It's my immense honor to
introduce Andrea Allen.
I met Andrea Allen
at Harvard when
I was invited to
give a lecture there.
And she came up to me
afterward and asked
if we could talk about
queer studies in Brazil.
And then we met again in
Brazil in Belo Horizonte
at a conference and
had a long conversation
about her dissertation topic
as she was developing it.
And then I was
very, very honored
to be asked to be on her
doctoral committee at Harvard
in the Department
of Anthropology
and work with her on her
doctorate's dissertation, which
transformed itself into an
amazingly important, incredibly
important work.
The title Violence and Desire
in Brazil Lesbian Relationships,
it was published
by Palgrave in 2015
and is an extremely
important pioneering work
on lesbian studies, same
sex studies in Brazil.
There's very little
literature there,
very little good
literature on this.
Her work is just kind of a
model for future scholars,
both Brazilian and
others, to do that.
Brown Brazil Initiative has been
focusing these last two years
on really identifying
and bringing
to campus the top Afro-Brazilian
and African-American
scholars working on Brazil as
a way of really emphasizing
the importance that they've
played in scholarship.
And so this is one of
the many reasons why
we wanted to have
Andrea among the people
we've invited this semester.
She, as I mentioned,
had received her PhD
in anthropology from
Harvard and is a lecturer
in the Department
of Women's Studies
and feminist research at the
University of Western Ontario.
And she is currently conducting
an ethnographic research
project about the experiences
of LGBT evangelicals in Brazil.
Andrea.
Thank you, Jim, for
those kind words.
And I'd like to thank
everyone for coming here
and thank the Brazil Initiative
and the Watson Institute
for their invitation to speak
with the Brown community today.
In this talk, I
will discuss my book
Violence and Desire in Brazilian
Lesbian Relationships, which
focuses on the lives
of women, primarily
Afro-Brazilian women in same
sex relationships in Salvador.
And the book, I argue, that
Brazilian lesbian women
both reject and reinscribe
Brazilian cultural mores
surrounding sexuality,
gender roles, and violence.
Furthermore, I contend that even
as Brazilian lesbian women are
able to embody Brazilian
ideals to a far greater degree
than heterosexual
women in the country,
they experience social
and political invisibility
when they seek redress
from the state as victims
of intimate partner violence.
Brazilian cultural norms
that emphasize emotionality
and what I call erotic
embodiment or passion
of physicality are
fundamentally connected
with Brazilian male
authority privilege and even
Brazilian identity as a whole.
Within Brazilian culture,
whiteness, maleness, and wealth
characterize the ideal
romantic and marital
partner, who's also the
indisputable recipient
of brown and black women's
sensuality and sexuality.
The intertwining relationship
between emotionality,
erotic embodiment,
and white masculinity
produce cultural
norms that emphasize
men's sexual dominance and
freedom, which ultimately
endorse or at least
rationalize their extramarital
or extrarelational
sexual activities.
Consequently,
heterosexual women are
limited by their cultural
and social position
as the passive,
submissive partner
in a romantic
relationship with men.
Furthermore, because Brazilian
women, especially black
and brown skinned
women, must grapple
with essentialist notions
about their lascivious natures,
their sexuality
remains the purview
of boyfriends, husbands,
and even Brazilian society,
which can be construed as the
masculine partner writ large.
In contrast, I argue
that lesbian women
are more able to occupy
this masculinized space
and indulge their emotive and
bodily desires and pleasures.
This social and romantic
occupation of masculinity
can be perceived as a rejection
of heterosexual relationships
and, by extension,
Brazilian patriarchal power.
Yet lesbian women
paradoxical rejection
through appropriation of
Brazilian cultural norms
also influences the presence of
intimate partner violence, IPV,
in their relationships.
Intimate partner violence, I
contend, reflects, in part,
Brazilian lesbian
women's reproduction
of Brazilian
cultural ideals that
associate emotionality
and passionate physicality
with power and
physical violence.
Before I discuss my
ethnographic findings,
I will briefly describe the
phenomenon of intimate partner
violence in Brazil and
throughout the world
for both heterosexual in
same sex relationships.
Next, I will detail
the development
of racialized gendered
and sexualized tropes
in Brazilian history,
which, I argue,
have influenced the presence
of IPV in Brazilian society.
These national, global,
and historical contexts
will provide a framework for
understanding lesbian women's
experiences with infidelity
and IPV in Salvador.
I, then, will conclude by
discussing women's police
stations, gender citizenship,
and Brazilian lesbian women
status as invisible citizens.
Brazil and Salvador,
in particular,
provide a unique setting for
the study of female same sex
sexuality, IPV, in
cultural and gender norms.
Foremost, Brazilian culture
is a society of contrast.
For example, while
there have been
numerous legislative
and legal advancements
in the area of LGBT rights,
many LGBT Brazilians
experience familial ostracism,
verbal harassment, workplace
discrimination, and violence.
For example, a recent
survey by [INAUDIBLE]
found that one LGBT Brazilian
is murdered every 25
hours in Brazil.
Brazilian heterosexual
women, as well,
are vulnerable to
experiencing violence.
Until the early 1980s, men
were granted virtual impunity
for crimes against passion
or for defending their honor
and murdering their
girlfriend or wife because
of their sexual betrayal.
