A Miscarriage of Justice: Women’s Reproductive Lives and the Law in Early Twentieth-Century Brazil 9781503611337

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A MISCARRIAGE OF JUSTICE

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A MISCARRIAGE OF JUSTICE ­ omen’s Reproductive Lives and the Law W in Early Twentieth-­Century Brazil Cassia Roth

Stanford University Press Stanford, California

Stanford University Press Stanford, California © 2020 by the Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Ju­nior University. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system without the prior written permission of Stanford University Press. Printed in the United States of Amer­i­ca on acid-­f ree, archival-­quality paper Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Roth, Cassia, author. Title: A miscarriage of justice : ­women’s reproductive lives and the law in early twentieth-­century Brazil / Cassia Roth. Description: Stanford, California : Stanford University Press, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019019673 (print) | LCCN 2019021640 (ebook) | ISBN 9781503611337 (electronic) | ISBN 9781503610477 | ISBN 9781503610477 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781503611320 (pbk. : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Maternal health services—­Brazil—­R io de Janeiro—­History— 20th ­century. | Reproductive health—­Brazil—­R io de Janeiro—­History— 20th ­century. | ­Women—­Health and hygiene—­Brazil—­R io de Janeiro—­ History—20th ­century. | Birth control—­Brazil—­R io de Janeiro—­ History—20th ­century. | Birth control—­Law and legislation—­Brazil—­ Rio de Janeiro—­History—20th ­century. Classification: LCC RG963.B62 (ebook) | LCC RG963.B62 R68 2020 (print) | DDC 362.198200981/53—­dc23 LC rec­ord available at https://­lccn​.­loc​.­gov​/­2019019673 Cover design: Susan Zucker Cover photo: From a photo of a ward in the Maternidade Laranjeiras, n.d., Wikimedia Commons Typeset by Westchester Publishing Ser­v ices in 10/14 Minion Pro

For Clayton (1984–2015)

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Contents

Illustrations ix Acknowl­edgments

xi

Currency, Spelling, and Translation

xv

Introduction 1 2 3 4

The Law of Responsibility, the Medicine of Gender, the Science of Race

29

Constructing Motherhood: Obstetricians, Politicians, and the Creation of a Reproductive Healthcare System

55

Birthing Life and Death: Childbirth, Stillbirth, and Maternal Mortality

80

A “Plague of Criminal Abortions”: Fertility Control and the Consolidation of Medical Authority

5 Ouviu Dizer (Heard Said): Rumor, Sex, and Race in the Republican Capital 6

1

Policing Pregnancy: Statecraft, Poverty, and Reproductive Health

106 127 156

viii Contents

7

Prosecuting Honor, Defending Madness: Abortion and Infanticide in the Courts

Conclusion

182 208

Notes on Sources

221

Appendix A

227

Appendix B

233

Appendix C

236

Appendix D

238

Appendix E

240

Appendix F

245

Notes 251 Bibliography 307 Index 351

Illustrations

Map Districts and neighborhoods of Rio de Janeiro, early twentieth ­ centuryxvi Figures 1 2 3

Stillbirth rate per thousand total births, Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo, 1890–1956

89

Maternal mortality rate per ten thousand live births, Rio de Janeiro, 1903–1956

95

Maternal deaths per year according to cause, Rio de Janeiro, 1903–193897

Images 1

Façade of the Maternidade Laranjeiras, n.d.

2

2

Maps of the cities of Rio de Janeiro and Niterói, ca. 1930

13

3

Blueprint of the Maternidade Santa Isabel, 1899

59

4

Inside the Maternidade Laranjeiras, May 13, 1908

62

5

Foundational stone of the Maternidade do Méier, 1926

67 ix

x Illustrations

6

The waiting room at the Centro de Saúde de Inhaúma, 1927

69

7

Outside the Centro de Saúde de Inhaúma, 1927

72

8

Handwritten note from Isolina Castro to the midwife Elly Waeger, 1929

115

Maria da Gloria Amorim’s illegal midwifery clinic, 1928

117

9

10 La faiseuse d’anges [The Angel-­Maker], Pedro Weingärtner, 1908

119

11

Margarida Rosa da Assumpçã­o’s denunciation note, 1904

136

12

Eighteen-­year-­old Mercedes dos Santos, 1933

143

13

Location where Gloria Lourenço da Silva disposed of her newborn’s head

194

­Tables 1

Location of registered births, Rio de Janeiro, 1894–1903

61

2

Color of obstetric patients, Maternidade Laranjeiras, 1922–1926

63

3

Nationality of white obstetric patients, Maternidade Laranjeiras, 1922–1926

63

4

Location of registered births, Rio de Janeiro, 1936–1938

73

5

Regulation and training of unlicensed midwives, Rio de Janeiro, 1935–193874

6

Maternal deaths according to cause, Rio de Janeiro, 1903–1938

96

7

Number of police investigations per de­cade, Rio de Janeiro

161

8

Color of ­women as percentage of investigations where color was recorded and of census population for Rio de Janeiro

164

Number of police investigations dealing with public disposals of newborns per de­cade, Rio de Janeiro

170

9 10

Abandoned cadavers found in public, Rio de Janeiro, 1891–1906171

Acknowl­e dgments

The research and writing for this book ­were generously supported by the American Historical Association, the Coordinating Council for W ­ omen in History, the Fulbright IIE, a Eu­ro­pean Union-­f unded Marie Sklodowska-­ Curie Postdoctoral Fellowship (747374), the National Science Foundation (SES 1226599), UCLA’s Center for the Study of ­Women, the UCLA Gradu­ate Division, the UCLA History Department, the UCLA International Institute, the University of Georgia History Department, and the Woodrow Wilson National Foundation. Franklin College of Arts and Sciences at the University of Georgia provided a generous subvention grant that supported the publication of this book. My principal intellectual debt goes to Robin Derby and Bill Summerhill at UCLA. Their intellectual, academic, and personal guidance over the years has proven invaluable. I would also like to thank Ellen Dubois for her mentorship and guidance. In addition, I owe thanks to Aisha Finch, Bonnie Taub, and Kevin Terraciano. At the University of Edinburgh, I am particularly thankful for the advice and mentorship of Diana Paton. In Rio de Janeiro, Luiz Antônio Teixeira at the Casa de Oswaldo Cruz, Fundação Oswaldo Cruz (COC-­Fiocruz) has provided institutional support and intellectual guidance throughout my numerous stays in Brazil. Mariana Cavalcanti and Sérgio Monteiro gave crucial institutional backing during the early stages of research. I also owe thanks to Renilda Barreto, Ilana Löwy, Andreza Nakano, and Tânia Pimenta. Silvia Lara at Unicamp was crucial in xi

xii

Acknowl­e dgments

helping me gain access to their archive in the late stages of the manuscript. Another thank you goes to Patricia Grijó at Fulbright in São Paulo. I am indebted to the numerous archivists and librarians at all the institutions I visited. At the Arquivo Nacional in Rio de Janeiro, where I conducted the majority of my research, I am especially beholden to the many archivists who helped me over the years. In par­tic­u­lar, I was lucky to have found several friends hidden in the sala de consultas, Suelem Demuner and Luis Fernando Santos ­Vieira. The tragic deaths of archivists Paulo Henrique Lima and Helen Mazur and their ­children, five-­year-­old ­daughter Gaya Mazur and three-­month-­old son Cícero Mazur Lima, occurred during my time in Rio de Janeiro. They are missed. Throughout the years, innumerous scholars and colleagues have helped make this proj­ect a better one. I thank the three anonymous reviewers of the manuscript and my editor, Margo Irvin. Of course, all ­mistakes are my own. I have presented parts of this book at vari­ous conferences, seminars, and symposiums, and I am grateful for all the feedback I received. In par­tic­u­lar, thank you to Marcos Alvarez, Molly Ball, Jake Blanc, Claudia Bonan, Sueann Caulfield, Amy Chazkel, Gayle Davis, Brodwyn Fischer, Daniel Franken, Keila Grinberg, Amanda Hartzmark, Louise Jackson, Martine Jean, Laura Kelly, Herbert Klein, Rebecca Lippman, Bonnie Lucero, Gabriela Marinho, Zubin Mistry, Mariana Muaze, Sara McDougall, Zubin Mistry, Jeffrey Needell, Okezi Otovo, Jane O’Neill, Julia Rodriguez, Susan Rosenfeld, Jennifer Scanlon, Sabrina Smith, Barbara Weinstein, Allen Wells, Schuyler Whelden, and Nilce Wicks. I thank Steve Ellsworth for letting me audit his course. A thanks to the members of GALACSI in the greater Atlanta area for reading parts of this manuscript during its final stages, including Lia Bascomb, Julia Gaffield, Jeffrey Lesser, Jennifer Palmer, Pablo Palomino, Tom Rogers, Alex Wisnoski, Yanna Yannakakis, and Corinna Zeltsman. And I’m grateful to my gender colloquium gradu­ate students at UGA for carefully reading and commenting on the manuscript. At Nursing Clio, I would like to thank my fellow editors and writers who have provided a feminist intellectual environment in which I have worked through vari­ous parts of this proj­ect. They have also shown me the importance of making history accessible to a wider audience. A special thanks to Laura Ansley for reading parts of the manuscript in its final stages. At UCLA, in Rio de Janeiro, at the University of Edinburgh, and now at the University of Georgia, I have been supported by many friends and colleagues. I owe a special thanks to Daniel Franken, who has proven himself not only to be an excellent scholar of Brazil but also a supportive and caring friend, who read



Acknowl­e dgments xiii

through the entire manuscript at vari­ous stages. I am also grateful to Dalal Alfares, Regiane Gouveia, Carla Lima, Rajashree Mazumder, Esha Momeni, Rielle Navitski, Dora Osborne, Tereza Valny, Devon Van Dyne, and Taylor Walle. Thank you to Hadley Porter, Muriel McClendon, David Myers, and Bill Summerhill for helping me during the last years of my time at UCLA. Maria Openshaw not only read vari­ous parts of this book and helped me understand ­women’s reproductive health in a clinical setting but also is a wonderful friend. I owe a g­ reat deal of thanks to my f­ amily for their love and support over the years. My grandparents, Bev and Ken Paigen, have encouraged my educational endeavors financially, intellectually, and emotionally. My f­ ather, Gilbert Roth, who, although he died before this book even began, profoundly ­shaped my love for learning, my approach ­toward life, and my way of being in the world. My ­mother, Susan Paigen, has supported me in numerous ways. She also proofread a final version of this manuscript. I am lucky to have such wonderful s­ isters. Zoë has read vari­ous iterations of my work, and she has showed me how to be a model academic, one who is both serious and silly. Erica provided crucial crisis support over the last several years for which I am profoundly grateful. Thank you to Natalie and Nicole. And a hug for Fox. Part of this proj­ect has been marked by loss and tragedy. I would like to thank all of my friends and ­family who have supported me throughout the last several years. On April 28, 2015, my partner Clayton was shot in the back twenty times while riding his motorcycle home from work in Rio de Janeiro. He survived in surgery for five hours before ­dying in the early morning of April 29. Clayton was a member of the military police, and he was targeted and executed for being an honest police officer who stood in the way of both drug trafficking and police corruption in the city. Clayton taught me so much about Brazil, and he opened my mind to perspectives I had never before considered. We Latin Americanists have a tendency to idealize poverty and vio­ lence in the region. Our one-­sided diatribes against certain actors (in Rio de Janeiro it is often the military police) gloss over much deeper intellectual and empathetic understandings of social in­equality, urban vio­lence, and the state. But more impor­tant than showing me his country, he showed me his heart. He taught me how to love, how to be loved, to laugh, to fight, to grow together, to take risks. His tragic and untimely death proves so painful and raw that I still cannot believe he is not ­here beside me, smiling and supportive, as I finish this proj­ect. To his wonderful being, his brief but beautiful time on earth, his smile, his heart, I dedicate this book.

