“Paulinho! Por que você para? Quero fotografar mais fotografias!” (“Paulinho! Why do you stop? I want to take more pictures!“)
Qiana Martin’s sun-bronzed skin glistened with sweat. She panted heavily as she tore her eyes away from the distant gray mountains and glanced to her right in the direction of the voice. A guy with an imposingly conspicuous camera draped around his neck stood a few feet away on the boardwalk with his bike between his legs. She’d noticed him a few minutes earlier as he’d been riding in their direction. Her first thought was that he was crazy. Nobody traveled around with a camera that size in public, even in the upscale neighborhood of Leblon in Rio de Janiero. It made you an easy robbery target.
“Aaaah!” the ebony-hued man laughed good-naturedly in response. He was standing just beyond arm’s length behind Qiana. Paulinho was a former player for one of the four major soccer clubs in Rio. He was used to being photographed.
Returning his attention to his student, he explained, “El es paparazzo. Comprende?” (“He is paparazzi. Do you understand?”)
Qiana nodded as she stood poised and ready. The cushion of the wide band pressed snuggly against her waist. Paulinho’s arms were extended to give her enough space to move. A black strap of the makeshift resistance belt was wrapped around each of his hands to ensure it remained taut. He braced himself.
“Let’s go!” his deep, firm voice commanded over the crescendo of the Atlantic Ocean. It was the only English phrase he knew.
White sand flew. Feet flashed forward as if fighting a fierce wind. It’s Thursday morning at Posto 11, Leblon Beach. Time to train.
Rice, boiled chicken, a vegetable and water — Qiana remembers when that was the daily special. Colonel Sanders would be appalled. She also remembers her grandmother, Lucille, making ultra-healthy sandwiches with oil-separated peanut butter. Companion choices? Two scoops of applesauce or a few banana slices. Not a jar of jelly in the house. Never a fan of the banana-peanut combo, young Qiana opted for the lesser of two evils: “peanut butter applesauce.” And, secretly, she counted the days until the church’s next gathering. At least then she could scout out an opportunity to steal away and sip a swig of Kool-Aid or delight in a delectable dessert.
For Qiana, the early years of her life were less than ideal. In addition to the nutritious, but atypical, selections for the family’s daily provisions, there were just a lot of realities that she simply didn’t care for. Summer vacations inescapably meant raking leaves, cutting grass and shelling peas under the strict direction of her grandparents, who were raising her and her brother. And, even though she and her family kept the government’s handout list at bay, periodic welfare situations were not uncommon. To add insult to injury, the stork had dropped her off in the less than thriving metropolis of Seneca, S.C.: population 7,652.
Strenuous unpaid labor and limited family funds aside, this last reality was the one that truly taunted Qiana the most. Small-town life never was for her. Yet, it was below her feet, around her body and in her face. She knew from an early age that the life she daydreamed about was beyond city limits. What she didn’t know was that the life she dreamed about was not her own.
The deposit on Qiana’s ticket out of town came while she was sitting in an advanced sixth-grade English class. The teacher’s teen daughter was in Washington, D.C., getting paid to work as a senator’s page for a month. It was the first time that Qiana considered the value of being an exceptional student.
The only audible sound in the room was the teacher’s voice, but Qiana distinctly heard the knock of opportunity. Her hometown, as far as she was concerned, would never be a handicap that could hold her hostage. And, to ensure that, Qiana believed she had to be smarter and do more to build the case for her career choice. She began mapping out milestones that she wanted to accomplish. Her plan included attending a good college and then going to a good law school. So, after asking a few questions about the senator’s program, she shoved the information into a mental manila folder.
A few years later, as a junior in high school, she revisited the idea of working for the government. It was the opportune time to respond to the knock. When she opened the door, she found herself walking around Capitol Hill as a page to none other than the legendary South Carolina Republican Senator Strom Thurmond. She’d arrived at the first stop on her journey toward the destination depicted in her mind. She knew the life she wanted — free of financial fretting and corn shucking — was out there.
When Qiana showed up at soccer tryouts her senior year of high school, she really didn’t know what to expect. She had good memories of the game from when she played briefly as a young girl. As a teenager, she didn’t remember much about the technical aspects. But, because she’d played basketball throughout school, she knew she could, at the very least, outrun everyone on the field.