Only in 1991 did
the Brazilian courts
deem the defensive honor
argument impermissible
in court.
Currently, murder and other
extreme acts of violence
are no longer tolerated
in Brazilian society.
And further reforms
have been made,
culminating in
the implementation
of the groundbreaking
Maria da Pehna law in 2006.
This law was named
after a woman who
was victimized when her husband
attempted to murder her twice,
and she was then
further victimized
by the Brazilian state through
its apathetic and pathetic
actions with regards to
prosecuting, convicting,
and incarcerating her husband.
The Maria da Pehna law, as well
as the creation and expansion
of police stations
that only serve women,
demonstrate that significant
life saving reforms
have occurred in Brazil.
Despite these
advancements, there
continues to exist a
cultural space in Brazil
for perhaps what one could
call mild forms of violence,
such as pushes,
shoves, and slaps
in romantic relationships.
This acceptances is exemplified
in the common Brazilian phrase,
[PORTUGUESE], between
slaps and kisses.
This saying [PORTUGUESE], is
an unofficial and informal
acknowledgement that anger
can be bodily expressed just
as passion is bodily expressed.
Based on the continued evolution
of the government's response
to IPV and cultural discourses
about acceptable behavior
or romantic
relationships, there seems
to be a limited acceptance
of physical aggression
between a Brazilian husband
and wife or boyfriend
and girlfriend.
Even though allowances
are made, this space
is not gender neutral.
Yes, incidents of
Brazilian women
slapping their men upon finding
out about their husbands
sexual betrayal is not
uncommon or perceived
as culturally out of the norm.
However the use of
violence in Brazil,
as in many parts of
the world, is not
associated with
women, but with men,
who are considered
the dominant partner
in a heterosexual relationship.
A man's use of
violence culturally
comes from a place of authority,
while a woman's violent act
is construed as a defensive
action, her way of acting out.
It is important to note
that not all Brazilians have
violent encounters
with their lovers
or consider violence
as an acceptable form
of communication in a
romantic relationship.
Furthermore extreme and
severe acts of violence
and the infliction
of bodily damage
are condemned and no longer
tolerated to a degree
never before seen in
Brazilian history.
Yet, the use of any
form of violence
has not been completely
erased or denounced
within the Brazilian
cultural framework.
Typically, descriptions of
intimate partner violence
within Brazilian
society and worldwide
are heteronormative and
androcentric in nature.
Men perpetrate violence against
their female romantic partners.
Unfortunately, this form of
intimate partner violence
against women occurs
throughout the world,
though countries
and regions have
differing rates of prevalence,
ranging from 10% to 70%.
Findings about Brazilian
women's experiences with IPV
have concluded that
roughly one third
have been physically
assaulted at least
once in their lifetimes.
In comparison to
the United States,
a recent CDC study found that
American women experience
physical violence in their
romantic relationships
with men at a rate of 30%.
Despite the
association and framing
of IPV as a
heterosexual problem,
studies in North America on
IPV and lesbian relationships
have found that anywhere
between 30% to 40%
of the surveyed women have
had at least one experience
with physical assault in
their same sex relationships.
Because many of these
studies are quantitative,
there's a level of complexity
absent from the analysis that
calls for the execution
of ethnographic research
on the subject matter.
When I first began conducting
field work in Salvador
about lesbian women, I was
interested in investigating
the relationship between
nationalist ideologies
and discrimination against
lesbian women in Brazil.
But as so often happens in the
field, the focus of my research
involved then
transformed through
my prolonged interactions with
lesbian women in Salvador.
Time and again, women told me
stories, often nonchalantly,
that involve physical
altercations between them
and their female lovers.
Intimate partner violence
between lesbian women
was a phenomenon that
I could not ignore.
I conducted 15 months of
ethnographic field work
in Brazil.
And my ethnographic
data primarily
derived from my
interactions with women
from three social
networks in Salvador.
The first network
consisted of Afro-Brazilian
and black working class
and poor lesbian women.
The second group of
middle and upper middle
class white and
non-black lesbian women.
And the last
network consisted of
Afro-Brazilian and
black women who
were involved to varying
degrees in black lesbian,
black feminists, or black
activists movements.
Drawing from these three
networks, as well as
other interactions, I
gathered ethnographic data
that consisted of
interviews and observations
from personal interactions,
informal interviews,
and participation
in LGBT activities.
Formal interviews
with lesbian women
were particularly important to
the execution of my field work,
which I conducted with 38 women
of disparate socioeconomic,
educational, religious,
and racial backgrounds.
Of the 38 women,
roughly 60% or 23
had experienced at least one
incident of physical aggression
as the perpetrator and/or victim
in a romantic relationship
with another woman.
I specifically use the term
physical aggression here
to acknowledge that intimate
partner violence is not always
physical nature as emotional,
mental, psychological abuse,
intimidation, and stalking
are all forms of IPV, as well.
Another finding from my research
connected physical aggression
with the emotion of
jealousy, the desire
for domination and
power, and especially
with the act of infidelity or
traicao, betrayal in English.
Of these 38 women
in the study, 22
self-reported
engaging in traicao.
It is important to
clarify that, while there
were often correlations between
the two groups of women who
had both engaged in
traicao and then experience
IPV as a perpetrator and/or
victim, not all of the women
identified a
causative relationship
between a specific
act of traicao
and a specific act of
physical aggression.