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Currency, Spelling, and Translation

The currency unit in Brazil throughout the period of this book was the milréis. One milréis was written as 1$000, and it was the equivalent of one thousand reis (plural of real). One thousand milréis was the equivalent of one conto de réis, or 1:000$000. Sources of historical exchange rate and cost-­ of-­living data are cited in the endnotes. In addition, the Portuguese language had not yet been orthographically standardized in the early twentieth ­century. For proper names, I use the most common spelling that appeared in the documentation. I spell all proper names of places and other Portuguese words according to present-­day conventions. All translations are mine ­u nless other ­w ise noted.

xv

N Ilha do Governador Irajá

Madureira

Guanabara Bay

Realengo 1* Campo Grande

São Cristóvão Engenho Velho

2* Inhaúma 3* Méier

Santa Cruz Jacarepaguá

Engenho Novo

Area Enlarged Below

Andaraí

4*

Santa Teresa

Glória

Lagoa

Tijuca Gávea

Copacabana

Guaratiba Lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas

Santana

A T L A N T I C 0

1

2

3

O C E A N 4

5

6 Mi

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 Km

Neighborhoods 1* Maternidade Cascadura 2* Centro de Saúde de Inhaúma 3* Maternidade de Méier 4* Maternidade Laranjeiras 5* Pro-Matre

Districts and neighborhoods of Rio de Janeiro, early twentieth ­century

Santa Rita Candelária Sacramento 5*

Espírito Santo

Santo Antônio

São José



Introduction

O N A N E A R L Y O C T O B E R M O R N I N G I N 1 9 1 2 , twenty-nine-year-­ old Isalina Vieira went into l­abor in Brazil’s capital city of Rio de Janeiro.1 Accompanied by her female neighbor, Vieira went to the nearby public maternity hospital, Laranjeiras Maternity Hospital (Maternidade Laranjeiras), but upon their arrival, the night doorman notified the ­women that the doctor had refused Vieira’s entry—­all the beds w ­ ere occupied (Image 1).2 Soon a­ fter, Vieira delivered her child on the hospital’s sidewalk, and it died minutes l­ater. A municipal guard, who arrived ­after the birth, returned to the hospital for help, but the doctor again denied Vieira access. An ambulance ­later transported Vieira to another charity hospital for medical assistance. When a police officer (comissário) came to the scene, he spoke with Vieira’s friend and the guard who had assisted the w ­ omen, sending the neighbor and the infant to the municipal morgue for a death certificate, as, in his words, “no crime was suspected.”3 The officer then notified his district police chief, who rejected his subordinate’s decision and opened an infanticide investigation. The chief questioned Vieira and her friend (both illiterate) as well as the doorman, several police officers, and the hospital’s physicians. Vieira testified that she was married but had been separated from her husband for twelve years, implying that the child was not his. Both ­women declared separately that while the child was born alive, it had fallen to the sidewalk during the birth ­a fter which the umbilical cord had ruptured. The medical student who had turned away the laboring Vieira told the police that he had been loath to break the hospital’s occupancy 1

2 Introduction

I M AG E 1  ​Façade of the Maternidade Laranjeiras, n.d. source: Museu da Imagem e do Som, Rio de Janeiro (MIS).

regulations. But the student’s rigid decision was not his alone to make. The supervising physician told the police that turning patients away “could be reproduced, ­because the number of beds the Maternity Hospital has is very small in relation to the ­women [who seek out its ser­v ices].” The physician also refuted the idea that makeshift arrangements ­were pos­si­ble in a situation like Vieira’s, “a t­ hing that should absolutely not be utilized in his Hospital, whose cleanliness [is] indispensable for the wellbeing of the patients.”4 The police autopsy concluded that the cause of death was due to four ­factors: a premature delivery at eight months gestation, a ruptured umbilical cord, a small skull fracture, and the “omission of the necessary care.” The last clause, taken directly from criminal legislation, served as the motivation ­behind the investigation. But the police chief believed that the crucial ­factor required for a conviction was absent—­t he intent to kill. He argued that witness testimony had proven Vieira would not have gone to the hospital if she had planned to murder her child. While the district chief may have believed

Introduction 3

that Vieira’s sexual and reproductive life lay outside of the established norms of “proper” female sexual be­hav­ior—­v irginity or chastity outside of marriage and fidelity and motherhood within it—he believed she was innocent of infanticide. Vieira’s tragic delivery, the ensuing police investigation, and her eventual exoneration exemplify the intersecting medical, l­egal, and social forces that ­shaped poor w ­ omen’s reproduction in early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro— Brazil’s capital city and the country’s center of l­egal and medical decision making. Vieira had gone to one of the few institutions that provided impoverished w ­ omen f­ ree birthing facilities at the turn of the c­ entury. The hospital’s insufficiencies, however, demonstrate that obstetricians’ efforts to expand reproductive healthcare remained inadequate for the city’s poorest ­women, and the physicians’ callous be­hav­ior highlights the precarious and perhaps unethical state of clinical care.5 An uneven development of institutional medical care was not the only ­factor that s­ haped Vieira’s case. Lawmakers had recently rewritten criminal law with the Penal Code of 1890 (in effect u ­ ntil 1940), expanding criminal responsibility in relation to infanticide and clarifying its par­ameters. Th ­ ese laws allowed the police chief to investigate w ­ hether Vieira was criminally responsible for the death of her infant simply ­because she let it fall to the sidewalk. A professionalizing police force seized upon ­these new laws, and police-­community interactions with residents like Vieira solidified the force’s presence in the everyday lives of Cariocas (residents of the city of Rio de Janeiro) in the early twentieth ­century. The police chief brought Vieira into contact with a judicial system ill-­equipped to deal with the unfortunate but common event of neonatal death that marked many Brazilian ­women’s reproductive lives at the turn of the ­century. Yet the police’s actions proved contradictory in relation to Vieira’s case. The district police chief, initially suspecting infanticide, ­later took Vieira’s testimony into account to conclude that she had not committed a crime. While she faced no punitive l­egal response, the investigation questioned Vieira’s sexual life and subjected her to unnecessary police and community scrutiny. Vieira’s pregnancy and delivery did not occur in a social vacuum, and witnesses’ involvement in the case further underscores the interpersonal and community relationships that ­shaped the way Vieira experienced the death of her child. On the most intimate level, Vieira was separated from her husband, and she never identified the child’s f­ ather. Yet female friendship proved

4 Introduction

crucial in the absence of a partner, demonstrating the importance of social support networks in ­women’s reproductive lives. Vieira’s female friend had escorted her to the hospital in the ­middle of the night. ­There, she begged the hospital’s on-­duty personnel to admit Vieira b ­ ecause “she was very sick [passando mal].” Vieira’s friend thus served as a liaison to the medical community in a moment of crisis. Her friend also communicated with the on-­duty ­municipal guard, who initially “was suspicious” of the two w ­ omen standing in front of the hospital. Once he realized the emergency, however, he called his colleague, who helped Vieira to the hospital and her friend to the morgue.6 In turn, the male guard’s favorable testimony dissipated any lingering doubts in the police chief’s mind, hinting at the gender norms surrounding the incident. Taken as a w ­ hole, Vieira’s case embodied the convergence of inadequate medical care with poor reproductive health outcomes, novel criminal legislation with overzealous policing, and community solidarity with longstanding gendered hierarchies. A Miscarriage of Justice is a feminist history of reproduction that centers the lives and deaths of ­women like Isalina Vieira in its understanding of the past. It traces the multiple reasons b ­ ehind w ­ omen’s reproductive decisions over time, historicizing the l­egal, medical, and personal trajectory of reproduction in Brazil. Vieira was just one of the many ­women whom the Brazilian state investigated for allegations of fertility control a­ fter the end of slavery and the onset of republicanism in turn-­of-­t he-­century Rio de Janeiro. Her infanticide investigation thus highlights the centrality of w ­ omen’s reproduction to Brazil’s expanding state apparatus and po­liti­cal agenda in the early twentieth ­century. In 1888, the country became the last in the Western Hemi­sphere to abolish slavery. Brazil’s gradual abolition pro­cess had been based on enslaved ­women’s reproductive capabilities—­from the first attempts to end the slave trade in the 1820s to its final cessation in 1850; and from the 1871 Law of the ­Free Womb, which conditionally freed all c­ hildren born to enslaved m ­ others, to final abolition in 1888.7 In 1889, a bloodless military coup overthrew the Brazilian monarchy (1822–89) and instituted a republican government, the First Republic (1889–1930), a decentralized federation in which states and their elite representatives held considerable po­liti­cal power.8 The expansion of republican forms of governance continued to dictate the par­ameters of ­women’s reproduction. In 1890, lawmakers passed their first piece of legislation, a penal code that increased w ­ omen’s criminal responsibility for the crimes of abortion and infanticide and criminalized the illegal practice of medicine (both heal-

Introduction 5

ing and religious practices and unlicensed prac­ti­tion­ers including midwives) for the first time. A year ­later, the Constitution of 1891 shut ­women out of formal citizenship by implicitly restricting voting to literate males. In 1916, the country’s first civil code protected the property and inheritance rights of fetuses while curbing ­women’s own civil rights, subordinating their position in the ­family to their husbands or ­fathers. For their part, municipal and national public health programs expanded their efforts to improve maternal-­infant health through well-­baby clinics and the regulation of wet nursing, improving access, if unevenly, to ­these ser­vices at the same time that they naturalized maternal instincts and gendered divisions of ­labor. Politicians, jurists, and physicians (often one and the same) clearly understood the value of w ­ omen’s reproduction as their country headed into a new ­century. Medical and l­egal prescriptions on childbirth and fertility control, alongside ­women’s embodied experiences of gendered laws and inequalities, reveal an expanding, interventionist Brazilian state. The simplest explanation for the centrality of ­women’s reproduction to early twentieth-­century politics is that ­women reproduced the country that elites ­were intent on shaping ­after the recent abolition of slavery and the end of monarchical rule. ­Women’s reproductive capabilities—­t heir ability to conceive and raise ­f uture citizens and laborers—­became critical to the growth and consolidation of the twentieth-­ century Brazilian state. But w ­ omen’s reproductive capabilities also worked on an abstract level. Perceptions of w ­ omen’s reproductive agency, w ­ hether real or ­imagined, influenced civil and criminal law and medical practice and policy. Most impor­tant, w ­ omen’s reproductive experiences underpinned the way that Cariocas of all classes and colors reinforced or rejected shifting understandings of race, gender, and sexuality. The end of slavery and the rise of republicanism forced all w ­ omen’s reproductive lives—­but particularly t­ hose of poor w ­ omen—­into regimes of institutional regulation, as vari­ous governmental and philanthropic entities intervened in ­women’s reproduction. On the one hand, obstetricians and public health reformers worked to medicalize pregnancy and childbirth. Municipal and national governments as well as philanthropic agencies showed a growing interest in creating a public health infrastructure geared t­ oward maternal-­ infant health. In part b ­ ecause the science was rudimentary—­the medical advancements that would drastically improve w ­ omen’s reproductive health, including penicillin and blood transfusions, only occurred in the 1940s—­and in part b ­ ecause the government did not adequately fund proj­ects, health ­officials never effectively improved or expanded obstetric ser­v ices, and high rates of

6 Introduction

miscarriage, stillbirth, and maternal mortality continued. Republican-­era ­efforts, however, set the stage for ­later improvements in maternal-­infant health that came about mid-­century. On the other hand, the police and the criminal justice system increased their surveillance and prosecution of abortion and infanticide. The Rio de Janeiro police force consolidated and expanded in the first several de­cades of the republican period, and its administrative structure, which entailed providing both social ser­v ices such as admittance letters to public hospitals and criminal enforcement duties such as investigating abortion, meant that the force si­mul­ta­neously played the role of medical first responder and jailer. Moreover, criminal courts began prosecuting abortion and infanticide with more frequency, although systemic inefficiencies hampered effective judicial practice across the city. Ultimately, this punitive focus created a culture of condemnation surrounding poor w ­ omen’s pregnancy and childbirth that extended beyond elite discourses into the popu­lar imagination. The republican po­liti­cal order intensified its surveillance of w ­ omen’s reproductive bodies in both concerted and unconscious efforts to establish po­liti­cal hegemony, endeavors that channeled the institutionalization of longstanding gender and racial hierarchies into new forms. The expanded state surveillance of ­women’s reproduction during the First Republic set the stage for ­later government action. The republican po­liti­cal status quo, in which regional elites negotiated power-­sharing arrangements that excluded most Brazilians from participatory democracy, ended in 1930. By then, the Rio de Janeiro police force had institutionalized, the judicial system had expanded, and physicians had professionalized and become a power­f ul lobby in the public sphere. The so-­called Revolution of 1930 was a bloodless coup that brought to power as provisional president Getúlio Vargas, a politician from the southern state of Rio Grande do Sul. In the de­cade that followed, Vargas became increasingly authoritarian, a tendency that culminated in his dictatorial Estado Novo (1937–45). Vargas’s nationalist rhe­toric and policies emphasized the importance of w ­ omen’s reproductive capabilities to the nation, and maternal-­infant health became a principal concern of the centralizing federal government.9 The criminalization of fertility control, although never an explicit part of the Vargas agenda, underlay ­t hese public policies ­toward ­women’s health. State attention ­toward fertility control during the Vargas era was a more diffuse form of state power that cannot be traced to a par­tic­u ­lar government

