José Carlos Buosi, na década de 70, foi professor de Português no Ginásio Estadual de Vila Munhoz, na Vila Maria, São Paulo. A foto acima, quarenta anos depois. A crônica: “Ao mestre, com carinho” escrevi em homenagem a ele, que tanto marcou a minha vida escolar.
Viajo no túnel do tempo. Estou na década de 70, precisamente no ano de 1972, na capital paulista. Tenho treze anos de idade e curso a antiga terceira série ginasial. Três professores marcaram a minha adolescência estudantil: dois de Português e um de Matemática.
“Seu” Valter talvez ainda não completara 30 anos, porém, sua cara fechada, seu sorriso irônico e, principalmente, sua estupidez faziam-me acreditar que beirava os 40. Adentrava na sala de aula silencioso e, ao ouvir o burburinho dos alunos, no intervalo de uma disciplina para outra, postava-se ao lado da mesa, erguia o apagador de madeira compacta, com o braço em total elevação, e soltava-o em cima da mesa pesada de madeira. O barulho soava como um tiro e os alunos assustados viam seu olhar aterrador, banhado por um sorriso irônico e tétrico. Essa era a sua forma de cumprimentar seus alunos e exigir silêncio.
Sua disciplina era a Matemática, que passou a ser a mais odiada de todas as matérias, por boa parte de seus alunos. Se a matéria não era assimilada, pouquíssimos se arriscavam a dizer que não entenderam, pois o professor, na sua didática ignorante, faltava chamar o aluno de burro por isso. E gostava de expor-nos ao ridículo. Chamava ao quadro, para resolver às questões, justamente aqueles que ele sabia que não conseguiriam. E aumentava-lhes a vergonha, exigindo que resolvessem, mesmo quando o aluno dizia que não sabia. E ele insistia, e ordenava-lhes que tentassem, para sorver o gostinho de ver tanto absurdo criado pelo aluno na tentativa desesperada de cumprir as ordens.
Foi a marca mais atroz que eu trouxe dessa disciplina, muito embora eu não tivesse tanta dificuldade. Mas o que não consegui aprender só foi resolvido anos depois, em outra escola e com uma professora amante da matemática e interessada no aprendizado de seus alunos.
Da disciplina de Português, guardo valiosíssimas lembranças. Desde a minha alfabetização, aos sete anos de idade, encantei-me com as palavras, primeiramente, com a poesia que, dada a minha facilidade para decorar, declamava-a sempre nas festas cívicas da escola. Vêm, da professora do antigo primário, os primeiros incentivos ao me elogiar pelas diversas leituras em voz alta a que ela me submetia nas aulas. Só no ginásio, aos 12 anos de idade, vim descobrir a mágica das metáforas. E cabe – aos meus dois excelentes professores de Português: José Carlos e senhor Aristeu, amantes da língua portuguesa e, por isso, entusiasmados e inovadores em suas aulas, conseguindo que assimilássemos a matéria de forma lúdica e por meio de outras artes: da música, por exemplo – o meu amor pelas palavras.
O ano era 1972 e eu estava na terceira série ginasial (oitavo ano, hoje). O professor José Carlos, sempre alegre e sorridente (gostava de empregar o verbo amar em seus exemplos), adentrou na sala com um antigo gravador a pilha. Colocou a fita cassete e a música, “Minha História”, de Chico Buarque, começou a tocar:
“Ele vinha sem muita conversa, sem muito explicar. E só sei que falava e cheirava, e gostava de mar. Sei que tinha tatuagem no braço e dourado no dente. E minha mãe se entregou a esse homem, perdidamente. .. Esperando parada, pregada na pedra do porto, com seu único e velho vestido cada dia mais curto…”
Nenhum barulho se fazia na sala. Estávamos extasiados.
Não dava as respostas. Atiçava a nossa curiosidade, fazendo-nos enveredar pela mágica da poesia:
· Descobrimos que o homem era um cigano: “… tinha tatuagem no braço e dourado no dente.”;
· A existência da aliteração: “… esperando parada, pregada na pedra do porto”;
· A mulher estava grávida: “com seu único e velho vestido cada dia mais curto…”
Passados exatos quarenta anos, e parafraseando a poetisa mineira, Adélia Prado: “o que o coração guarda a memória não esquece”, afirmo: é inesquecível.
Hoje, quando deito palavras no papel, quer seja em verso ou em prosa, é impossível não recordar daqueles que foram a mola propulsora pela opção do meu caminho às letras, além de serem os primeiros responsáveis pelo conhecimento linguístico que adquiri e levarei para o resto da minha vida.
Cada conquista de um prêmio literário é dedicada aos mestres da minha vida escolar.
A eles, o meu carinho e a minha eterna gratidão!
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