Yet traicao and IPV
were often connected
in women's narratives,
indicating that this connection
warranted exploration.
Integral to this exploration
has been an analysis
of the roles of Brazilian
cultural narratives
in shaping the
ideologies surrounding
sexuality, gender
roles, and emotionality
in Brazilian culture.
Of the nationalist
ideologies or narratives
that pervade Brazilian
society its imagination
and cultural psyche,
Brazilian emotionality
is a concept that
helps to illustrate
the relationship between
Brazilian practices
of embodiment and the
phenomenon of intimate partner
violence in the country.
Though I will not
focus on nationalism,
a discussion of the development
of certain Brazilian
nationalist ideologies will
illuminate the relationship
between Brazilian emotionality
and Brazilian conceptions
concerning sexuality
gender, race, and power.
According to the rhetoric
at the end of the 19th
and beginning of
the 20th centuries,
the mixing of the Portuguese,
African, and indigenous peoples
produce three said races.
As a result, public
intellectuals of the day
characterized the
Brazilian people
as weak, feeble, and vulnerable.
Yet the same feeble
Brazilian populace
was also described as
lascivious and sensual,
thus presenting a rather unique
portrait of Brazilian society.
Until the publication of
Gilberto Freyre's seminal work
Casa-Grande & Senzala in
1933, Brazilian misogynation
practices were
largely associated
with embarrassment
and shame because
of the aforementioned
characterizations
of the Brazilian people.
In defense of the
Brazilian populace,
Freyre concluded
that the effects
of slavery and the environment
and the Brazilian body and not
heredity were the roots
of Brazilian inferiority.
Freyre also argue that
an important byproduct
of misogynation practices
was the formation
of a racial, as well as a
sexual paradise, in Brazil.
In order to make
this argument, Freyre
openly employed the
language of sadomasochism,
racial erotization,
sexual exploitation,
and patriarchal privilege as
evidence for his assertions.
Freyre's apologetic
work was highly
influential in
the transformation
of national and
international notions
about the Brazilian people.
Thus, the Brazilian people
were not weak and feeble
but a wondrous melange of
virility and sensuality.
For Freyre, Brazil's
racial democracy
was intrinsically connected
with Brazilian sexuality
and emotionality.
Alone, Gilberto Freyre
could not have transformed
the Brazilian cultural
psyche or raised
the country's self-esteem.
He was on the precipice of a
larger nationalist movement,
burgeoning in Brazilian
intellectual and governmental
circles, culminating in the
election of Getulio Vargas
under Brazil's new
constitution in 1934.
Vargas and his administration
employed ideologies
similar similar to
Freyre's as effective tools
in the strategy of
offensive nationalism.
Vargas himself was
posited as a father
figure akin to a
Mediterranean paterfamilias.
Vargas was the father and a
man who was honorable, virile,
gregarious, affectionate,
and most importantly
fully in charge of his
family, the Brazilian nation.
Although Vargas'
father figure did not
share all the attributes of
Freyre's patriarchal archetype,
both representations did
share aristocratic mentality.
The centrality of the
patriarchal figure
to Brazilian
nationalist discourses
underscores a similarity
between Vargas' father
figure and Freyre's Portuguese
colonizer and Brazilian master.
Both were in the position
to control and dominate
those who were considered
inferior to them.
The intertwining of Vargas'
and Freyre's patriarchal tropes
enabled the production
and promulgation
of the image of a
complex male leader
as a figurehead of
Brazilian society
who could subjugate and
woo the Brazilian populace
at the same time.
While other nationalist
ideologies and movements
have developed and
influenced Brazilian society
over the years,
scholars and I have
argued that the nationalist
foundations laid
during the Vargas
administration continue
to influence Brazilian
culture in the present day.
The influences of
these ideologies
can be seen in the continued
elevation of whiteness
and masculinity and the
pervasive erotization
of brownness-- but not
blackness-- in femininity
in Brazilian society.
While the ideology of
Brazilian emotionality
is pervasive in
Brazilian society,
equally pervasive
ideologies encompass
gender and sexual expectations.
Central to discussions
about eroticism
and sexual pleasure
in Brazil are
dominant in mainstream
constructions of sexual roles
that focus on men's bodies
and sexual masculinity.
Within Brazil's sexual universe,
the active-passive sexual
framework prevails as
the guiding principle
that governs sexual activities
and practices because real men
are esteemed as the active
partner in a sexual encounter
with a woman or another man.
The masculine partner
is the penetrator
or the eater of his feminine
partner, who's that penetrated
or the receiver.
Having anal sex
with another man,
therefore, does not
detract from one's manhood
as long as one is in the active,
dominant sexual position.
On the other hand,
men are considered
emasculated if they occupy the
feminine, passive position,
thereby making them weak
and vulnerable like women.
It is important
to note, however,
that beginning in
the mid 20th century,
Brazilian sexual categories
began to emerge that were not
built upon an active passive
sexual paradigm instead
of focus on sexual
exchange emerge,
where both partners were
neither active nor passive.
While the emergence of
these sexual categories
signaled a transformation
of Brazil's sexual universe,
it continues to be clear that
the active-passive sexual
paradigm prevails
in the 21st century.
A peruse of Brazilian
television, popular music,
and Brazilian culture as a
whole invents this reality.