Introduction 7

program. In other words, while the Vargas-­era state may not have prioritized cracking down on the practices of abortion and infanticide, the threat of ­t hese practices underpinned all maternal-­infant healthcare initiatives. In fact, by the onset of the Estado Novo, the policing of ­women’s reproduction had shifted from the judicial to the public health realm. State bureaucracy had expanded; as a result, official efforts at monitoring ­women’s reproductive decisions ­were made in the medical and not the ­legal sphere. The law continued to criminalize fertility control, but physicians, and not the police, w ­ ere now on the front lines. The writings and actions of physicians and ­legal prac­ti­tion­ ers demonstrate that combating abortion was built into the very public health and state apparatuses created to improve w ­ omen’s reproductive health. Brazilian ­women’s early twentieth-­century reproductive negotiations are part and parcel of a larger global history of modern state formation. We cannot separate ­women’s reproductive practices—­from planning for a wanted pregnancy to undergoing an abortion—­from larger po­liti­cal pro­cesses and gendered power dynamics.10 In Brazil, and across the western world, the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries marked a period of increased public scrutiny of ­women’s reproductive lives. Expanding states began criminalizing abortion, and urbanization, immigration, and industrialization pushed ­women’s fertility into the public consciousness. The centrality of w ­ omen’s reproduction in transitional po­liti­cal regimes, ­whether post-­abolition, post-­ colonial, or post-­democratic, resonates outside of Brazil.11 In turn-­of-­t he-­century France and the United States, for example, debates over the f­ uture of the national “race” reflected larger po­liti­cal concerns over ­women’s bodies and the reproduction of the citizenry in the private sphere.12 For their part, twentieth-­century states from Chile to Iran allowed ­women symbolic access to citizenship by recasting w ­ omen’s maternal identities as 13 crucial to national development. Nation-­states “extolled the private virtues of domesticity” and through this discourse allowed w ­ omen to enter the public 14 sphere. As the c­ entury progressed, Cold War debates over the spread of communism centralized ­family planning discourses and policies within international politics.15 ­Women from Peru to Japan gained access to contraceptives, but new medical technologies did not necessarily (or ever) result in w ­ omen’s 16 expanded rights. Of course, w ­ omen’s fertility was not the only f­ actor at stake. Over the first half of the twentieth c­ entury, debates surrounding the quantity, quality, and distribution of the world’s population fueled global strife over imperial proj­ects of territorial expansion—­not to mention two world wars.17

8 Introduction

Yet it is telling that current debates over nationhood, globalization, and development continue to center on ­women’s reproduction.18 Despite the centrality of w ­ omen’s reproductive practices to the trajectory of state expansion across the globe, historians often separate their analy­sis of fertility control from discussions of both pregnancy and childbirth and reproductive health trends like maternal mortality and stillbirth rates. In Brazil, for example, a rich historiography explores maternal-­infant health policies and elite conceptions of motherhood during the early twentieth c­ entury.19 Scholars have also begun exploring ­women’s practices of and state policies ­toward abortion, infanticide, and contraception.20 Yet the interconnected, and perhaps inseparable, nature of ­women’s reproductive health with fertility control remains underexplored.21 This division has resulted in methods that understand the pro­cess from isolated points of view—­legal, medical, cultural—­ rather than in an integrated methodology that underscores how vari­ous spheres intersected to shape reproductive politics. A Miscarriage of Justice departs from t­ hese approaches by analyzing medical, l­egal, social, and po­liti­ cal trends in early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro in relation to ­women’s reproductive experiences—­miscarriage and abortion, stillbirth and infanticide, pregnancy and the birth of a healthy infant. When Isalina Vieira went to the hospital to give birth, for example, all accounts demonstrate that she wanted her child. However, the infant’s neonatal death evidences how a negative outcome easily accompanied if not a wanted at least an accepted pregnancy. In the end, a detailed exploration of ­legal and medical policy ­toward ­women’s reproductive health must still privilege ­women’s own experiences. In this book, I demonstrate the specific l­egal and medical mechanisms and individual negotiations that influenced the everyday forms of state formation in Rio de Janeiro and ultimately the po­liti­cal trajectory of early twentieth-­century Brazil.22 This book intervenes at the intersection of social and po­liti­cal history from the perspective of ­women’s reproduction, opening up new ways for thinking about the gendered intersection of state structure and individual experience across the globe.

Gender, Race, and Citizenship in Early Twentieth- ­C entury Brazil Brazil holds the singular status as the last country in the Western Hemi­sphere to abolish slavery, a development that coincided with the end of monarchical rule and the implementation of (restricted) demo­cratic politics. This set of

Introduction 9

events pre­sents a specific way to look at race, gender, reproduction, and the state. Scholars of the Atlantic world have examined the centrality of w ­ omen’s reproduction and sexuality to the institution of slavery, its abolition, and the forms of post-­emancipation socie­ties.23 Unlike many post-­abolition socie­ ties, Brazil was not ­under the yoke of colonial rule. Demo­cratic ideals and full emancipation went hand in hand. So too did new forms of social control. Post-­abolition governmental approaches ­toward reproduction in Brazil ­were part and parcel of the Republic’s cementing of new forms of power. Rather than unveiling the “intimacies of empire,” however, the Brazilian case uncovers the intimacies of the state.24 Moreover, in contrast to the United States, Brazil’s rival slave-­owning power, post-­emancipation governance did not explic­itly exclude or restrict black lives through Jim Crow laws or sterilization practices.25 But the on-­the-­g round interactions between the criminal justice system, the medical profession, and poor ­women of all colors in the realm of reproduction demonstrate how racial and gender biases—­for example Afro-­Brazilian w ­ omen’s supposed hypersexuality—­became cemented into demo­cratic governance a­ fter abolition. The republican Brazilian state curbed full citizenship through its regulation of reproduction, and I contend that reproductive policies and politics continued to dictate the legacy of slavery in all ­women’s lives. The capital of Rio de Janeiro was the center of po­liti­cal decision making, and ­women’s reproductive negotiations with an expanding state within its borders served as a model for gendered and racialized interactions across the country. At the turn of the twentieth c­ entury, three key pro­cesses transformed Rio de Janeiro for w ­ omen (and men) of all classes and colors: exclusionary demo­cratic princi­ples, demographic and urban changes, and the reformulation of racial, class, and gender ideologies. In the po­liti­cal realm, the republican implementation of liberal politics did not increase mass po­liti­cal participation, and it resulted in the maintenance of formal citizenship as a white and masculine realm.26 The Constitution of 1891 enshrined equality regardless of color or race and removed property requirements for male voters. Yet it still excluded the majority of the population from po­liti­cal participation through literacy requirements for suffrage, which, coupled with the near absence of a public education system, effectively shut the door of po­liti­cal citizenship for poor and working-­class men of all colors.27 The Republic supported democracy and racial inclusion on paper but denied them in practice.28 The continuation of masculine patronage networks that had long dominated nineteenth-­century

10 Introduction

politics further marked the po­liti­cal sphere, with male elites in the southeast of the country creating a one-­party system to share power among its members.29 Moreover, po­liti­cal vio­lence and corruption marked the republican era, with increased occurrences of both informal and formal ­labor unrest in the 1910s and 1920s and subsequent government repression.30 While the republican regime masked its racial exclusions in the language of equality, it explic­itly restricted w ­ omen’s formal citizenship. In the debate surrounding the passage of the constitution, some legislators initially considered extending suffrage to wealthy, educated, and unmarried ­women—­elite white ­women who w ­ ere not legally u ­ nder the control of their husbands. Nevertheless, the document’s exclusion of any specific reference to w ­ omen meant that a­ fter its passage, male politicians barred w ­ omen from the rights of suffrage and holding po­liti­cal office.31 The Civil Code of 1916 further codified w ­ omen’s in­equality, subordinating their decisions to the male head-­of-­ household.32 ­Either the ­father or the husband was in control of a ­woman’s reproductive capacity. The code also theoretically elevated fetal rights above the ­mother’s, making the state, for the first time, a patriarchal enforcer of fetal life. Within this conservative and masculine milieu, early twentieth-­century feminist movements for gender equality embraced maternalist claims to gain access to l­ egal and po­liti­cal rights in Brazil—­and across Latin Amer­i­ca.33 Support of the nuclear ­family, and thus motherhood, was the manner through which elite white ­women entered the public sphere. Po­liti­cal shifts in the 1930s changed the specific ways citizenship was gendered and racialized, but its under­lying biases remained the same. ­A fter coming to power in 1930, Vargas worked to centralize a deeply federalized nation with the city of Rio de Janeiro at its center. He suppressed major regional uprisings and expanded patronage networks by putting loyal allies in charge.34 As the years progressed, Vargas took on a populist mantle to expand his base, providing social and economic rights in exchange for popu­lar support. His corporatist model granted specific social groups—­industrial workers, ­mothers—­political influence through personal ties based on group identity. Thus, protective ­labor legislation and po­liti­cal reforms such as ­women’s suffrage for literate w ­ omen over the age of twenty-­one (1932) w ­ ere coupled with expanded state control, and in the realm of gender ­these policies reinforced the maternal nature of w ­ omen’s citizenship. Vargas included white ­women and working-­class men of all colors in new understandings of national citizenship to maintain po­liti­cal control and create a new “Brazilian” identity.

Introduction 11

The truly impoverished, however, continued to exist outside the structures of state patronage. When he dissolved parliament and instated his corporatist dictatorship in 1937, Vargas co-­opted l­abor ­u nions and eliminated the right to vote for all Brazilians, effectively demobilizing any radical action. Vargas eliminated any “rights” w ­ omen or the working class had won with the end of demo­cratic governance.35 As educated, white w ­ omen strug­gled for full citizenship within the comforts of their class, poor ­women, especially immigrants and ­women of color, saw physical and demographic transformations in Rio de Janeiro further circumscribe their tenuous hold on citizenship. In par­tic­u ­lar, immigration, urbanization, and the rise of a wage l­abor force altered the city’s makeup—­and ­women’s roles within it. ­A fter abolition, large numbers of formerly enslaved ­people left coffee plantations in the interior of the state and migrated to the city as immigrants arrived from Eu­rope.36 For instance, in 1890, 30 ­percent of the city was foreign born and 26 ­percent ­were mi­grants from other states.37 Of the city’s entire population in that year, over 37 ­percent w ­ ere of African descent. Migration and immigration caused the city’s population to almost double between 1872 (274,972) and 1890 (522,651) and ­triple between 1890 and 1920 (1,157,873). By 1940, the population had reached nearly 1.8 million inhabitants.38 Before abolition, both enslaved and ­free ­women labored mainly as domestic servants within the city’s limits. Emancipation freed all enslaved ­people (nearly 18  ­percent of the city’s population in 1872), but most poor ­women of color—­who had composed half of the city’s enslaved population on the eve of abolition—­continued to ­labor informally as domestics into the twentieth ­century.39 Rapid growth resulted in the rise of cramped and unsanitary housing conditions and the continuation of epidemic diseases such as yellow fever that had long ravaged the capital. In response, urban reformers transformed the city, knocking down tenement housing and pushing poor residents to hillside favelas or to distant suburban communities.40 Although officials never explic­ itly stated their racial politics, governmental attempts to urbanize and sanitize Rio de Janeiro had racial subtexts, for white elites hoped to first contain and then eliminate the black and brown presence in the city’s center.41 Public health officials, for their part, redoubled their efforts to combat infectious disease through programs such as mosquito control and mandatory vaccinations.42 And whereas vari­ous philanthropic and public health agencies developed the city’s reproductive health infrastructure, it never met the needs of a

