https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Amtw-V8b4g
I started my professional life at the age of 9, unintentionally and due to convenience and multiple interests: I was a caregiver for a 90-year-old French lady, Madame Garry.
We were neighbors on the street, in Lapa. Her son was single, transferred by the French Saint-Gobain to Brazil, which had bought Vidraria Santa Marina. To guarantee his international career, he had to bring his elderly mother with him.
Due to the happy coincidences that life weaves, my mother was the Secretary of the Board of Directors of this company and we lived nearby. That's how I became Madame Garry's babysitter. And she, from me.
Madame Garry was a sweetheart, dressed in black from head to toe, thick woolen socks, austere and closed shoes in the middle of tropical Brazil. He lived in a house full of French furniture from the last century.
She didn't speak a word of Portuguese, I didn't even know that France existed.
We understood each other affectionately in silence and mime for a few months, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoon. Me taking care of her, she taking care of me. This lasted about 4 years.
One day Madame Garry, who was a retired elementary school teacher in France, ordered some textbooks and began teaching me French formally. I started to learn French, for real.
On the other hand, I used my school books to teach Portuguese to Madame Garry. She was a hard student and I was a terrible teacher.
Madame Garry subscribed to several French publications, which she received in the mail months late (real-time at that time). I devoured everything.
Soon afterwards, thanks to Madame Garry's prestige and influence, I took the baccalaureat, a kind of entrance exam there.
As a Fuvest trainer today, I took the official distance exam at the French Alliance here in São Paulo, duly validated by the French Consulate.
I was approved and admitted to Philosophy and Literature at some college in France. Of course I let it go, because my family didn't have money and I wasn't old enough. No one aged 13 would go to university in France.
The fact is that French has become like a native language for me. With a strong Northern accent, from Pas-de-Calais, but he had impeccable French.
Every time I go to Paris or Cannes, waiters and taxi drivers ask me which region of France I come from. “From Pas-de-Calais”, I say with great pride and the northern accent from there.
At the end of 1976 I was Creative Director at Mcann-Rio, at 25 years old with little experience in the role, but a lot of morning exercise on the sands of Leblon, beach volleyball, gymnastics, karate. And night exercises in bars in Leblon.
I had excellent physical and alcohol preparation. Resistance.
I used all of this to defend myself against a client, who attacked me and wanted to physically attack me. I did some naive karate chops in self-defense and got promoted.
It all started months before, with the agency, the client's marketing and the production company (I think it was PPP, owned by Paulo Parente and Paulo Dantas) planning, creating and producing a TV commercial.
In the final presentation, still on a Jurassic equipment called a moviola, the President of that client appeared, for the first time in the process.
The team and he have seen the film several times. The lights in the room came on, complete silence. That awkward moviola silence.
The President began talking to his team in French, their native language.
He talked a lot of shit, criticized the film (with some reason), accused the agency of being rude, disrespectful and unfair, offended me personally, and was harsh.
I was quiet at first. When things started to thicken, I started to answer everything, also in absolutely fluent French.
The President was mad at me. He asked me why I hadn't said that I spoke French, that my omission was dishonest. I responded promptly.
The short, rickety President, smaller than me, came at me, in front of everyone. Qu'est-ce que c'est?!
Two simple and basic karate defense moves were enough for me to immobilize the guy, without hurting him. And the President fell to the floor, inert, right below his marketers in the room.
I went back to the agency, leaving everyone there. Some laughing, others terrified and one film definitively refused.
I didn't even get to my room. Right at the agency reception, leaving the elevator, I was called by the Manager, who summarily fired me for hitting a client during a work meeting. The client's President had already called and asked for my head or he would take away the agency's account.
“OK”, I said. I didn't even bother to explain the story, to defend myself.
“Do my math and call me”, I said to the Manager. “It's December, summer, Christmas, then New Year's Eve, then Carnival, it's hot. I'm going to the beach. Look for me there, in Leblon, every morning, at the volleyball nets”.
A few days later, Aprígio, the agency's driver, appears to me on the scorching sands of Leblon, with his shoes in his hand and his pants rolled up.
Aprígio told me that Mr. Olesen wanted to have a conversation with me that same afternoon, at the McCann-Rio office.
This Mr. Olesen was the new President of McCann-Brasil, a strange and controversial, but brilliant Dane. It's fair.
He told me that he didn't know me personally, but that he had only heard good things about me, personally and professionally. Comments from the team, customers, media journalists, vehicles, suppliers.
Because I got into trouble with that client's President and the reason I did it (defending our work and the agency), I didn't deserve a dismissal, but a promotion. And promoted me.
I accepted, but I imposed one condition: enjoy Rio's summer, Christmas, New Year's Eve and Carnival – as if I were on vacation.
Months later, at the beginning of 1977, I took over as Creative Director of the GM Group, at McCann-São Paulo, an exclusive group to serve the agency's most important account, politically and financially.
Years later, that President of the French client was expelled and prosecuted by the company's headquarters for embezzling money and corruption in another market.
I felt doubly vindicated.
Merci a la vie. And Madame Garry.
Text originally published on Perci's blog
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