The dominance of
this sexual framework
is significant because it
points to a directionality
in the flow of pleasure
during a sexual encounter.
And this sexual directionality
represents the flow of power,
as well.
For example, while
in recent years,
there has been more discussion
about women's orgasms
in Brazilian society,
it is generally
the male active
participants' orgasm
that is the focal point
in the sexual encounter.
This sexual and gender
hierarchy is also
reflected in cultural ideologies
about infidelity or traicao.
Despite notions of
Brazilian emotionality,
sexual betrayal cannot be
equally employed by Brazilian
women and men.
One recent study of
adults between 20 and 50
had the rate of
infidelity for men at 67%
and for women at 23%.
Thus, women can be full
of emotion but not full
of sex because their bodily
desire should be restrained.
Yet Brazilian women
are women are also
expected to be passion and
intense human beings who,
as women, are innately sensual
and seductive temptresses.
In contrast, Brazilian men
can indulge their sexual whims
at will, demonstrating
their prowess, virility,
and dominance.
On the other hand, a woman's
philandering behavior
is still considered a
taboo in Brazilian society
because a man's lack of control
of his wife's sexual behavior
demonstrates that he
is passive, feminine,
and submissive in
the relationship
with his female partner.
Clearly infidelity in
heterosexual relationships
has gendered implications.
Despite the fact that
lesbian women in Brazil
are influenced and shaped
by the same gendered
and sexual paradigms that
govern heterosexual woman's
sexual behavior and
responses to infidelity,
the experience of lesbian
women with traicao
resemble the behavior
and attitudes
of some Brazilian
heterosexual men.
Of the 30 women I
formally interviewed,
the fidelity statuses
were discussed
with 31 of these women.
And of the 31, only
nine self-reported
a continual status of
sexual faithfulness
to present and past lovers.
In addition, there seemed
to be no relationship
between sexual fidelity
in a woman's race,
age, marital status,
socioeconomic status, religion,
or level of
educational attainment.
Lesbian women of all kinds,
like heterosexual men,
sexually betrayed their wives
and girlfriends in Salvador.
How can these rates of lesbian
infidelity be explained?
First, a premium given
to passion, emotionality,
intensity, as well
as domination,
in Brazilian society
cannot be forgotten.
Second, the belief in a
restrained and submissive
female sexuality cannot
be overlooked, as well.
Thus, within a lesbian context
an emotive Brazilian lesbian
is not constrained
to a large degree
by the cultural and sexual
ideologies placed on women
in heterosexual relationships.
Therefore, women in
same sex relationships
have more freedom to
disregard heterosexual and
heteronormative constructions
of women's sexuality.
And this freedom even
transcends gender roles.
There appeared to be no
substantial correlation
between gender identity
in and outside the bedroom
and infidelity.
Both masculine and feminine
identified lesbian women
were perpetrators.
I did observe, however, that,
for some women who identified
as the active sexual partner,
they expected sexual fidelity
from their sexual partners,
but not from themselves,
mirroring some
heterosexual men's
attitudes about their
women's sexual fidelity.
Although sexual
fidelity was still
considered a treasured
ideal for many of the women
in this study, overall,
women were keenly aware
that their expectations often
did not coincide with reality.
In fact, some women
blatantly acknowledged
that their sexual desires
overwhelmed their belief
in sexual fidelity.
Alas, a conundrum unfolds
for a certain type
of Brazilian lesbian woman.
Even as she acts
like a Brazilian man
in sexual affairs, she
expects her female lover
to be sexually faithful
like a heterosexual woman.
Overall Brazilian lesbian
woman have more freedom
than heterosexual women
in their sexual decision
making because
they can experience
Brazilian erotic embodiment from
a standpoint that acknowledges
the uncontrollable
carnality of desire
as a superior ideal in
relation to sexual fidelity.
The seeming liberation
of lesbian women
does not negate the
reality that there
can be negative consequences
for all parties because
of a belief in
unrestrained, emotionality,
and erotic embodiment.
The most pronounced
of these was surely
intimate partner violence.
This interstitial space
that lesbian women
inhabit in Brazilian societies
illustrated their analysis
of their experiences
with infidelity in IPV.
On one hand, their
acts of infidelity
demonstrate that
lesbian women are not
completely beholden
to heteronormative
power structures.
However, their violent
behavior towards each other
directly relates, I contend,
with these very same systems
of domination.
The manifestation of intimate
partner violence in lesbian
relationships occurs, in
part, because the elevation
of passion and bodily
pleasures is almost sacrosanct,
creates a space
for the emergence
of both physical aggression
and the acceptance
of the sanctioned
bodily response.
It is important to be
clear that I am not
arguing that the idea of
Brazilian emotionality,
the belief that Brazilians
are a passionate, intense,
and emotive people and
infidelity and jealousy
are the only reasons
or factors that
influence the presence of IPV
and romantic relationships
in Brazil.
There are myriad factors that
are involved, some of which
I will soon discuss.
However, for the lesbian women
I encountered in Salvador,
these topics were often
mentioned and connected
with violence in
their relationships.
As I previously
mentioned, roughly 60%
of the women in my
study experience
IPV in the form of
physical violence
as the perpetrator
and/or victim.