12 Introduction

growing population. Urban planning and public health policies w ­ ere a key aspect of state expansion; while improving countless lives, t­ hese policies also reinscribed in­equality and hierarchy into the built landscape of the city (Image 2). During this period of po­liti­cal and structural change, more insidious sexist and racist ideologies continued to restrict w ­ omen’s access to full citizenship. In Brazil, reconfigurations of patriarchal power based on maternalist views of w ­ omen’s sexual honor—­t hat ­women’s sexuality was strictly tied to their identities as m ­ others—­intimately s­ haped early twentieth-­century understandings of citizenship.43 Feminist scholars define patriarchy as a man’s governance of his f­amily through economic and emotional power.44 In western “liberal” democracies, the hierarchical organ­ization of familial relations and private property extends from the home into the public realm, structuring all aspects of social, po­liti­cal, and economic life.45 According to Wendy Brown, a patriarchal state is one whose “institutions, practices, and discourses” become “bound up with the prerogatives of manhood in a male-­dominant society.”46 Of course, modern states are not monolithic institutions, but rather, “unbounded terrain of powers and techniques, an ensemble of discourses, rules, and practices, cohabiting in ­limited, tension-­ridden, often contradictory relation with one another.”47 In Rio de Janeiro, public health agencies, criminal courts, and legislatures; lawmakers, physicians, and mid-­level bureaucrats; and their respective policies, practices, and ideologies all formed the complex matrix within which ­women negotiated their reproductive lives. Brazilian state policies ­toward w ­ omen’s reproductive bodies also served and bolstered patriarchy in racialized ways. They ensured property rights, increased the workforce, reinforced gendered divisions of l­abor, and criminalized the reproduction of certain individuals or groups. In some ways, republican policies regarding gender and sexuality w ­ ere nothing new. Elites had long focused on Brazilian w ­ omen’s reproductive capabilities. Slave o ­ wners and legislators, for example, debated enslaved ­women’s (in)ability to reproduce the slave ­labor force throughout the nineteenth ­century, which resulted in a gradual abolition pro­cess based on their wombs. Of course, Brazilian slave ­owners and po­liti­cal elites also believed in the supposed hypersexuality of black w ­ omen’s bodies. While legislators gave enslaved w ­ omen the right to both sexual honor, for instance prosecuting rape, and maternal honor, by hearing their claims for their ­children’s freedom, they also viewed ­women of color as more inclined to lose that honor through unbridled sexuality or

I M AG E 2  ​Maps of the cities of Rio de Janeiro and Niterói, ca. 1930 source: Geographisches Institut J. Köhler. Cidades de Rio de Janeiro e Nictheroy. [Hamburg: geogr. inst. j. köhler, between 1930 and 1939, 1930] Map. https://­w ww​.­loc​.­gov​/­item​/­2012593128​/­.

14 Introduction

through “bad” mothering practices.48 Black female sexuality was juxtaposed with the sexual honor of white ­women, whose chastity was the foundation of the Brazilian f­ amily throughout the colonial and imperial periods—as a cultural ideal through which men’s honor was sustained, as the physical manner by which men defined and controlled familial inheritance and consolidated and perpetuated po­liti­cal control, and as a social method of reinforcing stratification as elite families had more resources at their disposal to cover up any deviations from the norm.49 But post-­abolition ­labor changes and evolving social mores threatened the colonial and imperial gender hierarchy in which the f­ amily patriarch (as ­father, husband, or slave owner) controlled the private sphere upon which his individual honor and social class was based. To be sure, w ­ omen’s sexual honor continued to play an impor­tant stabilizing role in the supposed natu­ral gendered and social order of the republican period.50 Brazilian (and Latin American) definitions of female sexual morality still demanded virginity or chastity outside of marriage and fidelity within it.51 Yet a w ­ oman’s honor became not only about virginity but also about overall be­hav­ior, including w ­ hether or not she went out alone and how and where she spent her ­free time.52 Moreover, motherhood remained a requisite part of w ­ omen’s “honorable” sexuality. As Sueann Caulfield has demonstrated, honor in early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro was not a static concept but rather “constructed through dynamic and ongoing historical pro­cesses.” Despite “formidable challenges” by Cariocas of all classes and colors to colonial and imperial understandings of ­women’s honor, “­family honor not only survived in twentieth-­century law, but gained new prominence as Getúlio Vargas consolidated power ­a fter 1930.”53 While longstanding definitions of familial patriarchy continued, twentieth-­ century jurists and politicians shifted from using idioms of sexual honor to reinforce class and racial differences or to consolidate property; rather, they employed ­t hose same discourses to promote cultural unity and national identity. By the late 1930s, Vargas had linked t­hese same familial definitions of female honor to national ones. Sexual honor for all w ­ omen was central to their roles as citizens, and ­women who wanted to be part of modern Brazil had to act accordingly. As the “par­a meters of patriarchal authority” in the ­family narrowed, wide ave­nues of gender in­equality opened up within state bureaucracies.54 The improved capacity of the state increased ­women’s interactions with ­t hese patriarchal norms, as its institutions—­a nd the men who worked for them—­enforced sexual morality.55 We can see changes in this model in

Introduction 15

the contradictory police actions ­toward Vieira. The district police chief, initially suspicious, proved more understanding ­a fter listening to her case. In this sense, the police chief acted as Vieira’s ­father (or absent husband), first condemning her actions but eventually protecting her honor. Both ­legal and medical efforts overlapped in the reconfiguration of ­women’s sexual virtue and maternal honor. To co-­opt longstanding familial patriarchal practices for the good of the nation, first the republican government and then the Vargas regime worked to control familial structures, secularizing marriage and birth registries, while reinforcing patriarchal familial relations with civil law reforms. Republican criminal legislation also retained the patriarchal understandings of w ­ omen’s l­egal responsibility that had defined its nineteenth-­century counterpart. For example, maternalist “honor clauses” reduced prison time for the crimes of abortion and infanticide if the ­mother had practiced them to save her honor. The practice of criminal law further reinforced w ­ omen’s unequal citizenship, and in the courts, republican l­egal prac­ti­tion­ers began supporting the positivist view that ­legal responsibility (and juridical personhood) depended on individual circumstances, shifting emphasis from the crime to the criminal and giving themselves discretionary power over judicial outcomes. In infanticide cases, for instance, juries de­cided that only a m ­ other in a “momentary state of madness” could commit infanticide, thus acquitting most ­women of all charges. ­Legal prac­ti­tion­ers and the male public (as juries) cast ­women as helpless, irrational victims. As a result, ­women most often avoided official jail time for abortion and infanticide. Despite ­women’s theoretical possession of full l­egal capacity in criminal law, the practice of the law relegated them to the realm of incapacitated dependent. The courts’ acknowl­edgment of criminal responsibility would have bestowed a level of agency and rationality onto ­women’s practices of fertility control, and the state had no interest in ­doing so. In the end, this “discourse of in­equality” allowed the l­ egal system to implement disparate treatment ­toward certain population groups, limiting full access to citizenship without explic­itly invoking racial or gender restrictions.56 By 1940, Vargas had embraced positivist law, cementing the state as the sole arbitrator of the differential application of the law based on individual characteristics. Thus, as Brodwyn Fischer argues, by the mid-­twentieth ­century, uneven access to rights and not overt discrimination defined unequal citizenship.57 The ­legal “restructuring of patriarchy” was supported by the professionalization of the medical field and the integration of its prac­ti­tion­ers into the

16 Introduction

po­liti­cal structures of the state.58 The medical profession—as a specialized lobby, as individual physicians, and as f­ athers and husbands—­worked in parallel to or enmeshed within the judicial system. In the late nineteenth ­century, the medical profession, in par­tic­u ­lar obstetricians, began defining gender roles and the Brazilian ­family in scientific terms. By the 1920s, ­women’s health specialists w ­ ere promoting the idea of scientific motherhood, which sought to control the way that w ­ omen cared for their c­ hildren.59 And during the Estado Novo, physicians had successfully lobbied to include this ideology within national policy. Obstetricians’ writings about and interventions into the f­ amily centered on w ­ omen as reproducers and civilizers of the nation. It was through ­women that doctors would mold the new generation of citizens. If obstetricians ­were unan­i­mous in their valorization of motherhood, they w ­ ere equally condemning of any form of birth control and the practice of abortion. As a Catholic nation, Brazil’s ­legal and medical approaches to abortion and infanticide w ­ ere connected to church dogma.60 Yet the institutional church had a weak presence in the country, and ­legal prescriptions and medical practice, although influenced by church teachings, acted in­de­pen­dently of them. In fact, jurists and physicians appropriated traditional Catholic teachings on gender roles, fetal life, and fertility control into their new “modern” and secular writings in the early twentieth c­ entury. But the under­lying patriarchal views ­toward ­women’s sexuality remained unchanged. Moreover, popu­lar religiosity and Catholic mores permeated the thinking of all social classes of Cariocas, who acted upon their own understandings of gender, race, and sexuality. Brazil’s four-­century history of slavery meant that in the period following abolition, racist science ­shaped physicians’ valorization of motherhood and rejection of fertility control. Most generally, the global scientific climate of the late nineteenth c­ entury influenced Brazilian physicians’ approach to race, regardless of gender. Leading medical thinkers employed imperial ideologies of scientific racism to reconceptualize racial hierarchies and ultimately create “differential access to citizenship.”61 As in other Latin American nations, physicians reinvented colonial and slavocratic inequalities through new, hierarchical classifications of race based on “objective” science.62 ­After abolition, scientific racism morphed into an early twentieth-­century theory of whitening, which purported that miscegenation would lead to the inevitable whitening of the Brazilian population. Racist science became gendered in that it viewed interracial sexuality as part of the solution to ­Brazil’s racial “woes.” The whitening thesis also coincided with the rise of the

Introduction 17

­ razilian eugenics movement in the 1920s, which focused on the social enB vironment as the key to “race improvement.”63 In the 1930s, Vargas co-­opted ­these racial ideas through his support of Brazil’s supposed racial harmony (­later pop­u ­lar­ized as “racial democracy” in the 1940s), and he appropriated and mainstreamed historically black cultural forms into a nationalized Brazilian identity centered in Rio de Janeiro.64 Yet this change did not address the under­lying assumption that whiteness was the key to Brazil’s ­f uture. In fact, it whitened what had previously been considered black or African. Vargas’s erasure of any outward mention of race by focusing on the Brazilian citizen further disguised twentieth-­century hierarchies by eliminating any discussion of the correlation between skin color and in­equality. The Brazilian state’s constant regulation of ­women’s reproduction and fertility control institutionalized ­legal inequalities based on racial and gender hierarchies. Po­liti­cal regimes—­a nd their respective policies—­changed, but the ultimate goal remained the same: connect ­women’s citizenship status to their maternal identities. ­Legal and medical authorities naturalized ­women’s innate role as m ­ others, reducing them to their reproductive capacities and reinforcing gendered hierarchies. But physicians’ and eugenicists’ embrace of all ­women’s maternal potential mediated racist applications of medicine, for they incorporated ­women of all colors and classes into the reproductive body politic. When physicians and legislators supported w ­ omen’s reproduction, regardless of race or class, they assimilated populations often viewed as detrimental to the nation’s f­ uture, coded language for Afro-­Brazilians. Like most eugenics movements in Latin Amer­i­ca, Brazilian eugenicists did not sterilize populations they deemed “unfit” for motherhood.65 Rather, they “reeducated” ­women in relation to hygiene and social welfare, thus creating a space for ­women of color to participate in civic life through their identities as ­mothers.66 Of course, Brazilian officials also supported Eu­ro­pean immigration in efforts to whiten the workforce and population.67 But this emphasis was compatible with allowing ­women of color to reproduce; ­after all, whitening posited that miscegenation would eventually whiten the population, while racial democracy enthusiasts l­ ater saw interracial sex as harmonious. Physicians’, jurists’, and policymakers’ theoretical ac­cep­tance of motherhood for all Brazilian ­women, no ­matter their race or class, ­shaped the ways that state institutions regulated female sexual honor and eventually broadened the definition of motherhood. An out-­of-­wedlock pregnancy was the physical manifestation of a deviation from patriarchal norms. Although