Ironically, though, it wasn’t her running that the coach noticed. When Qiana took her first shot, she kicked the ball with the power of a player going in to make a field goal. As it happened, her innate skill and strength gave her a competitive edge that made her a shoo-in for the team. So, without a lot of fanfare or additional technical training, Qiana soon found herself on the field wearing a royal blue and white Lady Bobcats jersey. She became an inaugural member of the varsity girls soccer team for Seneca High School. She even got to appear in the Seneca Daily Journal with her teammates. Her grandmother clipped the photo.
John F. Kennedy International Airport was abuzz with activity at 4 a.m. on Monday, Feb. 4, 2008. Qiana had flown from Atlanta into New York the night before for the first leg of her trip. Now, having checked her bags and making it through the security checkpoints, she was at her gate. Her stomach was a ball of nerves.
Glancing around, Qiana noticed that most of the other passengers were Brazilian and traveling in pairs. “Great,” she thought. So much for having someone to talk to. To distract herself, she unzipped her black Eastpak backpack and pulled out her laptop. She popped in the DVD of The Wire that her former co-worker at one of Atlanta’s largest law firms had given her — it wouldn’t load. By now, it was after 7 a.m. He’d be heading to work. She decided to call him since any diversion was better than none at all. The two had been chatting a few minutes when the gate attendant began announcing boarding instructions — in Portuguese — for her flight. Qiana was thankful for the English translation that followed.
This was it. She’d gone all in on her dream. The fast-tracked young professional, who had been agilely climbing the corporate ladder wearing uniquely tailored black Maxi Studio suits and two-inch heels, was finally leaving for Brazil to play in championship soccer tournaments with one of the premiere women’s clubs in Rio. She gathered her things, and glanced over her shoulder as she entered the tunnel to board her plane. This was do or die.
As her plane made its final descent into Tom Jobim International Airport in Rio, Qiana let out a sigh of relief. She hated to fly. It had been a long trip. Thirteen hours in the air, two layovers and three airplanes. Enough was enough, especially since the Dramamine hadn’t helped her get any sleep. Folding the navy blue airline blanket and setting it on her seat, Qiana fluffed out the soft curls of her blondish-auburn afro and waited patiently. When it was her turn, Qiana bent down to retrieve her backpack from under the seat in front of her and moved into the aisle.
It was just before midnight. As she slowly inched toward the exit, humidity from the Brazilian night snaked in and began to coil around her. The black Old Navy jacket that had kept her insulated from the frigid New York City air and the plane’s air conditioning, now felt like a thermal blanket in July. Upon emerging from the plane, Qiana was bustled to customs along with the other passengers before finally being directed to a waiting area. With deliberation, her eyes explored the expectant crowd.
“Qiana!”
A balding man of slight build hastily stepped forward. Qiana immediately recognized him from the photo she’d seen online. The gray-haired man with metal framed glasses was her new soccer coach. More tentatively, two young women, who appeared to be in their late teens or early 20s, moved forward as well.
“Tudo bem?” (“What’s up?”) they asked, greeting her.
“Tudo bem?” (“What’s up?”) replied Qiana smiling.
“Fala portugues?” (“Do you speak Portuguese?”) one of them asked.
“Sim mais o menos.” (“Yes, more or less.”)
Everyone laughed. It immediately struck Qiana that their complexion was much fairer than the Brazilian women shown in American media. She was also awed by their long, Rapunzel-ish hair. As they headed to the car, Qiana learned that the women were her teammates, and one of them, Pam, was her host.
Once outside the airport, the night engulfed them. Climbing into the backseat of the coach’s hatchback Citroen, Qiana knew that this was going to be unlike anything she’d ever experienced. The ride into the city was fairly quiet. The coach made small talk by asking questions about the flight and the temperature in New York. Pam contributed an occasional comment while the other teammate, who spoke very little English, simply stared out the window. The silence didn’t bother Qiana. As she gazed outside, warm air licked her face. She wanted to take it all in and pondered the thought that she was probably the only person from Seneca in the city — and grinned.
After high school, naysayers abounded. Family and friends alike challenged Qiana’s dreams and questioned her logic in choosing a college so far away and so expensive. Qiana took their criticism in stride. The fall following graduation, she entered top-ranked Rice University in Houston as a political science major.