Their experiences of
perpetrating physical violence
or being physically
assaulted spanned
a wide spectrum--
a single incident
of a slap on the face, a push
or a shove on the shoulders,
burns by a cigarette,
or repeated incidents
that involved punches
and kicks to the body.
In addition, the ways in which
women discuss these experiences
conveyed the complexity
and, at times,
the ambiguity of their
feelings about them.
For example, some women did not
consider certain physical acts
as forms of violence.
During formal interviews,
when I would ask if they ever
had a physical fight
with their girlfriend,
some women would
answer in the negative.
However, later in the
interview, in response
to another question,
the same women
would mention acts of
physical aggression.
Two women, for example,
were slapped and/or pushed
by their respective
female partners because
of sexual betrayal.
Yet they considered
these incidents
so minor and insignificant
in comparison
with more extreme forms
of physical violence.
Even though there
is disagreement
about what constituted a
violent act among the women
in the study, there was
widespread agreement
that sexual betrayal
and jealousy
were the primary reasons for
their currents of violence
in their relationships.
In addition to these
factors, a minority of women
also indicated that power
struggles were influential,
resembling heteronormative
power dynamics that
connected male anger
about a female lover's
infidelity with the fear of a
loss of power or a challenge
to a man's authority as
the dominant partner.
Since a heterosexual
woman's sexual betrayal
is an important indicator
of a man's lack of control,
it is understandable
that a lesbian woman who
considered herself the dominant
partner in her same sex
relationship would also
receive her female lover's
sexual betrayal as an outright
challenge to her authority.
Because gender dynamics
not only influence
heterosexual relationships
but same sex relationships,
as well, an association of IPV
with masculine lesbian women
was not atypical.
In fact, many lesbian
women I encountered
considered women who identified
with a masculine gender
identity, [INAUDIBLE]
in Portuguese,
as the primary
perpetrator's IPV.
Three women in my study
who specifically identified
with a masculine gender
identity had perpetrated
intimate partner violence
in their relationships
with [INAUDIBLE], femme, women.
Yet all had also
experienced some form
of physical aggression by their
[INAUDIBLE] partners, as well.
Overall, many women
in the study who
perpetrated physical
violence did not
identify with a
masculine gender identity
or have a masculine appearance.
Their experiences indicate
that to associate masculinity
with violence in
lesbian relationships
belies the complicated
and frankly muddled
reality of lesbians women's
use of physical force.
Another consequence
of the association
of IPV with gender identity
was the fact that many,
regardless of a woman's
socioeconomic status,
associated physical
violence with working
class and poor lesbian women.
Considering the vast majority
of masculine identified lesbian
women in Salvador are
working class and poor,
this association
was understandable
from their standpoint.
Even more so for the
upper middle class
non-black lesbian
women in the study,
IPV was innately tied
to gender and class.
Some were incredulous that
women in their social circles
would and could engage
in such behavior.
Well, I, too, observed
with them in my study
a higher prevalence of
IPV in lower class lesbian
relationships.
Of the nine upper middle
class, educated non-black women
in the study, three had
been involved repeatedly
in mild forms of
physical aggression.
And another woman had
mentioned that she
was slapped by her
girlfriend on one occasion.
The fact that four out of
nine had experiences with IPV
indicates that this violence can
transcend gender identity, as
well as class lines.
Despite the fact that lesbian
women of various backgrounds
experience intimate
partner violence,
one commonality among
them was that those
who were victims of
intimate partner violence
did not seek assistance from
the two women's police stations
in Salvador or from any
other governmental entity.
Even if they had sought
support, based on my research,
I would argue that the
women's police stations were
ill equipped to
handle cases involving
IPV in women's same
sex relationships
for a variety of reasons.
First, the lack
of consistency in
regards to who
could actually file
a complaint was an indication
of how lesbian women were
considered or rather
not considered
as valid complainants.
In 2008, I had the
opportunity to interview
one of the [INAUDIBLE],
or female police
officials at the woman's police
station in Brotas, Salvador.
When I asked her
if a woman could
file a complaint against
her female lover,
accusing her of intimate
partner violence,
she stated, quote "Here
in the [INAUDIBLE].
No, no, no.
We do not file
complaints involving
homoeffective relationships."
It was revealing that the
[INAUDIBLE] specifically used
the phrase [INAUDIBLE],
homoeffective relationships,
because it is a phrase that
has only recently become part
of the jargon of scholars,
activists, and now
government officials about
same sex sexuality in Brazil.
In this instance, her
invocation of the phrase
appeared, in my estimation, to
emphasize the sexual identity
of lesbian women
over their gender,
thereby nullifying
their femininity.
Instead, she argued
that, like men
who would want to file a charge
against her female lovers,
lesbian women, too, would have
to go to a neighborhood police
station.
Five years later, when I
returned to the women's police
station in Brotas and
I also went to the one
in [INAUDIBLE], everyone I
interviewed contradicted the
[INAUDIBLE] who spoke
with me in 2008.
They all stated
that lesbian women
could file a complaint
against their female lover
at a woman's police station,
which, according to them,
was always the policy.
Their statements
appear to demonstrate
that lesbian women do have
equal access to all the services
provided to heterosexual
women, thereby refuting
any allegation that they
are unequal or second class
citizens in Brazil.
On the other hand, I had
heard of one incident
in which a lesbian woman was
rebuffed when she attempted
to file a complaint
at the woman's police
station in Brotas.