18 Introduction

single motherhood implied a lack of sexual morality, a ­woman’s maternal role reestablished her social honor in the public sphere. Feminists’ longstanding approach t­oward social motherhood had opened up a space for w ­ omen to ­mother in forms that existed outside the bound­aries of proper gendered be­ hav­ior. In other words, motherhood reinforced ­women’s proper gender roles, and, ­under Vargas, it relegated ­women to the role of reproducers of a new nation. Citizenship was defined for ­women in relation to their identities as ­mothers, regardless of race, class, or marital status. This inclusive definition of motherhood shut off ­legal and medical ave­nues for ­women who did not want or could not have c­ hildren. In the abstract, contraception, abortion, and infanticide w ­ ere rejections of w ­ omen’s sexual honor based on chastity and their social honor based on motherhood. Fertility control—­which allowed w ­ omen to break with patriarchal ideals of w ­ omen’s proper sexual be­hav­ior, their gendered roles as ­mothers, and their subordination to men’s decision-­making processes—­was a direct threat both to the patriarchal authority of men and to the patriarchal claims of an expanding state. Patriarchal definitions of motherhood meant that w ­ omen did not decide when or how to ­mother. Fertility control, conversely, allowed ­mothers to decide when, or ­whether, to have more ­children, whereas childless ­women could disavow motherhood altogether. State officials, physicians, and the larger community thus viewed w ­ omen who engaged in t­ hese practices, no m ­ atter their race or class, as hazardous to society. Even racist thinkers who viewed Brazilians of color as a serious obstacle to the modernization (and whitening) of the nation rejected abortion.68 To ­t hese men, abortion’s threat to established gender roles, by allowing single ­women to engage in sexual activity outside of wedlock without “consequences” and married w ­ omen to control their fertility outside of any patriarchal familial structure, was just as, if not more, dangerous than any negative outcomes coming ­either from racial mixing (mestiçagem) or from the continued reproduction of the Brazilian population of color. I argue that research on scientific motherhood, maternal-­infant health, and the racial politics of eugenics neglects fertility control. The lens of fertility control thus unveils that ­women’s honor was defined not only by sexual be­hav­ ior but also by motherhood, making the latter central to ­women’s citizenship claims. Both l­egal and medical prac­ti­tion­ers believed that abortion and infanticide w ­ ere deviations from ­women’s proper gender roles. Most impor­tant, they viewed this gendered inversion as more dangerous than the reproduction of Brazilians of color. We see evidence of this in the courts’ investigation and/

Introduction 19

or prosecution of ­women of all races and classes for the crimes. Jurisprudence did not look the other way when less “desirable” Brazilian ­women, for example, w ­ omen of color, practiced abortion and infanticide. In the eyes of the law—­and its guardians—no w ­ oman should reject motherhood, regardless of race or class. In this way, my work departs from other ­legal studies of gender and sexuality. Both the state and the community frowned upon ­women’s out-­ of-­wedlock sexuality, but even “illegitimate” sexuality allowed w ­ omen to remain within their state-­sanctioned maternal identity. This, of course, became one of the main ave­nues through which, ­under Vargas, they could participate in citizenship rights. Fertility control, conversely, broke this “sacred” bond. As Nancy Leys Stepan writes, “The history of embodiment must be seen as part of the story of citizenship and its limits.”69 Following this line of thinking, I argue that the state allocates unequal citizenship through ­women’s bodies, and thus a study of ­women’s own reproductive experiences is key to understanding the institutionalization of in­equality in twentieth-­century Brazil. Anne McClintock argues that state interest in reproduction often pivots on incorporating w ­ omen as symbolic yet passive “­bearers of the nation.”70 The only way w ­ omen become actively implicated in national agency is by biologically reproducing the nation’s citizenry.71 ­Legal policies such as the criminalization of abortion and pronatalist tax legislation entreat all w ­ omen to reproduce f­ uture citizens (and laborers), all the while controlling gender roles and maintaining patriarchy. But by neither extending w ­ omen full citizenship rights nor legislating in a way that allows every­one equal access to a fully “livable life,” state institutions also maintain existing social hierarchies.72 As scholars working within a reproductive justice paradigm argue, the ability to have a child and raise it outside the realm of poverty is often just as impor­tant as the choice not to have one.73 It is no coincidence that ­women of color and their ­children in early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro had worse health outcomes and economic opportunities than their white counter­parts. W ­ omen’s reproductive experiences expose the cruel realities of a state that requires ­women to bear all the c­ hildren they conceive but discriminates based on race and gender.

Medicalization, Criminalization, Negotiation: Sources and Approaches The medical, l­ egal, and personal nature of w ­ omen’s reproduction—­from abortion and infanticide to pregnancy and childbirth—­requires that we understand the topic, in the words of Leslie Reagan, as “a triangle of interactions” among

20 Introduction

the medical profession, state agents, and ­women themselves.74 Abortion, for instance, was a medical procedure and a criminal act, and both judges and physicians monitored the practice, in equally contradictory and complementary ways. It is also a practice that w ­ omen underwent and experienced on physical and emotional levels. Along t­ hese lines, I approach w ­ omen’s reproduction from three a­ ngles: law, medicine, and w ­ omen’s experiences. This book examines the connection between ­women’s bodily experiences and state policy from multiple ­a ngles (­legal, medical, feminist) and scales of inquiry (home, community, nation).75 It separates the state into vari­ous realms and bureaucracies; a­ fter all, police officers, public prosecutors, and physicians all had their own ideas about w ­ omen’s reproduction, and they brought t­ hose with them when performing their daily jobs. Thus, A Miscarriage of Justice traces how l­egal thought and medical knowledge became cemented into law and policy across Brazil; how ­t hose prescriptions ­were implemented in the police precincts and hospitals rooms of Rio de Janeiro; and how w ­ omen experienced and negotiated t­ hose institutional constraints on a daily basis. The par­tic­u­lar ways in which ­women’s reproductive capabilities became embedded in Brazilian bureaucratic structures—­t he police’s involvement in public health emergencies or juries’ deciding power in infanticide ­trials—­demonstrate both the specificity of Rio de Janeiro and the universal nature of modern nation-­states’ approaches to w ­ omen’s bodies. The history of reproduction must include the entirety of w ­ omen’s embodied experiences. A ­ fter all, w ­ omen’s reproductive lives exist on a continuum. Rather than placing childbirth and motherhood in opposition to abortion and infanticide or excluding involuntary reproductive losses like miscarriage and stillbirth, I define w ­ omen’s reproductive health as a wide range of events and practices, and the way physicians or the police viewed one affected the way they approached another. For example, the police understood the death of Vieira’s newborn child as a pos­si­ble infanticide in relation to her sexual history, yet they ­later revised their assumptions based on her having sought medical attention for her delivery. ­Here, I am not arguing that abortion and infanticide are gradations of the same practice (although many con­ temporary l­egal and medical prac­t i­t ion­ers did). Rather, I am saying that we must consider all aspects of w ­ omen’s reproductive lives in reference to one another. Brazilian l­egal and medical authorities discussed abortion and infanticide with regard to pregnancy, childbirth, and motherhood. They condemned in the same breath, for example, miscarriages due to poor nutri-

Introduction 21

tion and criminal abortions due to “frivolous” ­women. And Brazilian w ­ omen made decisions about one in relation to the other. ­Women did not and do not see abortion as separate from pregnancy and motherhood, and many of the ­women depicted in this book had living c­ hildren whose lives influenced their ­mothers’ decisions.76 Moreover, as historians of nineteenth-­century Eu­rope have highlighted, scholars cannot separate fertility control from the influence of poverty on pregnancy and motherhood.77 This approach also requires contextualizing ­women’s reproductive health and health policy within broader trends including stillbirth, maternal mortality, and homebirth rates, no ­matter how incomplete the numbers. H ­ ere, I have pieced together health data from disparate sources, publishing comprehensive reproductive health statistics for the first time. A combined analy­sis of reproduction requires both exploring how w ­ omen felt about a stillbirth, miscarriage, or abortion and understanding their commonality. To do so, the book draws on a variety of sources, including judicial documents, medical publications, public health data, clinical reports, criminal and civil law, novels, newspapers, and photo­graphs. Its backbone is a core set of 193 police investigations and court cases involving ­women’s reproductive practices in the city of Rio de Janeiro ­under the 1890 Penal Code, and an additional 39 court cases from the state of Rio de Janeiro and the Supreme Court.78 I believe t­hese are most, if not all, the l­egal cases of reproductive practices that exist for this time period. Of course, the pro­cess by which a reproductive event became an investigation or court case was not uniform, and poor ­women w ­ ere more likely to come to the authorities’ attention. With this in mind, my total population of cases is not representative of ­women in general. Yet most w ­ omen in early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro w ­ ere not elite, and although the cases may underrepresent upper-­class w ­ omen, overall they are fairly representative of most Carioca w ­ omen. When compared with con­temporary investigations of other crimes like vagrancy, the numbers game (jogo do bicho), or deflowering, the number of cases related to reproduction is low.79 But we must remember that illegal fertility control practices are inherently clandestine in nature and often difficult to document. In regions where abortion is illegal t­ oday, official and accurate statistics continue to elude researchers.80 In turn-­of-­t he-­century Brazil, when state bureaucracies ­were only beginning to collect vital rec­ords, and abortion and infanticide ­were criminalized, it is impossible to have complete numbers.

22 Introduction

Perhaps the comparison to make is not with other crimes but with the number of investigations relating to reproduction before and ­a fter 1890. I found eleven cases involving abortion and infanticide u ­ nder the Criminal Code of 81 1830 (1830–89) for Rio de Janeiro. This marked shift from the nineteenth to twentieth centuries was due to changes in abortion and infanticide law, the increased judicial capacity of the Brazilian state, and the demographic transformations and rapid urban development that resulted in the increased visibility of reproductive events. In an urbanizing city, practices like abortion and infanticide, once a familial secret or easily hidden in a rural region, became public events. Isalina Vieira, for instance, gave birth at a new hospital, and ­a fter recent police reforms had expanded the force’s presence. We can imagine that if she gave birth de­cades e­ arlier, in a small village in the interior of the state, the death of her newborn would have been dealt with within the home in which she gave birth, perhaps attended by a midwife. The appearance of newborn cadavers on the streets, the role neighborly gossip played in bringing fertility control to the police, and subsequent media coverage show that fertility control became more noticeable. And an expanding, interventionist state took notice. Historians long have employed criminal rec­ords to understand not only the history of crime or the institutions that created ­those documents but also the everyday lives and understandings of the so-­called underclasses.82 When the police investigated a ­woman’s miscarriage, for example, the resulting criminal documentation unveiled details far beyond t­ hose pertaining to the alleged crimes. We learn that domestic servants marked the passage of the year based on Carnaval, that wives relied on their husbands to fill out bureaucratic paperwork, that neighboring ­women in the suburbs cut firewood together for mutual protection. In short, t­ hese rec­ords disclose the everyday happenings of Cariocas of all classes, and they demonstrate how biological reproduction s­ haped the lives of every­one involved, not just w ­ omen. In this way, criminal rec­ords allow us to understand the criminalization of fertility control, ­women’s reproductive lives, and ­women’s larger social and cultural spheres. The court cases and police investigations of reproduction also provide the historian a rare chance to write a “patient-­centered” history of medicine.83 The most obvious medical history that appears in judicial rec­ords is that of ­legal medicine. But criminal cases involving abortion and infanticide demonstrate much more than how police physicians tested fetal remains or per-

Introduction 23

formed pelvic exams. They also show changes in clinical practice and medical knowledge, and through a close examination of criminal sources, we can understand how individual physicians practiced medicine or how ­women understood the medical aspects of pregnancy and childbirth. The question remains of how we access ­women’s own understandings and experiences in such highly mediated sources. The historical profession has long debated how best to approach the “agency” of the historically dispossessed—­t he subaltern, w ­ omen, the enslaved.84 Scholars looking at l­egal sources have moved beyond the search for “pure” agency or “complete” oppression, as judicial rec­ords w ­ ere mediated on all levels. In Rio de Janeiro, scribes and police investigators excluded interrogators’ questions and employed technical language not used by the persons involved. Moreover, courtroom ­trials w ­ ere not per­for­mances, but rather scripted events in which prosecutors questioned witnesses separately and scribes read out loud the written proceedings to the jury, circumscribing w ­ omen’s ability to influence prosecutorial or defense decisions through personal pleas or courtroom per­for­ mances.85 Investigative and courtroom procedure resulted in multiple layers of mediation that all but stripped the h ­ uman ele­ment from the case. Mediation, of course, was not ­limited to official police or judicial protocol. Larger power dynamics affected the creation of ­t hese documents. ­Women ­were forcefully interrogated in police precincts only hours a­ fter giving birth, on their deathbeds in a feverish and delirious state from an abortion-­related infection, and alone in dark jail cells. As other scholars engaging in a gendered analy­sis of judicial documents have argued, ­these sources are translations or mediations occurring within “highly unequal power structures,” which nevertheless demonstrate the worldviews of all t­ hose involved.86 When a ­woman sought out an abortion or killed her newborn child, she acted in the face of an untenable situation. Yet w ­ omen’s “agency” existed within hierarchical power structures that l­ imited many ­women’s decisions to traumatic acts of desperation. Thus, I define ­women’s reproductive practices in early twentieth-­ century Rio de Janeiro as “negotiations” in which w ­ omen experienced and attempted to regulate their reproductive lives within larger structural restrictions. W ­ omen’s “constrained choices” demonstrate the connection between broader social and po­liti­cal contexts and their individual decisions.87 And whereas the police and the courts tend to rec­ord “exceptional” circumstances or events, I argue that in the realm of reproduction, the judicial system often paid attention to the ordinary.