She hit the ground running. Literally. Having trained as an athlete most of her life, she regularly released stress by bolting at a powerful, purposeful pace. As she sped through the maze of city streets, she fantasized about playing soccer but resigned herself to the reality that it was pointless to pursue a passion that had no future. She had physically escaped Seneca, but her young mind was still bound by the vestiges of a small-town mentality; a mentality that said her only career options were to become a doctor, teacher or lawyer.
Good grades got her out of Seneca. Rice’s reputation and a solid resume would get her to law school. That was the belief Qiana clung to as she matriculated through some of the most daunting years of her life, encountering unexpected curves on her career map. She’d arrived in Houston knowing she’d have to work. What she hadn’t anticipated was how much.
Six days a week, she divided her time between two jobs. At night, she confirmed deals on an electricity trading room floor. During the day, she punched in at a law firm and worked in attorney recruiting. School was seemingly extracurricular. She carried a full course load and spent two eight-hour days a week in class.
As time passed and Qiana became more familiar with her job at the law firm, she found out about the behind-the-scenes politics of getting into the “right” law school in order to get the “right” job. The revelations were unexpected and disappointing. She learned that if she wanted to move from state to state as a practicing lawyer, she’d have to keep taking the bar. Her days would be spent in the office working — her evenings, wining and dining clients in order to drum up business. But, after a childhood working around her grandparents’ home as though there were no child labor laws and spending her college years laboring like a Hebrew slave — Qiana decided that becoming a lawyer would not be the profession that would make her happy. She also decided that she would only settle for something that would.
So, after graduation, she made the discordant decision to enroll in the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising based in Los Angeles. She’d always possessed a creative energy and a flair for clothes, and she decided that FIDM would give her a chance to manifest and monetize the power of her right-brain fancies. Selecting a two-year apparel-manufacturing program at the school, Qiana set her sights on building a career as a clothing designer.
A week and a half after starting at FIDM, Qiana met her business partner. A few months later, they introduced AdiaRana, an edgy clothing line that catered to the high-end market.
But between Qiana’s political science degree and her business partner’s engineering degree, the AdiaRana designers were at a disadvantage. There was simply too much the budding entrepreneurs didn’t know about building a successful business. Sponsorships were hard to come by, and potential investors were quick to point out that their business plan wasn’t as developed as it needed to be. And unfortunately, neither of them knew anyone who could offer advice or counsel. After a couple of years, the financial stresses were too much and the dynamics between the fast friends had changed. They decided to close the doors.
At this point, she’d gone all-in on the fashion venture. She’d quit her job and moved in with a friend. She’d dropped out of FIDM after only two months to put the time into her first clothing line. Qiana couldn’t avoid facing the undeniable reality that she’d hit rock bottom.
It was under these circumstances, however, that she realized she was pursuing her hobbies and not her dream. Qiana made herself a promise. Her vow was that if she was ever to find herself in this position again, it was going to be for something she would do or die for. And, within a couple of months, she realized that the only thing she could connect that feeling with was soccer.
It just so happened that this was around the time that the U.S. Women’s Soccer Team won the gold medal at the Olympic Games in Athens. Motivated by the win, Qiana’s mind lingered on her daydream about having a chance to chase after a ball in the Games one day. As she was blasting through Pan Pacific Park on her daily jog not long after making her vow, her focus was drawn to a group of guys playing soccer. It was something that they’d likely been doing all along, but she’d never paid attention to them before.
In the days that followed, she arrived at the park with her cleats for the pickup games. The guys, mainly Hispanic and Caribbean, noticed her — but not for the reason of playing the game. It took a few days, but they finally invited her to join in the play. The fact that she was the only female on the field was reminiscent of her childhood years, and like then, it didn’t phase her.
In the beginning, before she proved herself, no one cared what her name was. They would simply call her “chica” or “ella” — which both mean girl. But after about a year, “Qiana! Qiana! Qiana!” was all she heard. She’d proven her defensive skills were valuable. She wasn’t just a girl — she often was the difference between a team playing or sitting down and waiting for their next turn.
It was Fat Tuesday in Rio. The formal festivities were finished, and the elaborately decorated, unmanned floats looked on lazily at the remaining revelers from the sidelines. Music blared. As her coach inched through traffic, Pam pointed out the Sambadrome. Qiana had never seen anything like it. Brightly lit and spanning what would be the equivalent of almost nine city blocks, this permanent parade ground, with a capacity to hold 90,000 spectators, sat in the heart of Rio on Marques de Sapucai Street. As the car crept by, the Sambadrome rested regally, seemingly basking in the afterglow of Carnival’s chaotic charm. The effervescence of the day’s activities still lingered in the air. Even half empty, it was an amazing structure. Qiana gaped out the window at the awesome display.