While anecdotal, this
occurrence demands
attentiveness to the
possibility that lesbian women
could experience obstacles.
Furthermore, once I was told
that lesbian women could
be complainants, I
inquired about the number
of lesbian women who had
actually registered a complain
or who had just visited
the woman's police station
to discuss their victimization.
Collectively, the
six WPS personnel
I interviewed at both the Brotas
and [INAUDIBLE] woman's police
station, had dealt with
no more than 10 cases,
among them which involved a
lesbian couple in a five year
span.
To provide a context to
understand the insignificance
of this number,
11,036 complaints
were filed by women in 2013
at the women's police stations
in Brotas and
[INAUDIBLE] the year
that I visited both of them.
Thus, I would argue that
based on these interviews
and the experiences
of lesbian women
in Salvador, that, while
Brazilian lesbian women may
have the legal right
to file a complaint
against their female lover, this
does not mean that they have
the cultural right to do so.
One could argue that the
lack of lesbian complainants
could merely be an
indication that women
do not desire to file complaints
against their female lovers
because they will
want to be discreet
about their relationship
problems or are ashamed.
As I've argued elsewhere and can
discuss further during the Q&A,
a focus on lesbian
discretion is less
an example of the naturally
discreet nature of lesbian
women and more the
consequence of the demand
for them to be
silent and invisible.
If women are reluctant to go
to their neighborhood police
station to file a complaint
against a male abuser
because they fear the machista
culture of the police,
is it improbable that a
lesbian woman would not
seek the service of a woman's
police station because
of homophobia that
pervades Brazilian society.
Even if a lesbian woman decides
to visit the WPS in Salvador,
she will not be
attended by personnel
who are trained in relationship
to intimate partner violence
in same sex relationships.
I was told as much
by the psychologist
and social worker who were
employed at the WPS in Brotas.
While the personnel there and
at the [INAUDIBLE] station
appeared to be sincere and
committed to their work
as advocates for
women, their lack
of awareness of the issues
that lesbian women face
was a form of erasure
that implications
for the treatment of lesbian
victims and perpetrators
of intimate partner violence.
Lesbian women's perpetration
of intimate partner violence
does not occur in a vacuum.
Fundamentally, IPV is a
very personal experience
but is an inner subjective
experience, as well.
In Brazil, cultural ideologies
endorse images of Brazilians
as an emotional, passionate,
and intense people
whose sexuality oozes
from their pores.
One of the consequences
of this oozing
is the perception that
Brazilian's intense passion
can lead to bodily expressions
of anger and pain through IPV.
In particular, incidents of
jealousy and sexual betrayal
contribute to the manifestation
of these bodily expressions,
especially from Brazilian men,
whose authority in dominance
can be threatened by
even the implication
that they are not in control
of their heterosexual
relationships.
Control and dominance
are a constant theme
throughout Brazilian
history, and these themes
are strongly associated
with masculinity and power.
In Gilberto Freyre description
of Brazil's racial democracy,
men, in particular,
wealthy white men
were in charge, not
women, and certainly not
their mulatto lovers.
Getulio Vargas was a strong
and domineering father figure
for Brazilian citizens
who represented
his submissive and loyal family.
One of the legacies of
these patriarchal narratives
and assertions of
Brazilian emotionality,
as well as the manifestation of
what I call erotic embodiment,
is a Brazilian
cultural landscape
that hyperesteems
performance of all sentiments
whether they be
creative or destructive
through bodily expression.
Yet this legacy does not affect
Brazilian women and men equally
because men's extrarelational
sexual activities, as well
as their expressions
of dominance
through physical
aggression, are situated
within a particular context.
Unlike Brazilian women, their
innate sexuality and sensuality
does not have to be constrained
because their actions only
reinforce the cultural
and social status quo.
In contrast, Brazilian
women who cuckold their men
violate the sanctity of
their intimate relationships
in communal and
social mores about how
women are supposed to behave.
In a sense, she's cuckolding
in Brazilian society, as well.
While a heterosexual
woman's ability
to betray her male
lover is restricted,
lesbian women have
more opportunities
because they seemingly reject
the cultural script of who
is supposed to be the
object of their desire
and the recipient
of their full fire.
Ironically, their rejection
and potential participation
in bodily expressions of
unrestricted sexual pleasure
and romantic pain,
like Brazilian men,
is the ultimate expression
of Brazilian identity--
their Brazilian birthright
to be passionate,
emotive, and authentic.
However, despite lesbian
woman's potential
to embody fully
Brazilian identity
and all its possibilities,
this embodiment of Brazilians
does not afford them practically
and culturally the services
and, by extension,
the rights afforded
to heterosexual men in Brazil.
Moreover, while the creation
of women's police stations
in the Maria da Penha
law are clear signs
that Brazilian
society is grappling
with the problem of intimate
partner violence against women,
these reforms are based on
a gendered understanding
of citizenship.
Similar to Cecilia
MacDowell Santo's,
I am also troubled
by the implications
of this gendered
citizenship because,
even though Brazilian women--
lesbian women-- are
ostensibly included,
it is ultimately
heteronormative in nature.
Because, as she states,
"These gender police stations
contribute to the formation
of a gendered citizenship
that benefits married women
or women in heterosexual love
relationships."