24 Introduction

­ omen’s reproductive bodies and experiences w W ­ ere a central state preoccupation, yet their pain, joy, lives, and deaths often remain absent from our writing of history.88 This is frequently ­because of the available sources that, in the words of Kristin Ruggiero, “disembody” ­women.89 A forensic exam details the shape and smell of a ­woman’s vagina without ever mentioning her name. Scholars studying the latter half of the twentieth c­ entury have used oral history as an effective manner to address this intellectual and ethical prob­ lem.90 But for scholars who cannot work with direct memory, it remains grossly negligent to not focus on ­women’s bodily experiences, for it erases their fundamental role in that history. Moreover, an embodied history places ­women’s agency within its correct historical moment.91 Without stressing ­women’s experiences, the history of reproduction remains rooted in current-­ day rhe­toric about “rights” and “choice,” and this methodology ahistorically isolates ­women’s reproductive decisions from their larger context.92 Anthropological works demonstrate the complex cultural and social f­ actors that continue to shape ­women’s approaches ­toward reproduction and motherhood.93 Picket lines at US abortion clinics and the debate about reproductive rights and the Zika virus in Latin Amer­i­ca highlight the multifaceted and ever-­ shifting framework within which ­women make reproductive decisions—­and one that needs historicization. As a feminist who supports reproductive justice and rejects the belief of ­women’s “natu­ral” propensity for raising ­children, I still find it challenging to read cases of w ­ omen strangling or burying alive their newborn infants. In relation to infanticide, then, I have found it helpful to think about ­women’s actions through the anthropological theory of cultural and moral relativism. In response to the imperialistic origins of anthropology tied to nineteenth-­ century Eu­ro­pean colonial expansion, mid-­twentieth-­century anthropologists used critiques of Enlightenment universalism to argue that the interpretation of cultures dif­fer­ent from one’s own required d ­ oing so within the moral codes and meaning systems of that culture. What perhaps seemed irrational or unethical within the academic’s cultural framework was logical and moral within the context of the culture u ­ nder study.94 But cultural relativism precluded any sort of valuation of other cultures’ actions. In her study of late twentieth-­century shantytown ­mothers in northeast Brazil, for example, Nancy Scheper-­Hughes confronted moral and ethical questions when discussing what she viewed as the rational decisions of impoverished ­mothers. In the face of extreme poverty and abject health condi-

Introduction 25

tions, many of the m ­ others in the community would fatally neglect sickly infants who they felt would not survive even if “properly” cared for (within the limits of the material scarcity that enveloped t­ hese families). Writes Scheper-­ Hughes, “I have stumbled on a situation in which shantytown m ­ others appear to have ‘suspended the ethical’—­compassion, empathic love, and care—­ toward some of their weak and sickly infants. The ‘reasonableness’ and the ‘inner logic’ of their actions are patently obvious and are not up for question. But the moral and ethical dimensions of the practices disturb, give reason to pause . . . ​a nd to doubt.”95 Larger structural inequalities highlight the rationality of t­ hese w ­ omen’s actions. Within the context of an economic and po­ liti­cal system that had “suspended the ethical in their relations ­toward ­t hese same ­women,” conserving scarce resources for healthy c­ hildren was a logical way to ensure survival of at least some ­family members.96 But, as Scheper-­ Hughes argues, we must evaluate ­t hese actions within both their unethical structural context (state neglect) and their amoral personal actions (motherly negligence). I take the same approach ­here. In the case of infanticide, ­women’s actions ­were rational when considered within the structural vio­lence that governed their lives.97 But acknowledging that infanticide was a logical response to scarcity and vio­lence does not mean it was “right.” This interpretation thus raises questions about the practice of writing history. We must take ­women as historical actors seriously, wherever they come from and what­ever their actions.98 Understanding them as complicated and at times amoral ­human beings is giving them the historical attention and analy­sis they deserve. • • •

The following chapters explore the inseparable nature of medicine, law, and reproduction from a gendered lens in early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro. Chapter 1 outlines the l­egal and medical ideologies of positivist criminal law and patriarchal civil law, scientific motherhood, and racialized medicine that formed the foundation for the actions taken by vari­ous actors throughout the rest of the book. The intersection of ­t hese intellectual trends resulted in a judicial sphere that infantilized w ­ omen’s ­legal decision making while valorizing the maternal nature of all w ­ omen. Chapter 2 analyzes philanthropic and state-­run programs that aimed to expand the city’s reproductive healthcare ser­v ices. Republican obstetricians and hygienists worked to construct maternity hospitals and create access to prenatal care, but the patchwork network of decentralized public health

26 Introduction

agencies remained inadequate u ­ ntil Vargas centralized medical ser­vices in the mid-1930s. Chapter 3 examines how advance in medical knowledge affected obstetricians’ clinical practice, and, most importantly, w ­ omen’s own experiences of pregnancy, childbirth, and fertility control. High stillbirth and maternal mortality rates remained steady throughout this period, in part b ­ ecause existing medical knowledge and technologies could not effectively improve outcomes. Chapter 4 explores obstetricians’ debates over the best methods to suppress abortion. The medical profession harshly condemned abortion, a view that incorporated longstanding Catholic views on procreation and harnessed ­t hose beliefs for the good of the secular state. Doctors believed that fertility control allowed ­women to engage in sexual activity freely and outside of marriage, and practices like abortion thus threatened the nuclear f­ amily—­and the nation. Chapter 5 examines neighbors’ denunciations of abortion and infanticide. Gossip about fertility control represented the circulation and consolidation of popu­lar understandings of race and sexuality. Poor and working-­class Cariocas associated both fertility control and interracial relationships with clandestine and thus inappropriate sex. Denouncing w ­ omen for fertility control also provided a rare chance for working-­class w ­ omen and men to assert their authority in a highly stratified public sphere. Chapter 6 explores police involvement in poor ­women’s reproductive lives. It demonstrates that the dual responsibilities of the city’s civil police in the realms of social ser­v ice administration and crime control, in conjunction with the effects of poverty on ­women’s lives, allowed the force to conflate miscarriages and stillbirths with abortion and infanticide. Police investigations of reproduction coincided with poor health outcomes for impoverished w ­ omen. Chapter  7 examines how the law adjudicated abortion and infanticide ­under the 1890 Penal Code. The courts’ prosecution of fertility control frequently allowed ­women to legally walk ­free from charges while si­mul­ta­neously upholding patriarchal beliefs about gender and sexuality. In infanticide ­trials, juries most often acquitted ­women for committing the crime u ­ nder a “momentary lapse of reason.” In abortion ­trials, the prosecution punished providers and not w ­ omen, who they portrayed as victims. Both doctrines took away ­women’s l­egal personhood, but the law’s emphasis on maternal honor gave that back to ­women if they embraced their “natu­ral” roles of m ­ others.

Introduction 27

Terminology A note on language is in order. ­Women’s reproductive lives (and their attempts to regulate them) exist on multiple levels. The first is biological reproduction—­ the main focus of this book. In a period when contraception was unreliable (and often male-­controlled), biological reproduction begins with the act of sexual intercourse. It then encompasses conception and pregnancy, which perhaps ends in a miscarriage or an abortion. Childbirth follows, with the possibility of infanticide or child abandonment. Of course, reproduction does not stop once a w ­ oman delivers her infant. Generational reproduction, or the raising of c­ hildren, is the next level. For poor w ­ omen in nineteenth-­and twentieth-­ century Latin Amer­i­ca, including Brazil, raising ­children often meant both temporary and permanent practices of child circulation and informal fostering within larger kinship networks.99 Reproduction also refers to social practices, including the domestic work that supports the larger economic activities of wage earners: food, shelter, sex, and companionship.100 Although biological, generational, and social reproduction are interconnected, ­women often had to deny the first two to fulfill their social obligations. B ­ ecause A Miscarriage of Justice is a dual medical-­legal history of pregnancy, childbirth, and fertility control, its analy­sis does not extend to the raising of ­children. Many ­women who engaged in fertility control practices ­were already ­mothers, a real­ity (and identity) that ­shaped their decisions. Moreover, physicians ­were as intent on ensuring the proper rearing of ­children as they ­were on safe pregnancy and childbirth. But it is beyond the scope of this book to look at how kinship influenced childrearing beyond biological reproduction. With this in mind, I use reproductive practices or events to refer to biological reproduction: pregnancy, miscarriage, stillbirth, childbirth, and abortion. Fertility control, for its part, is not always or necessarily “negative” in the sense of impeding reproduction. As Rebecca Flemming reminds us, the term can refer not only to attempts to controlling reproduction but also to promoting procreation or addressing infertility, and its preventive connotation is a recent phenomenon.101 In this book, I use the more modern “negative” definition of fertility control—as contraception (including coitus interruptus, sterilization, pessaries, and condoms) and abortion. The latter was not contraception, as it occurred a­ fter conception, but ­women resorted to it to prevent birth. I also include infanticide within a broad definition of fertility control. Most infanticides occurred immediately ­after birth to prevent the neonate from surviving,

28 Introduction

and thus they ­were part of the reproductive pro­cess of conception, pregnancy, and childbirth. As the law did, I consider a newborn abandoned and left to die—­for example, in a wooded area, trash can, or beach—as infanticide. Child abandonment, in terms of a child left at an orphanage or informally fostered, was within the range of practices ­women employed to not raise ­children, but it was not fertility control. I use the term regulation as a more neutral signifier; this included a w ­ oman’s attempts to conceive or a physician’s pronatalist efforts to increase his patient’s f­ amily size. I should also mention that the Portuguese word aborto refers to both miscarriage and abortion. Usually, Brazilian physicians differentiated between a spontaneous abortion or miscarriage (aborto espontâneo) and a provoked or criminal abortion (aborto provocado or aborto criminal). When I use the term abortion, I am referring to an induced or “provoked” abortion. I translate aborto espontâneo to miscarriage. Fi­nally, racial terminology in the early twentieth ­century was complex and dynamic.102 State officials, physicians, and Brazilians themselves employed a variety of terms to refer to Brazilians of African descent (for example, n ­ egro, preto, pardo, mulato, mestiço). For the sake of clarity and consistency, I use the terms black, brown or mixed-­race, and white when referring to groups of Brazilians, for instance, in my discussion of data from medical rec­ords. When referring to individual men and ­women, I use the terms the police and medical officials recorded, most often preto for black, pardo for mixed-­race, and branco for white. When Brazilians referred to themselves or ­others using dif­ fer­ent terms (mestiço or moreno, for instance), I note this in the text. Moreover, when discussing individual ­people, I leave the term in Portuguese. • • •

In early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro, fertility control could mean sexual freedom, in­de­pen­dence from one’s husband, and economic autonomy. ­These practices allowed ­women to break from their prescribed roles as wife and ­mother, and they directly attacked the entire gendered system of honor that reinforced patriarchal norms in a system si­mul­ta­neously racialized and classed. Although an expanding state worked to delegitimize w ­ omen’s reproductive decisions by extending citizenship rights only through maternal ave­ nues, w ­ omen like Isalina Vieira continued to have sex, give birth, and at times control their fertility on their own terms. This book is about their lives.