The next morning, a glow of light illuminated Pam’s small apartment in Copacabana. Qiana opened her eyes and blinked slowly. Rolling over, she glanced down at the floor. Pam’s long, light-brown hair splayed around her as she slept on a twin mattress a foot or so away. Qiana paused, allowing the gravity of her new adventure to fully imprint itself. After a few moments, she lifted her head from her gold satin pillowcase. Stepping quietly past Pam, Qiana walked over to the open double window. In daylight, she had a clearer view of her new world.
Outside, mountains played peek-a-boo with an overcast sky. Subtly hued high-rise buildings lined the multi-lane thoroughfare below. Displaying angular and simplistic architectural designs, the tall, rectangular structures alternated between beiges, whites and peach tones. Rows of windows created a predictable grid. Air conditioning units protruded in an uneven pattern along the facades. Traffic whizzed along the tree-lined street. Taxis and buses navigated between noncommercial traffic. Vertical stripes of the crosswalk stood out boldly, but people were daringly darting across the road without walking to the corner. It reminded her of Manhattan.
The bustling atmosphere within the walls of Zona Sul kept pace with the electric energy of the sidewalk and street beyond its entrance. Qiana and Pam had just entered the grocery store, which was across the street from the apartment. When they first walked in, Qiana was taken aback by how many people were in the market.
Determined to blend in as much a possible while she got her bearings, Qiana mimicked the other customers and leisurely wandered around the store. Picking up the items she needed, she passed the store’s dining area complete with a flat screen TV and small buffet table. She noticed all of the workers had on uniforms that included black Ked-like tennis shoes with red stitching and a heart, displaying the store’s logo.
Busy texting, Pam ambled along nearby, showing no interest in her guest or the scene surrounding her. Qiana, on the other hand, felt slightly overwhelmed. So, when she noticed something that reminded her of home — a Snickers — she put it in the basket to eat later. After picking up gala apples, crackers, trail mix and two bottles of Aquarius water for her protein drinks, Qiana paused.
Noticing, Pam asked in English, “Are you ready?”
“Sim,” (“Yes,”) responded Qiana in Portuguese.
Qiana didn’t want to speak English. It would blow her cover. With her golden afro, caramel skin tone and sense of style, she blended well with others in the store, but her Portuguese was limited and shaky. The fear of pronouncing something wrong was tantamount. Not wanting to draw attention to herself, she decided to stand in line quietly and allow Pam to handle the transaction. It was, after all, what Qiana expected of her host.
When she heard the key turn in the lock, Qiana glanced up from her laptop. She’d been growing agitated and hungry as she waited for Pam to return. A part of the arrangement she’d set up with the coach was that she’d pay Pam a flat fee for room and board. Because of Qiana’s training regime and special nutritional needs, she’d been explicit in her dietary requirements prior to arrival. Plenty of fruits, veggies and fish with chicken on occasion. Fast food was never even a thought that crossed Qiana’s mind. Because, logically but incorrectly, her expectation had been that she’d be living in a place with a stove.
So, when Pam rushed into the small flat at an awkward angle obscuring a paper bag with an immediately recognizable logo, Qiana had to suppress the knee-jerk urge to say something. A few minutes later, her teammate walked over extending a plate. On it, Pam had arranged the contents of the bag — recognizable chicken tenders, black beans and rice. Qiana was in utter disbelief at her brazenness. With a straight face, Pam was trying to pass the food off as if it had been freshly prepared. Qiana fumed silently, but she played ignorant and accepted the food graciously. The uneasy feeling that she’d gotten soon after arriving — when she noticed the turquoise linens on her twin bed were soiled and mildly tattered — returned. She didn’t know what, but something about this arrangement was amiss. The thought crossed her mind that this was a grand hustle.
“Qiana, I don’t know if this situation is going to work out,” lamented the coach in English with a deep furrow in his brow.
“You’re the first person who has come to train with our team,” he continued. “Pam felt like she was doing her best, and you didn’t include her on the e-mail.”
It was the fourth day of Qiana’s stay. She’d had five meals from the same fast food restaurant and some pizza since her arrival. All she’d had that particular day was a protein shake because no meals had been provided at all. So, out of frustration and the realization that this pattern had to stop, she’d contacted the coach.