Consequently, Brazilian
women must become subjects
and act within a
heteronormative framework that
is built upon dominant
submissive, active passive,
and masculine
feminine paradigms.
The combination of a
nationalist police culture,
conceptions about the role
of women's police stations,
and the heteronormative
mission of these stations
effectively disenfranchised
lesbian women.
Ultimately, this
heterosexualization
of citizenship ensures
the continuation
of a heteropatriarchal
nation state
because women's membership
in the body politic
is predicated on
their relationship
with domination, which is
always already masculinized
within the Brazilian context.
As such, even if
Brazilian lesbian women
are perceived as victims of
intimate partner violence,
their victimization
is illustrative
of their femininity
and not their humanity.
The treatment of
lesbian women is
indicative of a specific
ideological forces that
work in Brazilian society
as a whole, forces
that are gendered,
sexualized, and racialized.
The marginalization
of their experience
in relation to intimate
partner violence, for example,
represents a structural
and systematic erasure
of women in same
sex relationships
from the Brazilian citizenry.
It must be noted, however,
that in recent years
Brazilian lesbian women have
become increasingly visible
as members of Brazilian society.
No greater example
than Daniela Mercury
assuming not just
the lesbian identity,
but an activist lesbian
identity, as well.
The theme of her
2017 [INAUDIBLE]
in Salvador's carnival
[SPEAKING PORTUGUESE], female,
black, and gay empowerment.
Yet despite her visibility and
even the celebration of August
as the month of
lesbian visibility,
[SPEAKING PORTUGUESE] in the
forms of societal pressure
for lesbian discretion,
discrimination, and violence
against lesbian women,
such as the phenomenon
of corrective rapes are
rampant in Brazilian society.
In the midst of these realities,
Brazilian lesbian women
have created a Brazilian
identity of their own
that upends and perturbs
androcentric and nationalist
constructions of sexual
power and desirability.
Similar to other
marginalized populations,
Brazilian lesbian
women are not merely
passive victims of
unequal power relations
in stigmatizing discourses.
Rather they protest against
or resist the inequities that
limit their social choices while
also playing an active role
in the replication of
the very cultural models
that stigmatize them.
Thank you.
Before we open to
questions-- we have
lots of time for questions.
See her-- I wanted
to amplify something
I said in the beginning
in the introduction, which
is that I was one
of the first people
to work on male homosexuality in
20th century Brazil in my book
Beyond Carnival.
And I've really looked over the
field over the last 20 years,
and there is no one,
no one in Brazil
or anywhere else that's doing
the kind of pioneering work
you're doing.
And it's to be applauded.
It's hard.
It's against the current,
but it is wonderful.
And I want to thank you for
coming and being here and so.
She deserves it.
It's really important, her work.
And so you can field questions.
And feel free to call
one at a time or several
and answer as you will.
Yes.
Jay.
Um.
Thank you so much
for this lecture.
I was just wondering if you
could talk a little more
about the geography of
the women's police station
within the city of
Salvador and if you
see any other structural and
infrastructural limitation
on complaint filing in terms
of hours that they're open.
You said that there
was a psychologist
and a social worker on staff.
Notice that a lot of the
Brazilian social service
administration if there's
always a lawyer, a psychologist,
and a social worker,
kind of trio.
If case management is geared
toward any type of ideal family
or other kind of--
I don't know.
I'm just kind of fishing for--
Well, I would say, overall.
Not just in terms of
treatment of lesbian women
who are complainants or
who could potentially
be complainants that
a lack of resources
is perpetually a problem for,
I think, for all women police
stations in Brazil.
And I know specifically
for the ones in Salvador.
So the one in
Brotas, is basically
sort of downtown in
the center of the city.
And then [INAUDIBLE] is in
the periphery of the city.
And so [INAUDIBLE], the
one there was smaller.
And they had less
personnel there.
So the one at Brotas, they had--
Salvador has three
million residents,
and they basically had, I
believe two psychologists
and one social worker on staff.
So that just gives
an indication of--
part of the reason that
they have such few personnel
there is because they
don't have the resources,
I think, to fund
more personnel there.
So that's one thing, too.
Another factor is-- and this
is talked about by Sarah
Hunsinger-- that, oftentimes,
at least in her ethnography
and her experience at the
police station in Salvador,
that some police officials would
discourage women from filing
complaints against their--
for their male lovers
for different reasons.
So I think these
factors are involved
in terms of infrastructure
to the lack of funds.
And also I think
the police culture,
in terms of that-- even
though there are female police
officials-- they still are
indoctrinated and socialized
within a masculinist
and a machista culture,
that all of these affect
the resources that
are available for
women and then how,
once those resources
are available,
how effective they
can be for women.
Yes.
I'd like if you could--
first of all, congratulations
on an excellent presentation.
If you could [INAUDIBLE]
a little more
of what you said about the
third group that you would,
black activist.
So if you find any kind of
difference in this group
and what kind of
struggles they're
doing in Salvador and in
Brazil and you have found.
Please.
This is something I talk about
more extensively in my book.
What I thought was
interesting is that,
even among the women who were
black activists-- and activism,
and this is to varying degrees.
So there were women who maybe
would go to one or two meetings
like maybe a year to
women who were leaders
and the different movements
that they too had experiences
with intimate partner
violence, so that it was not
just in terms of
cross-culturally, cross
racial, or socioeconomic lines,
but also in terms of women who
presumably were
awakened or woke,
like people, that idea
that, even among them,
that they still had
experiences with it.
