Daforim: An Oblation for Wounded Wombs
Cristiane Sobral
Translated from the Brazilian Portuguese by Cristina Ferreira Pinto-Bailey
This story begins with a crucial foreword: the protagonist is a woman who has to write a letter in red ink on black paper. Her spoken lines shouldn’t be read silently to oneself, please respect the principle of orality. Read them in a public square or anywhere there is a crowd, speak loudly, and observe the dramatic pauses. You may cry freely, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your reading.
“Here I am, holding a letter I’ve written with red ink on black paper. I’m Daforim, a daughter who never knew her mother, a woman whose imagined maternal figures are shaped by a society that, for the most part, demonizes women who abandon their own children.”
At this exact point, the daughter-protagonist asks the classic philosophical question:
“Who am I? What am I doing here? I’ve never been able to decipher myself and always end up being devoured. Where’s my mother? Is she dead or alive? I’ve never seen you, Mom, I don’t know your first or last name, don’t have a photo of you, or any other information. Whether you’re White or Black, indigenous or Asian—I don’t know. I have no idea what you looked like, but my blackness is obvious. In the Land of Appearances, that’s the kind of thing that can’t be denied every time I see myself in the mirror.”
Daforim reads from her letter:
“The institutional system adheres to patriarchal conventions and omits an important detail: females don’t get pregnant without males. In most cases, fathers who abandon their children aren’t held responsible or subjected to moral judgement. As that popular swearing goes, the child is a son of a—mother. Daforim. This is the name I’ve chosen, even if my birth certificate shows my official name, Maria do Socorro. From my perspective as a daughter, I recognize that, before being a mother, every woman should have the chance to be a child, be a woman, grow up, get to know her body and be in charge of her choices.”
The next section of the letter must be read aloud:
“Motherhood should never be synonymous with destiny. Since when have Black women been free to make decisions about their bodies? A Black woman’s solitude seldom leaves room for affection or for the chance to mother her own children, much less to care for her own inner child. The pages of literature are filled with dehumanized characters and Manichean ideas, but mothering can’t be reduced to the Christian dichotomy of good and evil.”
Now, Daforim will talk a little about her father, a multifaceted father figure. It’s as if he were real, but don’t forget it’s all fictional. In literature, the author is in charge of the realm of inventions:
“Dad, you got my mother pregnant. Ah, didn’t you know? Well, that’s not my problem. This isn’t a place where, once again, the mother is to blame. Actually, let’s just forget about guilt. I suggest you join the conversation too. Although, it’s true, we’ve never met. Are you yet another White man who rapes the maid in the back room and demands that she get an abortion? Yet another father committing incest, or a brother getting his own sister pregnant? Perhaps a Black man acting out his toxic masculinity, or someone who abuses drugs because you lack self-respect or hate yourself as a consequence of the heavy burden Black men must bear? Or has incarceration been a factor? It could be too that you’re a White man married to a White woman, dying to have an affair with a Black woman, for Black women supposedly are “amazing in bed,” the kind of man who watches so many superhero movies that you don’t ever think you need to use a condom? But let me tell you: individual salvation doesn’t exist, and neither does individual sin; we must consider society’s systemic forces.”
Since Daforim hasn’t been able to resolve the question of her biological mother, let’s wait a little while; you must understand that this is all very painful. You may cry a little too. I suggest we have a dramatic pause here, a breather. Pause.
Now Daforim is going to talk to her adoptive mother, who gave her a home and mothered her after an adoption done the Brazilian way.
“Hey, mom, tough luck, huh? You gave up all the privileges of your skin color when, as a non-Black woman, you chose to have an interracial relationship with my adoptive father, who was Black. But you died when I was still a kid, and I barely had any time to get to know you. In the country of racial democracy (gasp!), your marriage cost you the loss of a substantial inheritance, your family’s scorn and distancing from you, and consequently, the move to a poor Black neighborhood. Without a family network to support you, your marriage went on from failure to failure, the birth of your three biological children, and finally domestic violence, as your Black husband began to drink, sinking into the temporary numbing of alcoholism. Those weren’t personal failures, it’d be very naïve to think structural racism doesn’t impact our individual lives, causing shortcomings and deficiencies. But, come on, mom! You were a strong woman, a matriarch, a queen! It’s too bad I can’t even write it all as it happened, because I don’t remember much. We’ve been robbed of our memories since ancestral times! I hadn’t realized before how important a mother is, didn’t understand much about motherhood. Should I bother asking? What did you die of? Have you heard people say that women die from exhaustion, from the lack of affection, from sadness? From having to bear the burden of hopelessly sick masculinities? My mom succumbed to all these tragic circumstances. She felt ill one day and died the next. We didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye because she left for the hospital not knowing she wouldn’t return. Our bodies can only put up with so much; sadness and despair killed my mother, just like they cut short so many lives who suffer from anxiety and depression, which go undiagnosed in a society that doesn’t prioritize public health. So, I was never able to experience life with my mother, and this made me sick too because such a void leads to anguish and fear, but also to unrealistic ideals of great achievements, creating women obsessed with work, their only source of satisfaction.”