Now, with other teammates glancing over from the sidelines, she stood talking with him and a clearly perturbed Pam after soccer practice. It felt like two against one. Qiana had sent an e-mail earlier that day in the spirit of asking the coach to mediate. But, it was clear he’d spoken to Pam separately prior to practice, and now he was offended.
“Pam keeps saying that she is going to buy groceries, but she keeps bringing me fast food,” Qiana explained, restraining any visible signs of exasperation.
“When I visit my sister in America, we eat hamburgers and French fries,” countered the coach.
“Well, I don’t eat that,” Qiana said flatly. “Can I have my money for food back, and I will be responsible for it?”
“Yes. I think that is best.”
Pam just stood there contributing little to the conversation. Ignoring Qiana, she allowed the coach to translate her teammate’s words for her as though she didn’t understand. And, unabashedly, she responded only to him — in rapidly spoken Portuguese — when she did speak. Qiana had no way to determine what was being said, but she sensed that it wasn’t unbiased and/or completely truthful.
“Qiana, we have a problem,” said the coach in English as he approached her in the spacious and elegant lobby of his apartment building. Qiana was in transit from Pam’s. The plan had been for her to stay at the coach’s place for the weekend because her new host had houseguests.
“I’m going out of town. The girls want you to come stay with them and go to the club. Do you want to go?”
Qiana smiled. The question was rhetorical, and they both knew it. She also knew that, at this point, the only choice she had was to go with the flow — something she’d done a lot of since she arrived just over two months ago.
“That’s fine.”
“OK. Let’s take your bags upstairs and go get something to eat first.”
Even though Qiana had eaten her usual at Zona Sul before she left Copacabana, she wasn’t going to turn down free food. So, she nodded and followed her coach toward the elevators. Afterwards, they went to lunch. He commented that the various colors of veggies on her plate reminded him of a rainbow.
About an hour later, finally sitting on the bus en route to her teammate’s place, Qiana thought about how much she looked forward to the rest of her time in Brazil. Her stay with Pam had been plagued with problems. Qiana was glad to be heading to what she hoped to be a more stable and predictable environment. She actually was excited about her latest weekend adventure because she’d really bonded with her teammates after her former host had stopped coming to practices and games. The other girls had gotten to know Qiana, and they welcomed her warmly.
“Castelo das Pedras!” shouted the bus driver as he braked to a stop in front of the popular nightclub.
Qiana grabbed her things and slid out of the seat. When she got to the back of the bus to disembark, she carefully made the leap to the dirt ground below and walked to her left. She glanced up at the unlit marquee of the infamous hot spot that she and her teammates would be going to that night, and smiled. This was going to be good.
At first glance, the area reminded her of an old western village — one where all of life’s basic needs could be bought or attained without ever leaving town. There were cookie-cutter buildings that all looked the same and vendors along the road. Buses traveled along the street, but it didn’t look anything like the thriving metropolitan area she’d just left. Some people were ambling around at a slow pace as they went about their business while others were standing around drinking beer. Music bounced and boomed with a bone-shaking buoyancy. Qiana couldn’t help thinking that the scene had the vibe of a Sunday afternoon hanging out at the park.
After about 15 minutes, two of her teammates walked up. The trio exchanged quick greetings before taking off. Her guides moved swiftly. Within moments, the girls entered a maze of trash-cluttered streets exploding with activity. Going through alleyways of hundreds of people, Qiana had gone from a moderate laid-back crowd into a thrashing bottleneck of bodies. Everyone was moving frenetically. It seemed that the open-air market was closing down for the day, and people were busy taking down tables and discarding rubbish.
The air was putrid from the smell of scattered and squashed vegetables and trash. Qiana was glad she’d decided against wearing her flip flops. As her teammates weaved, ducked and dodged skillfully through the maze of vendors with a confidence born of familiarity, Qiana was silent and tried to keep up. She noticed that as they moved further from the core of activity, the alleyways narrowed and transitioned from vendor-lined thoroughfares to walkways to homes.
Nothing could have prepared Qiana for favela life. The mountain-side dwellings with steep, rail-less, cement staircases often lacked coverings for entryways and window areas. The alleys — major thoroughfares for foot traffic — were packed with hard dirt and intermittent wooden boards covering holes. It was also not uncommon to encounter large standing pools of water along the path.