1

The Law of Responsibility, the Medicine of Gender, the Science of Race

I N J U L Y   1 9 3 0 , two members of the “Mosquito Brigade” (a division of the National Department of Public Health, or Departamento Nacional de Saúde Pública, DNSP) w ­ ere inspecting h ­ ouses in the north-­central neighborhood of Tijuca. When they entered the basement of one home, the two “mosquito killers” (mata-­mosquitos) found a small package.1 Suspicious of its contents, they took it outside to burn. The health inspectors and all the members of the ­house ­were shocked when they discovered that the package contained a dead newborn. The officials called the police, who soon determined that the ­family’s cook, nineteen-­year-­old preta Jovelina Pereira dos Santos, had hidden her pregnancy, given birth in secret, and then allegedly asphyxiated her newborn. Santos told the police that the newborn had died from natu­ral c­ auses, and she referred to common idioms of honor and shame when she testified that she was “embarrassed” b ­ ecause the child was the result of an adulterous ­union. (Santos was married, but the f­ ather of the newborn was another man.) Santos also testified that she already had a young son name Ernesto who was a ­little over one year old. While the forensic tests showed that the child was born alive and died from asphyxiation, the cadaver’s advanced state of decomposition precluded the medico-­legal specialists from determining exactly how the death occurred. Nor could the forensic physicians determine the infant’s “color or race.”2 Witnesses, perhaps ­after police prompting, w ­ ere more cavalier in their racial classifications. They described the infant as “black,” implying that 29

30

Chapter 1

Jovelina was the m ­ other. Although the autopsy produced less than definitive results, the district police chief argued that even if Santos had not strangled the infant, she had still committed infanticide by “the omission of the necessary care.” This was, in part, ­because the chief believed that Santos “knew” how to care for a newborn, “as the accused [Santos] already was a m ­ other, and she should not nor could not ignore the necessity of such care.” A ­ fter hearing witness testimony supporting Santos, however, the police chief acknowledged her expression of shame, arguing that she had committed infanticide to “hide her own dishonor.” According to the police chief, before the alleged infanticide Santos had had “excellent be­hav­ior, earning the trust of ­people in whose ­house she worked.” Both the public prosecutor and the presiding judge agreed. The judge argued that Santos was “married, of good antecedents and of good customs [costumes],” and the prosecution charged her ­under the penal code’s Article 298§, sole paragraph—­infanticide to hide the ­mother’s dishonor. But before the trial could proceed, Santos dis­appeared from her place of employment, and her case never went to court. ­Legal and medical ideas on criminal responsibility in relation to gender and race underpinned Jovelina Pereira dos Santos’s infanticide case. Santos was charged ­under the Penal Code of 1890, whose legislation on infanticide was more expansive and precise than previous iterations, criminalizing both active and inactive mea­sures and relying on forensic medical tests as definitive proof. The code thus treated Santos as a full citizen u ­ nder criminal law, responsible for her actions and subject to punishment. But criminal legislation still incorporated gendered notions of incapacity; the “defense of honor” clause, long existent in Brazilian law, allowed Santos to face a lesser sentence ­because she acted to save her honor. Criminal law’s theoretical situating of ­women as near “citizens,” however, stood in contrast to the other major legislative achievements of the First Republic, the Constitution of 1891 and the Civil Code of 1916, both of which presented ­women as dependents and incapable of making ­legal or po­liti­cal decisions.3 As the first piece of legislation passed in the republican period, the 1890 code was a key part of po­liti­cal attempts to build a modern nation-­state through the codification of legislation a­ fter the fall of the Empire in 1889.4 Republican jurists had hastily passed the 1890 code, which they based in the classical tradition of ­free ­will and individual responsibility. But judicial circles across the hemi­sphere ­were already witnessing the rise of positivist l­egal theory grounded in individualized definitions of crime and sentencing, and in



The Law of Responsibility 31

Brazil the code became a contentious piece of legislation before it was passed into law.5 Moreover, Santos was prosecuted in a moment of l­egal transition, for her case occurred only months before Getúlio Vargas took power. ­Under his leadership, the judicial system institutionalized a positivist l­egal landscape, which viewed crime and its repression in relation to broader attempts to diagnose and control social prob­lems.6 Positivist understandings of gendered responsibility extended beyond the judicial system to influence medical understandings of motherhood. During the First Republic, the medical profession appealed to legislators’ belief in positivism to break the state’s cultural alliance with the church in ­matters of the f­ amily.7 Brazilian physicians had been emphasizing the importance of ­women’s reproduction to the nation since the early nineteenth c­ entury, and the ideology of maternalism, or the belief in ­women’s natu­ral roles as ­mothers, grew as the ­century progressed. By the republican period, however, this discourse had become disconnected from religious ideals. The medical profession’s “scientific motherhood” movement of the 1920s, for example, taught ­women how to scientifically raise their ­children, masking religious understandings of maternity in medical terms.8 ­Women’s health prac­ti­tion­ers co-­ opted religious ideals on traditional gender roles and motherhood to support a new, “scientific” approach that cemented w ­ omen’s natu­ral roles as m ­ others, to argue for the “inalienable” truth that ­women wanted to reproduce, and to channel ­those ideas for the good of the Brazilian nation.9 In Santos’s case, although police officers made no mention of Christian morals in their discussion of her maternal “knowledge,” their emphasis on her innate maternal nature masked longstanding religious ideals in technical language. Gendered ideologies on criminal responsibility relied not only on medical understandings of w ­ omen’s maternal nature but also on racist scientific thought. What started as elites’ complete condemnation of racial mixing ­after abolition shifted into an embrace of miscegenation based on whitening ideals in the 1910s. The mainstream medical establishment, including obstetricians, supported the idea that interracial sex would lead to the whitening of the Brazilian populace. Obstetricians’ turn away from scientific racism ­after abolition also intersected with the burgeoning eugenics movement of the 1920s, which mainly adhered to the neo-­Lamarckian school, emphasizing the influence of environment and be­hav­ior in heredity. In the field of obstetrics, physicians’ support for preventive eugenic mea­sures and their efforts to improve ­women’s mothering skills through education meant that overall they supported the

32

Chapter 1

r­ eproduction of the entire population, no m ­ atter one’s class or race. Police and medical officials did not doubt that Santos should be a ­mother, regardless of her race; in fact, they condemned her for trying to avoid raising another child. Even when some eugenicists supported sterilization in the 1930s, Vargas’s embrace of miscegenation as the basis for Brazilian identity and his alliance with the Catholic Church ensured that ­t hese proposed policies ­were never written into law.10 This chapter explores the ­legal and medical ideologies surrounding the racialized and gendered subject of reproduction in early twentieth-­century Brazil, setting the stage for the rest of the book. The chapter first outlines criminal and civil legislation before juxtaposing the gender ideologies of scientific motherhood with the racial under­pinnings of the eugenics movement. In relation to ­women’s reproductive capabilities, ­legal prac­ti­tion­ers encoded gender equality into criminal law and gender in­equality into civil law while expanding the state’s role in adjudicating ­matters of the ­family. For their part, obstetricians positioned themselves on the front line of improving the “quality” of the Brazilian race. Most impor­tant, obstetricians believed that all ­women—no ­matter their race or class—­should reproduce. The improvement of the nation lay in miscegenation and hygiene, not restricting reproduction. This approach, while less racially exclusionary, still reified w ­ omen’s maternal nature, making motherhood the only manner through which ­women could contribute to the nation.

“With Approval and Agreement of the Pregnant ­Woman”: The Gendered Codification of Criminal Responsibility Understanding how turn-­of-­t he-­century changes in criminal law reinforced gender in­equality in relation to reproduction requires an analy­sis of the longer trajectory of how and why Brazilian law criminalized both abortion and infanticide and how dif­fer­ent judicial apparatuses carried out and enforced ­t hose l­egal prescriptions. In the western world, infanticide and abortion have distinctive timelines of criminalization partly due to changing Catholic doctrine. Church dogma had always considered infanticide a variation of hom­i­ cide. Although the Church had also continuously condemned abortion, theologians’ views of the gravity of the “sin” evolved over time. Medieval religious thinkers relied both on Aristotelian views of natu­ral and moral philosophy



The Law of Responsibility 33

and on the Christian doctrine of the immortal soul to understand abortion, which, while a sin, was only murder if it occurred ­a fter fetal ensoulment. Medieval physicians, for their part, understood fetal formation in an anatomical sense, placing formation from thirty to ninety days according to sex. Theologians, of course, w ­ ere more interested in the fetus’s soul, the acquisition of which made it a h ­ uman being, yet the majority of biblical understandings of the timeline of ensoulment mirrored medical discussions, and ­these doctrines “confirmed and reinforced each other.”11 So whereas the early modern Church vacillated between increasing and decreasing the punishment for abortion of animate versus inanimate fetuses, it never rejected delayed ensoulment.12 In the nineteenth c­ entury, however, scientific advances and the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception (1854), which purported that Mary was f­ ree from sin when she was conceived, resulted in the exclusion of ensoulment caveats from abortion excommunication.13 Abortion thus became a sin of murder when Pope Pius IX (1846–78) published the papal bull Apostolicae sedis (1869), which formally removed all distinction between animate and inanimate fetuses, implicitly positing that life began at conception.14 In the secular ­legal realm, infanticide, as a more public crime that was physically easier to detect than abortion, had a longer history of explicit criminalization.15 ­Legal and medical authorities often conflated the practices, however, and l­ egal definitions of what constituted abortion or infanticide changed over time. The history of abortion and infanticide in Brazil follows t­hese trends to a point. In the sixteenth to eigh­teenth centuries, Portuguese colonial law only indirectly criminalized infanticide and to a lesser extent abortion through veiled references to the practices in the Philippine Ordinances, the 1603 Portuguese code based on Roman and canon law. While the Ordinances made no explicit mention of abortion or infanticide, they condemned “­women who are infamously known to move o ­ thers [fazerem mover outras], or, if one suspects evil around a pregnant ­women’s delivery, her not accounting for it.”16 The first clause, “to move o ­ thers,” implied w ­ omen who performed abortions, and the second, “not accounting for it,” alluded to the concealment of pregnancy and pos­si­ble infanticide.17 Early twentieth-­century jurists believed that judges could have considered infanticide within the Ordinances’ definition of hom­i­cide if they took into account the young age of the victim.18 Thus, despite vague classifications, both the w ­ oman who underwent an abortion or committed infanticide and t­ hose who helped her could theoretically have faced the death penalty.19 Although the state and church condemned abortion and

34

Chapter 1

infanticide across the Portuguese empire, and efforts to repress the practice figured prominently in church writings, Inquisition proceedings, and juridical debates in Brazil and Portugal, colonial authorities did not have the policing capacity to seek out and punish t­ hese practices.20 In the nineteenth c­ entury, western governments increased their repression of infanticide at the same time that they began restricting abortion, often by passing new laws or clarifying old ones. How judicial systems criminalized the practices depended upon their l­egal traditions. In the civil tradition pre­ sent in France and Portugal, law is codified in statutes or codes, whereas in common law, the system that dominates ­England and the United States, both case law and judicial pre­ce­dent produce ­legal doctrine, thus conferring on judges a more active role in jurisprudence.21 In the nineteenth c­ entury, France and Portugal passed modern criminal codes that explic­itly condemned abortion.22 In the United States, no national penal code outlawed abortion; rather, successive state-­level legislation criminalized the practice. By the late nineteenth ­century, physicians had successfully pushed for its criminalization in an effort to professionalize medicine and become a national po­liti­cal force.23 Latin American nations, on the other hand, inherited the civil l­egal tradition of the Iberian Peninsula. In 1830, Brazil was the first Latin American country to codify criminal law into a national code (in effect u ­ ntil 1889), which criminalized abortion and infanticide, defining them as crimes against life and subject to state prosecution.24 Other countries in the region, including Chile, Argentina, and Mexico, passed codes in the following de­cades.25 The 1830 code was based in classical ­legal doctrine, which saw criminal be­hav­ior as the outcome of ­free choice and individual responsibility—­a ll ­people w ­ ere equal before the law—­and defined an act as criminal in­de­pen­dent of the person who committed it.26 Despite the classical code’s basis in Enlightenment equality (or perhaps b ­ ecause of it), it still enshrined gendered differences of ­legal responsibility.27 Acting with “superiority of sex” counted as an aggravating circumstance and resulted in harsher punishment.28 Convicted ­women, moreover, ­were to be imprisoned and never subjected to forced ­labor.29 And courts could not prosecute or put to death a pregnant w ­ oman u ­ ntil forty days ­a fter she had given birth.30 ­These caveats ­were not enough to please all ­legal minds. The poet and positivist jurist Tobias Barreto, for example, proposed in 1884 that “the female sex should form, in and of itself, a ponderable circumstance in the appreciation of the crime.”31 For Barreto, being a w ­ oman was itself an attenuating circumstance. His position would continue to influence



