber police special revolver, in a holster. I did not know that then, but I do now. As they chatted, I stood behind the bar, and could see it on the shelf where my dad had placed it. Temptation was great. I pulled the gun out of that holster, pointed it at

Reviews for BRAZILBILLY

[harley0326 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Every once in awhile, you are fortunate to read a book that is so inspiring that you sit in awe as you read a story that will forever stay with you. I have had the honor of reading such a book which is called , "BrazilBilly :The JesseLee Jones Story." He had hopes and dreams as he traveled to a new place. His first day in the U.S. was much different than he imagined. He traveled with everything he had and in a blink of an eye, he is robbed and left with nothing. For many of us, that would be our reason to give up. That was not true for JesseLee. With determination and perseverance , he finds his way to a town in Illinois. I don't believe in fate, but I do believe in divine appointments, and that is exactly what JesseLee experienced when he found himself befriended by a church. They welcomed him with open arms and took him under their wings. This must have felt so different for him as people were willing to help a stranger and accept him with a desire to encourage him. He certainly didn't have a good childhood. He was often neglected and must have felt unwanted. His ability to overcome such harsh conditions is a testament to his character. JesseLee had dreams and nothing was going to deter him from that. How many of us have let dreams slip away because the struggle was to hard to overcome?This story really touched me because growing up in a family that never encouraged me or showed me love, I was overcome with emotion as I read about the people who helped JesseLee with his dream. He worked hard, and never seemed to give up. JesseLee was blessed with people who encouraged him and helped him. It is an emotional read at times, but one worth finishing to the last page. JesseLee loved music. It was his dream to one day sing to a crowd , to be on stage and live his dream out. Does his dream come true? Can JesseLee, from Brazil become famous? This book will draw you in and keep you glued as the pages flow with a story that captures the American Dream. JesseLee is an inspiration to anyone who has struggled or felt like they can't persevere. As you read the book, be encouraged that you can fulfill your destiny and you are strong enough to overcome obstacles in your path. Thank you for writing a book that gives us courage to not give up.I received a copy of this book from The BookClub Network for an honest review.