Arriving at her teammate’s home, the girls climbed several steep steps and crossed a small wire partition before reaching the landing at the top. The area was an open-air patio. To the right, sheets, towels and socks hung from a clothesline. On the left, there was a washing machine and a sink. Just beyond them were a bathroom and the lockable door that led to her teammate’s bedroom.
Inside, the flat reminded Qiana of a dorm room that just happened to be made with painted brick or block. There was a TV mounted on the wall, a bed and a computer with an Internet connection. Having several hours to kill, the girls turned on the Flamengo soccer game. Qiana watched from a white plastic lawn chair.
After a major knee injury that had kept her on crutches for nearly three months, Qiana was ready to start training again. She’d re-read a book written by a former professional soccer player on Brazilian soccer techniques, and she sent the author an e-mail explaining what she wanted to do. He invited her to train in Florida with his high-performance team for a week, and it went extremely well.
At this point, Qiana had been living in Atlanta for almost two years. She’d chosen the city because of its proximity to her family in Seneca and its access to the Caribbean for training purposes. She also liked that many of the trainers who worked with 1996 Olympians still resided in the area. She’d reluctantly had to re-enter the legal recruiting field to make ends meet; however, she’d set clear goals and time lines. The deal she made with herself was that she would use her wages to fund her training. Qiana understood that, because she hadn’t gone through traditional channels by playing for leagues in childhood and college, she had to forge her own path if she were ever to become a paid professional soccer player.
In the months following her training with the high-performance team, Qiana made a point of staying in touch with the trainer. Believing in the law of six degrees of separation, Qiana knew that, at the right time, an opportunity to train in Brazil would open up. And, one day, after months of asking around, the trainer sent her an e-mail with the name of a Brazilian coach who was willing to let her train with his team. The invisible pieces that Qiana had persisted to pull together were finally starting to fall into place.
As Qiana and her teammates approached Castelo Das Pedras around 10 p.m., she couldn’t help but notice how much better the club looked under the cloak of darkness. Just outside the door, a lady sat selling candy and gum. Qiana reached into her coin purse to make a purchase, but one of her teammates pushed her hands down and extended money instead.
The gaggle of girls were not detained in the maze of queue lines, as the doormen were ushering people in quickly. A live band was playing on the stage. The liquor station, which served everything from energy drinks to strong whiskey, was set up almost like a ticket booth. The two lines were already starting to get long. Some of her teammates headed in that direction. Others started texting people who hadn’t yet arrived. A room the size of a Harris Teeter, with a balcony overlooking the dance floor, was still fairly empty. That didn’t last long. Within an hour, bodies crushed every open space in the room.
The band had been replaced by a DJ who was spinning “baile funk,” a musical form that originated in the favelas much in the same way hip-hop came from America’s ghettos. Qiana’s teammates skillfully gyrated and dipped to the music, and eagerly taught Qiana their moves. The grown-up girl from Seneca was having the time of her life.
In the multigenerational crowd, folks wore fitted dresses and stilettos, surfer shorts and the popular flip flops known as Havaianas. There were also jeans and tennis shoes. But, whatever the people were wearing, Qiana quickly realized what a person wore didn’t matter. Castelo wasn’t legendary because of its fashion statement. Castelo wasn’t legendary because it was a tourist hot spot. Castelo was legendary because the clubgoers knew how to party.
During the evening, well-timed fire sparks rained from the pyrotechnic equipment attached to the ceiling. For entertainment, a host called people out of the audience to participate in a dance contest on the main stage. The contestants began winding and popping to the baile funk beats. The crowd cheered. One of the females, wearing a calf-length dress, wasn’t impressing the host with her moves. He ordered the music to stop.
Then, to Qiana’s surprise, he brought out a pair of scissors and began cutting the bottom of her clothing. Once he ripped the fabric away, the music started again. The contestant started winding her body to the floor. The crowd cheered again. A few minutes later, the host interrupted again. This routine continued until the garment reached a length that pleased the crowd. The contestant danced until the crowd was satisfied with her “performance.”
After this staged dance contest ended, the crowd was revved up, and the DJ began a nonstop music set to give clubgoers the opportunity to do their soccer affiliation chants to baile beats. The response was equivalent to the fervor generated by the last call for alcohol on New Year’s Eve. People exploded into movement and began to dance as hard and as fast as they could as they shut the club down. It was 5:30 a.m.
