In 1950 Brazil seemed destined for football glory. Rio had just unveiled the Maracanã stadium, built for what was assumed to be Brazil’s inevitable World Cup win over Uruguay. Instead, Uruguay scored in the 79th minute to seal a 2–1 upset. A record crowd fell silent. The shock was so profound that the word Macaranazo entered Brazilian vernacular as a shorthand for an unexpected, devastating defeat.
The loss left a deep, outsize scar on the country’s national self-esteem. Brazilian playwright Nelson Rodrigues called it complexo de vira-lata, or “mutt syndrome”, a collective inferiority complex in Brazil marked by a lack of belief in the country and culture.
Years passed and Brazil triumphed in many World Cups, yet the sentiment still remained. The mindset extended past football; Rodrigues described Brazilians as the “backwards Narcissus, who spit in their own image”. He claimed Brazilians fail to reach their full potential because they consistently place themselves in a position of inferiority, particularly in comparison to Europe. Brazil’s national identity and potential continue to struggle because of this inferiority complex, wrapped up in colonisation, cultural erasure and a persistent need for foreign validation. How can a country thrive if it refuses to embrace itself?
Imported identity
We were always taught to look up to Europe. To be “cool” meant to be European. To wear their brands, to have their French haircuts, to speak their languages and adopt their mannerisms. Even foreign surnames became status symbols.
And when we Brazilians do take pride in our culture, it only comes with the European stamp of approval. Our unofficial uniform, flip-flops and soccer jerseys, are often regarded in Brazil as informal or low status. That is until August 2024, when Havaianas appeared on the runway at Copenhagen Fashion Week and were quickly adopted by influencers. The same goes for Brazilian funk, born from the favelas as a form of resistance. Once looked down on by the elite, the genre is now finally validated by the world since being sampled by Travis Scott and featured on Mugler runways.
Last year, Palace Skateboards, a British streetwear brand, released a Brazil-inspired collection called Brazilcore. It notably excluded Brazil from shipping options and gave no recognition to any Brazilian artist or designer. Our reaction? Applause. Brazilians filled the comments with praise and excitement, treating the collection as a tribute, not realizing we had been left out. We crave global attention, even without recognition. Which means we let ourselves become objects of fascination instead of subjects with a voice.
Inferiority, inherited
This search for approval did not begin in the ’50s with a football match. It has deeper roots in an ugly past, when the Brazilian elite emulated Europeans in an attempt to shield themselves from their country’s discrimination on the world stage. When Brazil was colonised by Portugal in the 1500s, it was branded as “uncivilised”, its native populations massacred in the name of progress. Language was used as a weapon to establish racial hierarchies; mulato, negro, vermelho, and crioulo were few of the many terms used to categorise people by colour and ancestry. During slavery, these classifications even determined a person’s price: the darker someone’s skin, the less they were valued. A single drop of European blood implied superiority, leading to frequent attempts throughout history to “whiten” our population as a way for Brazil to earn legitimacy. These “whitening projects” — supported by the Brazilian elite — were aimed at erasing Blackness from Brazilian society to keep us as European and “good” as possible. Though eugenics has faded, there’s an unwavering cultural tendency to align to foreign standards, even subconsciously. In the South of Rio, concrete buildings mimic French architecture; to its west, a miniature version of the Statue of Liberty sits. The reason behind it? To come as close as possible to resemble Western countries, at the expense of connecting to our own roots.
Adaptable or erasable?
As I moved from Rio to Milan, I reflected on the importance of preserving my Brazilian identity and personality. Despite this, I was still afraid that some part of me, subconsciously, would sabotage that effort, surrendering to the inherited sense of inferiority. It’s a familiar tale: Brazilians who move abroad slowly become gringos, losing the Brazilian ginga.
Of course we have to adapt; we have to find a way to pay respect to the culture of the country we move to connect with people. But being abroad means confronting your own culture and questioning it. Moving to Europe myself made our internalised sense of inferiority and the desire to shed our national identity all the more obvious. Take the case of Portugal, where Brazilians make up its largest foreign community. The positive impact of Brazilian immigration to the Portuguese economy is measurable, yet xenophobia thrives, even from fellow immigrants. André Ventura, a Brazilian deputy of Portugal’s far right-wing party Chega, aggressively rails against Brazilian immigrants in congress. We roll out the red carpet for foreign attention. This mentality has deeper effects than on culture: it also extends to domestic politics. In 2019, former president Jair Bolsonaro violated the principle of diplomatic reciprocity by lifting visa requirements for American tourists. Brazilians still needed a visa to enter the U.S. This was a symbolic gesture of submission, reinforcing the way we position ourselves as inferior, unworthy of equal treatment.
More recently, U.S. President Trump announced a 50% tariff on Brazil in an attempt to stifle international competition for the American market. Counterintuitively, many Brazilians supported the move, as if we deserved punishment. Even as Trump undermines our public institutions and judicial independence, some of our own deputies — elected to represent and defend national interests — proudly wear MAGA hats, implying the desire to make the U.S. “Great Again”, rather than Brazil. Trump has never stepped foot in Brazil while in office; his only acknowledgement was imposing detrimental tariffs. While he continues to show us indifference, many beg for crumbs of his attention.
This lack of self-belief has an array of consequences, such as the brain drain phenomenon, hampering the development of our industry. Understandably, many leave in search of a better future. The problem is how passively it is accepted back home. “This is Brazil”, we say whenever we face inefficiency, danger, or corruption. Like there is no alternative, we will always be one step behind.
A friend of mine once told me she admired how adaptable Brazilians are. This stayed with me, because it is not innate, but rather learnt. The world does not revolve around us, so we learnt to revolve ourselves around others at the risk of losing ourselves. Mutts may lack pedigree, but their strength lies in the mix: Brazil’s identity is rich and powerful. There’s a reason we say there is a difference between “Brazil” and “Brasil”. One is how the world sees us, and one is how we move, speak, dance, and dream. It is time we stop translating ourselves. It is time we own the S.