And another, I think, factor
in terms of looking at activism
and specifically in
Salvador is that,
in comparison to gay
activism in Salvador,
that lesbian activism in
Salvador-- which mainly,
in terms of the
activist movement,
is outside of the
academic circles--
were black lesbian
activists, that they--
when I was there at least they--
I started visiting
Brazil in 2001--
and the last time I
was there in 2013--
that the different groups went
through various permutations.
Different groups were
organizing and then disbanding.
And so in comparison to
[INAUDIBLE], for example, which
has been continuously involved
working since the early 1980s,
that lesbian
activism in Salvador
seems to not be
as well organized.
And I think that can be
for different reasons.
And I think, because of that,
looking at intimate partner
violence is-- while some people
have looked at it in terms
of there have been
short pamphlets that
have focused on intimate
partner violence,
a sustained look at
it, I think, has not
been a part of their agenda.
And I think of the reasons is
because you have such upheaval,
or there had been such upheaval.
Yes, [INAUDIBLE]?
I know your new work in process.
And so I know you
probably haven't come out
with all the conclusions,
but could you
share just a little
bit about your new work
on LBGTQ, LGBT evangelicals
in San Paolo, which
is a fascinating topic
since they are now
24% of the population and
very seemingly homophobic.
So I'm very curious to hear.
Could you tell us a little
bit more about that research?
So this is a new project
that I've started.
I was in San Pablo this summer.
And so I went to several gay
and evangelical identified
churches.
And so I say that
because, not only were
these churches self-identified
as evangelicals
or self-identified not just
Protestantism but with sort
of Evangelicalism, they
also were self-identified
as LGBT accepting.
So one large church
that I went to that
is in the neighborhood
of Santa Cecilia
is led by this lesbian couple.
[INAUDIBLE] Holders is
sort of the main pastor,
and she has been interviewed
a lot in Brazilian media.
And the congregation
there, I would say,
is at least 1,000
members to the church.
The sanctuary holds
probably 1,000 people.
They have online media.
They have an online presence.
They live stream the services.
And what was interesting
is that, when I was there--
and I went to services
several times a week--
a lot of church going for me--
that I notice, at least,
the majority of the members
there were men in their 20s.
So I would say almost
like 60% of the members
of this particular church
were men in their 20s,
while the whole pastoral
staff was female, which
I thought was interesting.
And then I went to another
church there that was smaller,
and it was led by a gay man.
He has different satellites.
And so I think, in total, he
has maybe 5,000 to 6,000 members
around Brazil.
And that was a smaller church.
And the demographic profile
there was different.
It was older, maybe
slightly darker
in terms of more black
and brown Brazilians.
And it was also very
mixed in contrast
to this other church
which was more
like hip and cool and the church
that the twenty-somethings
would go to.
One of the things I
found was interesting
is how, even though
they are very
in their understanding of the
Bible, open to LGBT people,
and believe that the Bible
is open to LGBT people--
they still are very
rooted in Evangelicalism
in terms of how
they hold the Bible,
certain social conservative
views they have,
even in terms of evangelizing.
One night I went out
with them to [INAUDIBLE].
It was basically
young LGBT people,
and they gave out pamphlets.
They sang.
And it was funny because
one girl basically
said, like does the
church accept [INAUDIBLE].
She said that.
And it was sort of interesting
that she asked them.
And you know they did.
And people were praying with
them who just were hanging out
at the park.
So I think that
these churches occupy
a particularly interesting
space because they don't
fit into the LGBT community
in their estimation
because they see that
community as decadent and full
of debauchery.
But they don't fit in the
evangelical community,
not because they
don't want to fit in,
but because they are not
accepted in that community.
So they are sort of in
this in-between space.
And another thing that I sort
of found that was interesting,
that many of the
people that I talked to
did not seem very
political in the sense
that, while they were in
terms of personally open
to varying degrees
to their family
and accepted themselves in
coming into their own sexually,
and being a part of
the church helped
them to do that, these
evangelical gay churches.
They also seemed
to set themselves
apart from LGBT activism
because of certain ideas
that they had about it.
And so, for them, similar to
other evangelical movements,
the emphasis was on personal
sort of transformation
and their personal sort of
relationship with Jesus Christ.
So again, they were very
within an evangelical mode,
even though they were gay.
Can I ask the
following question?
And most of the people that
you interviewed who were LGBT
identified, where they
people who born into--
Many of them yes.
Many of them were
born into the church.
And so this was a
way of their feeling
that could continue
to live their--
Yeah.
Were there other converts into--
There were a few
people who converted.
One in particular, a man--
I found was
interesting in San Pao.
And the large church that he
was in seminary to be a priest.
And he knew he was gay.
And once he decided to come
out or assume a gay identity,
he was basically kicked
out of the seminary.
And then he started going
to this evangelical church.
But most of the people
that I met there.
And this is beginning
in my research project.
It seemed that they were
a part of the church,
and then they left
the church once they--
either they left
on their own accord
or they were kicked out
for various reasons.
And then they came back to sort
of Christianity and their faith
through attending these
evangelical churches.
More questions?
[INAUDIBLE], thank you so much.
Thank you again for having me.
