“The struggle does not end when you lose.”
—Natália Correia, Draft of an Epistle

The diaspora is a garden planted far from its original soil. Festivals give us music, food, and color—bright blossoms that bloom quickly and often. But books are rare flowers, slower to appear, delicate, and demanding care. Without them, the garden risks being all surface, without depth, all fragrance without roots. To keep our culture alive, we must tend not only the loud and the visible, but also the fragile blossoms of literature, knowledge, and memory.

A few years ago, I read a post by José Ávila, editor of Tribuna Portuguesa, about a small book fair in Manteca, in California’s northern San Joaquin Valley. The event was modest yet significant: in a region where many Azoreans and their descendants reside, book fairs are rare. And yet, such spaces matter. Every book fair, whether large or small, is a vital contribution. Reading is one of the most transformative acts for both individuals and communities.

It would enrich us greatly if our countless Portuguese festivals—where we honor saints, the Holy Spirit, sardines, limpets, or folklore—also embraced books. Imagine each Festa offering a corner for literature: novels, poetry, essays, and translations. For years, we experimented with this in Tulare—first at high school events and later at symposia. Few books were sold, but their presence mattered. Sometimes, a surprising number even found their way into readers’ hands. Those small gestures proved that it is possible to weave literature into the fabric of our festivities.

But this requires mutual effort. Younger generations must seek culture beyond tradition, and Portuguese authorities must understand that while popular culture thrives on its own, the culture of books—our literary legacy—requires intentional support.

We need to change how we record diaspora history and nurture creativity, whether in Portuguese, English, or translation. This mission should be supported not only through books but also through television, radio, social media, and journalism, thereby bringing together what should be a unified cultural space.

It is true that within the Portuguese diaspora, especially in California and throughout other states in the Union and provinces in Canada, reading in Portuguese is limited. Yet translations are growing. Thanks to the perseverance of a few, more works of Portuguese and Lusophone writers are reaching English-language readers.  The work of the Portuguese Heritage Publications of California was extremely important, as is what is being done at Tagus Press and, in a small way, also Bruma Publications, which have carried this mission forward. The shelves are filling, but they need readers. What we lack is a stronger cultural appetite for books, knowledge, and learning.

In our institutions, young people’s understanding of Portuguese culture is often reduced to the most basic aspects of popular tradition, rarely extending beyond the parish, village, or island of their parents and grandparents. It seldom expands to encompass the full richness of the archipelago, Portugal, or the Lusophone world. We behave as if Portuguese culture exists only within narrow, parochial borders.

Our media, our community leadership, our educators, and even Portugal’s policies for the diaspora are complicit. We gravitate toward what is easy, visible, and instantly gratifying. Criticize false or exaggerated claims, and one risks being “excommunicated to the seventh generation” if one dares to think outside the established box.  Too often, culture is reduced to a comfortable bubble, or worse, to “jobs for the boys”,  from Portugal’s perspective.   As my grandmother used to say, too much of what is done for the diaspora is done “for appearances’ sake.”

The result is predictable: we overemphasize tradition without innovation, while neglecting intellectual development. Yet only through reading, only through the culture of books, can we pass on to the next generation a true sense of who we are, and who they are. Without it, we risk leaving them a hollow identity—rich in spectacle but poor in substance.

This is why I challenge our organizations, gently but firmly, to follow the example of that small Manteca book fair. Let us create spaces for Portuguese literature, encompassing poetry, novels, essays, chronicles, criticism, and short stories. Let us not fear literature, for only through it can we move beyond repetition and toward renewal. Popular tradition matters, but without books, our identity remains fragile and vulnerable to distortion.

Books remind us of our broader contributions to philosophy, science, and the arts. And yet, the powers that be in Portugal too often avoid serious cultural policy for the diaspora, preferring instead empty rhetoric and superficial praise.

How different it would be if our diaspora communities were engaged with the poetic irreverence of Natália Correia and José Régio, the creativity of Saramago, João de Melo, Clarice Lispector, Mia Couto, Pepetela, and Vera Duarte; or if they read Eça de Queiroz, Antero de Quental, Fernando Pessoa, and Camões not only as names, but as voices. How different it would be if our diaspora embraced the literature of the Azores, which continues to produce fine poets and novelists, and the works of Portuguese-Americans like Frank Gaspar, Katherine Vaz, Anthony Barcellos, Carlo Matos, Paula Neves, Sam Pereira, Lara Gularte, and Millicent Borges Accardi, among many others.

Instead, we pour our energy almost exclusively into popular festivities, while literature is sidelined. It saddens me to see young adults proudly declaring their Portuguese identity without ever having read one of our writers. Pride without knowledge is, at best, very fragile.

Much remains to be done in the diaspora. For decades, I have argued at colloquia and symposia that we must learn to think beyond the next Festa, to make reading and literature an integral part of our daily lives. I know these words may upset some, both in the diaspora and in Portugal. But at this stage in life, even though I don’t want to be rude, I care little for the sensitivities of the established powers, locally and across the ocean. What concerns me most is the cultural growth of our communities. That growth can only come through reading.

Do not claim to be knowledgeable about Portuguese culture if you have never opened a book by one of our writers. Portuguese culture is not limited to sopas and dancing. It is also the legacy of words, of thought, of literature, the scarce flower that, if not tended, risks withering in silence.

Like the hydrangeas that bloom along Azorean roadsides, our culture needs constant watering, not only from tradition but from knowledge. Festivals give us color and joy, but books give us roots, binding generations across oceans and time. If we let the scarce flower of literature die, we risk leaving behind only shadows of who we are. But if we nourish it, the garden of our diaspora will bloom with both fragrance and depth, a living testament to our enduring identity.

*title from a poem by Natália Correia