If we analyze Daforim’s mother’s case, the situations she’d lived through, it’s undeniable that the violence stemming from White privilege played a role in her mental decline. It’s difficult to confront this, as there are no psychological protocols addressing racism. Also, capitalism has always gone hand in hand with racism. Black, poor women from the periphery don’t suffer from depression; the diagnosis: laziness, lack of drive, feelings of persecution, or any other negative consequence of their own ineptitude. Just between us, there are already two deceased mothers here—one disappeared into oblivion, the other died a premature death.
“I realize that I was never able to really communicate with my mothers and don’t know if I’ll ever be able to, for an oppressive silence has long stifled me. The line between affection and disaffection has been blurred since the beginning of the Black diaspora. It’s hard to carry one’s own Black body, so imagine how much harder to give life to another. Black women are owed a historical debt because very seldom have they been allowed to mother their own children. A Black woman looks after another woman’s children and then, what’s left to offer her own? Only fatigue, exhaustion, the burden, and guilt of not being able to carry and provide for those bodies she herself has birthed. To tell the truth—I have to be honest—writing this letter hasn’t been easy. It’s not that I’ve been too busy. I have plenty of time, as I’ve chosen not to have children, but too often I’m overwhelmed by my feelings: sorrow, longing, and the fear of being alone forever. My two mothers and I faced many long, lonely hours and never had the opportunity to support and nurture each other. Some situations can be really complicated, but according to our ancestral heritage, there are many ways they can be resolved, including through ebós, through offerings. But it’ll take many ebós, folks! Considering all the disheartened mothers and fathers out there, it’ll take many offerings, and many sites will have to be readied for the sacred otá stone, to atone and appease our long ancestral lineage. May there be plenty of candles, sacred herbs, prayers, bori ceremonies, people on their knees at three in the morning, and clay jugs to sate the Orishas’ thirst!”
Daforim adds the following thoughts to her letter:
“Every night I lay my head on the lap of the Sacred and, before morning breaks, I pray that we may be a little more loving; that we may live, love, and enjoy a good life. I ask for agô, always! Give me agô, give me permission to go on. I think the only reason I’m still alive is that I keep my head to the ground and feed those who are hungry.”
Daforim spends the night praying, but we all know racism never sleeps.
“I pray to the Orishas that they may show us a passage, a prayer that will carry us to a time and space of rest, where we’ll find Black peace; a place where black and red birds live, black-eyed birds whose wings won’t impose on us hypocritical ideals of purity.”
Daforim puts together some holy ingredients; she has finished her letter.
“Mothers, fathers, and children, I ask for my ancestors’ blessings and leave them candles so they may walk in peace. I hope that my letter arrives, and the candles stand bright; they will, sustained by the strength of my prayers. Mercy on women and mothers! That their children may not be killed by stray bullets and may not be neglected and fall from the top of buildings while desperately looking for their mothers. Lemba, great Gangazumba, beautiful Lembaremganga, help us in our despair! Unfurl your white garments and protect us, so we may survive the genocide and may get to share our stories with our descendants, surrounded by the fire of justice!”
The letter was sent. Now, it’s a matter of faith. Time to rest. Everything that’s negative has been cast aside.
§
Click here to read this story in the original Portuguese.
Cristiane Sobral is a renowned Afro-Brazilian poet, fiction writer, playwright, and theater director. She has published to date more than ten books, including plays, poetry, short fiction, and non-fiction, and has contributed to various anthologies at home and abroad. Her writings deal with themes such as “negritude” and self-identity, and reflect the lives, struggles, and achievements of Black Brazilians.
Cristina Ferreira Pinto-Bailey is a writer, scholar, and translator of Brazilian literature living in Lexington, Virginia. Her English-language translations of poetry and short narrative have appeared in Latin American Literature Today, Review: Literature and Arts of the Americas, Afro-Hispanic Review, and other venues. Her most recent book translation is Ursula (1859; Tagus, 2022), the first novel by an Afro-Brazilian woman.
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