When the teammates finally spilled out of the club with the rest of the revelers, they found the scene outside to be just as chaotic as it had been inside. Qiana was tired, but before they could leave, they had to nurse a besotted teammate to health.
“Necessito receber algum ar,” (“I need to get some air,“) moaned Qiana’s queasy teammate to no one in particular but everyone in general.
About an hour later, everyone was ready to go. As the girls retraced their path through the alleyways, the sun began to glimmer on the horizon. Qiana marveled that people were still sitting in the open-air bars having drinks. The group of women resembled an ambulatory automobile, stopping ever so often to drop people home. Finally, with only four or five people in tow, they reached the home where Qiana would be sleeping.
Opening the mail container, Qiana’s host let out a small gasp. The key to the gate was not there. Apparently, the girl’s father had come home from his night job as a videographer and assumed that they were back already.
“A tecla não está aqui!” (“The key isn’t here!”) she whispered. “Espere um minuto.” (“Hold on a minute.”)
Sliding her feet from her flip flops, and without an instant of hesitation, the woman began scaling the six-foot yellowish concrete wall. The others stood silently and watched. A few moments later, she slowly and quietly unhitched the latch and motioned for her overnight guests to enter. In silence, the group gingerly tipped up the long, winding flight of concrete steps until they arrived at the roof-level bedroom. Once inside the room, the girls let out a sigh of relief. Qiana kicked off her blue flip flops and changed out of her blue T-shirt and black miniskirt. Ordinarily, she would’ve dealt with the smoky smell of her hair, but she was exhausted and quickly fell into a sound sleep on the softest bed she’d ever felt.
After her three-day stay in Castela, Qiana spent her last three months in the elite Leblon with another teammate. She settled into a routine and began to focus on making the most of the rest of her time in Brazil. One of the most meaningful experiences she had was teaching a 10-week English course to her teammates. When she learned that they would have to pass an English equivalency exam to play for American colleges, Qiana took the initiative to design a basic language curriculum. Hour-long classes were held before practice every Friday for anyone who was interested.
As for her own growth and development, Qiana approached Paulinho before taking one of her daily runs on the beach. She’d watched him as he worked with the children he coached at his soccer school on the beach. When she explained why she was in Brazil and what she wanted to accomplish, he was glad to help strengthen her technical skills. With her team, Qiana played with and against world-class soccer competitors. She participated in championship games, and in two practices, she even had the opportunity to play against and get pointers from Donda, a famously formidable former player who was on the first Brazilian women’s national soccer team.
The small-town South Carolina native basked in her good fortune and took nothing for granted — even the small things, like the fact that her favorite restaurant, Zona Sul, was close to the beach. Almost every day after her run, she got to eat delicious chocolate chip cake — for breakfast. Life wasn’t good. It was fabulous. More significantly, she’d kept the sixth-grade promise to herself to not allow where she came from to hold her hostage. And, in doing so, she’d proven that anything was possible.
“Ready?” asks Kanye Burton.
“Yep,” Qiana says as she swivels off of the Sports Arts Fitness Trainer bike where she’d just completed a 10-minute warm-up. She’s wearing green shorts and the red and black Flamengo shirt one of her Brazilian teammates had given her a few months ago. Now, back in the States, she has returned to her routine.
Leaving the warm-up area, they walk into the workout room. Autographed pictures of entertainers and NFL players line the mustard-colored workout studio. Floor-length mirrors cover the far wall. To the left, above an array of weights, three clocks from various time zones look out into the room.
After closing the door, Kanye, her trainer, walks over to a big picture window and lets down the white blinds. Then, setting out two blue discs as markers, he asks Qiana to stand still. Bending down, he secures the velcro on the resistance chord to each one of her ankles and steps back. He hits the light switch. Dense darkness dances and dips to the bass-driven beats of “Shawty Get Loose.” Suspended low to the floor, white orbs and shoelaces illuminate the blackness. Time is frozen. Momentarily.
“Ready. Set. Go!”
Feet flash forward as if fighting a fierce wind. With the Brazilian training and experience under her belt, Qiana wants to keep the momentum going. There are only a few paying women’s soccer leagues worldwide. She has no choice but to be the best.
Competition is tight. Naysayers abound. Qiana isn’t worried. What’s important is that it’s 7:15 on Tuesday morning. Time to train.
This article appears in Dec 16-23, 2008.