The Law of Responsibility 35

Brazilian jurists into the twentieth ­century; in fact, one of his disciples, Clóvis Beviláqua, would write the country’s first civil code in 1916.32 The 1830 code explic­itly criminalized abortion and infanticide, but it did not clearly define the crimes, and thus created juridical doubts. Infanticide was divided into two articles, which differentiated between the ­mother who committed infanticide and infanticide practiced by anyone e­ lse. Article 197 defined the crime as when any person killed a “newborn,” with prison time from three to twelve years and a fine.33 Article 198 referred specifically to the ­mother: “If the child’s own ­mother kills the newborn to hide her dishonor; sentence: imprisonment with work for one to three years.”34 The dishonor of having an out-­of-­wedlock child mediated the crime, a holdover from the Ordinances’ medieval concepts of honor and morality.35 The code made no specific reference to m ­ others who committed infanticide for reasons other than dishonor, and it appears that they would have been tried ­under the crime’s harsher definition. Additionally, neither article clarified the age at which a newborn was legally considered a child. B ­ ecause the killing of a newborn was infanticide whereas the killing of a child was murder (with more severe punishments including the death penalty), jurists argued that this ambiguity created doctrinal doubts about the crimes.36 Physicians, tasked with performing the medical-­legal exams required to determine the crime, also criticized the code over its ambiguous definition of a “newborn.” U ­ ntil the mid-1880s, most physicians supported the definition put forth by the French physician Charles-­Prosper Ollivier d’Angers, which defined the “newborn” period as the time between when an infant first respired ­until the fall of its umbilical cord, from three to eight days of life.37 Of course, in an era of rampant neonatal tetanus, or the “seven-­day evil” (o mal de sete dias), this definition would have opened up many ­mothers to the charge of infanticide.38 The 1830 code also covered abortion ­under two articles. Article 199 read: “To cause an abortion, employing any means, internal or external, with the consent of the pregnant w ­ oman.”39 The sentence was prison with work from one to five years. If the abortion was supposedly committed without the consent of the pregnant w ­ oman, the sentence was doubled.40 Article 200 read: “To provide with knowledge of the cause, drugs, or any methods, to cause an abortion, even if it is not successful.”41 The sentence: prison with work from two to six years, and if the abortion was practiced by a doctor or midwife the sentence doubled.42 Jurists argued that Article 199 referred to a successful abortion (that is, one in which the pregnant ­woman expelled a dead fetus),

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while Article 200 criminalized the attempt—­independent of w ­ hether the 43 ­woman aborted the fetus. Neither article criminalized the pregnant ­woman, however. Although Article 200 appears to reference the ­woman who provoked an abortion on herself, it only criminalized the third party who provided the knowledge, drugs, or means for the pregnant ­woman to do so. Matthieu de Castelbajac argues that the 1830 code forwent punishing the w ­ oman due to its liberal under­ pinnings, particularly the idea of a public-­private divide. The intervention of a third party (midwife or physician) implied that the crime was perpetrated in the public sphere, and thus the state could intervene. A w ­ oman who provoked her own abortion, however, was acting within the private sphere, and the state did not have the right to act.44 Other Latin American codes, including in Mexico and Argentina, criminalized w ­ omen, but in practice ­t hese countries targeted providers and acquitted w ­ omen, mirroring Brazilian law.45 Furthermore, Leslie Reagan describes the late nineteenth-­century criminalization of abortion in the United States as a pro­cess in which “the private invaded the public.”46 It appears that Brazilian law had a stricter divide. One pos­si­ble influence was the patriarchalist view of the public and the private that was forged ­u nder slavery. In theory the ­father, the husband, or the slave owner addressed the private issue of a w ­ oman’s abortion, and the state regulated the public issue of abortion providers. But patriarchalism, or the extension of this ­house­hold structure into public governance, was deeply entrenched in nineteenth-­century Brazilian society.47 Thus, in real­ity, both abortion and infanticide remained within the bounds of the h ­ ouse­hold.48 In the end, new laws did not translate into increased repression, and the number of cases involving abortion and infanticide, even in Rio de Janeiro, ­were few and far between.49 The passage of the republican Penal Code of 1890 (in effect ­until 1940) expanded w ­ omen’s criminal responsibility for the crime of abortion and implemented harsher sentences for both abortion and infanticide. Despite ­these changes, the code immediately gained vehement detractors within the country’s growing positivist ­legal movement. The code adhered to classical law in the tradition of its 1830 counterpart, theoretically applying the same standard for all crimes, regardless of the perpetrator. But jurists passed the legislation in a period in which positivist law had become embedded in Brazilian l­egal thought and practice.50 Brazilian adherents to positivism believed in the individualization of the law based on a scientific understanding of the criminal



The Law of Responsibility 37

and her biological, psychological, and environmental context; thus, sentencing depended on the individual and not the crime.51 Notwithstanding the contested nature of the code’s theoretical foundation, t­ hese laws—­a nd their implementation—­reshaped the criminalization of abortion and infanticide in impor­tant ways, and this new l­egal emphasis informed how the criminal justice system and the medical profession viewed w ­ omen’s reproduction more generally. Like its 1830 counterpart, the 1890 code defined abortion and infanticide as crimes against persons and subject to state prosecution.52 It further included more technical legal-­medical definitions of fetal life. In contrast to the 1830 code, the 1890 code specifically delineated the time a­ fter which an infanticide became a hom­i­cide. Article 298 read: “To kill a newborn . . . ​in the first seven days of its life, by employing direct and active methods, or by denying the victim the care necessary for the maintenance of life and to prevent its death.”53 The sentence: prison from six to twenty-­four years. This modification separated infanticide from hom­i­cide and increased the severity of the prison sentence for the former.54 Maternal honor also continued to play a role in republican infanticide law. Article 298§ reduced the prison sentence to between three and nine years, “if the crime was perpetrated by the m ­ other to hide her 55 own dishonor.” Although the new code clarified ­legal doubts over what the law considered a newborn, forensic physicians and jurists remained unconvinced. In 1885, several years before the passage of the code, famed medico-­legal physician Agostinho José de Souza Lima published an influential article in which he criticized the 1830 code’s haphazard definition of the crime, arguing that in medico-­legal terms, infanticide should refer only to the killing of an infant in its first twenty-­four hours of life.56 This shifted medical and ­legal views of the crime. As a result, republican physicians and ­lawyers, building upon Lima’s treatise, rejected the 1890 code’s definition, arguing that jurists should have fixed the period for infanticide at twenty-­four hours, insofar as in their eyes the crime was almost always premeditated and occurred immediately ­a fter birth.57 For abortion, the republican document expanded a ­woman’s ­legal responsibility while still including honor as a qualification to the sentence.58 Although the 1830 code only criminalized the abortion provider, its 1890 counterpart punished both unlicensed and licensed providers and ­women themselves. Article 300 read: “To provoke an abortion, with or without the

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expulsion of the fruit of conception.”59 If the abortion occurred, the prison sentence ranged from two to six years; if the procedure was unsuccessful, the prison sentence was reduced from six months to one year; and if the ­woman died (§1), prison time increased to between six and twenty-­four years.60 Fi­nally, if a licensed doctor or midwife performed the abortion (§2), the sentence included both the prison sentence and the corresponding loss of his or her medical license. Article 301, with a sentence of imprisonment from one to five years, was the only specific reference to the ­woman. The article first criminalized the abortion provider who provoked “an abortion with approval and agreement of the pregnant ­woman,” before it made its only reference to ­women’s reproductive agency (Article 301§1): “The same penalty ­w ill apply to the pregnant w ­ oman that voluntarily gets an abortion . . . ​w ith a reduction in the third part if the crime was committed to hide the ­woman’s own dishonor.”61 If tried ­under the honor clause, the ­woman faced from four to twenty months in prison. The law’s unclear language surrounding the notion of a ­woman’s consent was one reason, as we w ­ ill see in Chapter 7, that prosecutors rarely brought ­women to trial for abortion and focused instead on abortion providers. In practice, then, the judicial system disregarded the law’s newfound criminalization of w ­ omen. However, the 1890 code followed its pre­de­ces­sor by reducing the sentence for infanticide and abortion in relation to a ­woman’s honor. In the letter of the law, a ­woman who did not adhere to gendered sexual standards should be punished; however, if she practiced fertility control to maintain her honor, the law should consider her intention. And although the 1890 code expanded w ­ omen’s criminal responsibility in relation to abortion, it still retained general gendered caveats regarding ­legal responsibility, including the “superiority of sex” as an aggravating circumstance.62 Accompanying ­t hese ­legal discussions on honor, responsibility, and punishment ­were medico-­legal debates over the difference between infanticide and abortion. Specifically, jurists’ and physicians’ understandings of fetal viability and personhood s­ haped the way they differentiated between (or confused) the two crimes. Nineteenth-­century western forensic medicine debated w ­ hether viability was a prerequisite for the crime of infanticide. In Brazil, some argued that the newborn infant did not need to be “suited for extra-­uterine life” for its murder to be considered infanticide.63 Lima, for example, claimed that viability was irrelevant: “As fragile as its [the newborn’s] existence may be, to end it is a crime.”64 The majority of his colleagues, however, agreed with Auguste



The Law of Responsibility 39

Ambroise Tardieu, a leading French medico-­legal physician, who argued that viability defined the crime.65 And although the 1890 code made no reference to viability in its articles on infanticide, medico-­legal and ­legal theorists had solidified this doctrine by the early twentieth ­century.66 Questions of fetal viability and infanticide had direct implications for ­legal understandings of premature fetal death—­abortion. Most nineteenth-­and early twentieth-­century western criminal codes adhered to one of two doctrines in relation to abortion, which stemmed from Roman and l­ater canon law.67 Feticide (feticídio) referred to the death of the fetus. Abortion (aborto), part of the Brazilian code, referred to the act of provoking a premature expulsion of the fetus, and thus it was a physiological action upon the ­woman’s body, although it could also encapsulate the death of the fetus in utero.68 In the nineteenth ­century, some Brazilian medico-­legal physicians argued that abortion only referred to the act of provoking an expulsion of the fetus (and not necessarily its death), and thus abortion and infanticide could coincide if a w ­ oman provoked an abortion that resulted in the birth of a live child, which she then killed.69 It was the intent (dolo) that mattered.70 To some extent, the 1890 code included this idea of “intent”; Article 300 defined abortion, a­ fter all, as the provoking of an abortion “with or without the expulsion of the fruit of conception.”71 Jurists, however, argued that the craf­ters of the code had confused criminal intent with the a­ ctual crime.72 By the early twentieth ­century, some medico-­legal physicians argued that changing the crime of abortion to feticide would clarify ­t hese doctrinal (and practical) doubts. If a provoked abortion expelled a live fetus that died ­after its birth without any further action on the part of the ­mother, it remained feticide. If it was born alive a­ fter a provoked delivery and then the ­mother actively killed it, it was infanticide.73 This, of course, did not take into account the 1890 code’s inclusion of infanticide by omission, which already covered the first hypothesis within its statutes. Lima favored Italian medico-­legal physician Giuseppe Lazzaretti’s definition of feticide. Lazzaretti declared that feticide was the “murder” of a fetus in utero, which resulted in its expulsion.74 His definition referenced the death of the fetus as the primary crime. This was in contrast to abortion, which referred to the premature expulsion of the fetus. As Lima wrote, Brazil’s 1890 code included the crime of abortion in the section “crimes against security and persons.” But ­because abortion referred to the w ­ oman’s body, which expelled the fetus, and ­because the code included stipulations for maternal

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death, itself, according to Lima, “the exception to the rule,” it was misguided. According to Lima, the true “crime against persons” was the death of the fetus and not the pos­si­ble death of the ­mother.75 Other Brazilian medico-­legal specialists and jurists rejected the doctrine of feticide, however. João Vieira de Araujo, for example, argued in 1902 that changing the code’s definition from abortion to feticide would have classified the crime as a variant of hom­i­cide, an erroneous definition ­because the fetus was not separate from the ­mother.76 Part of the issue was the incongruence between criminal law and obstetric definitions of fetal development. The latter defined a miscarriage (aborto espontâneo) as the expulsion of the product of conception before viability, or roughly six months gestation. ­After that, it became a premature delivery (parto prematuro).77 As Lima argued for feticide, relying on obstetric definitions meant that the provoked expulsion of a ­viable fetus that did not die as a result of the procedure would be considered only a “premature birth” and not abortion.78 By the 1910s, however, ­legal medicine had established viability at six months and declared that it had no bearing on the crime of abortion.79 A criminal abortion was the in utero death (and then expulsion) of the fetus during any gestational period. As the medico-­legal specialist Afrânio Peixoto argued, “our penal code clearly distinguishes between the crime of abortion and that of infanticide: one, corresponding from pregnancy u ­ ntil its natu­ral term; the other, relative for a newborn from that moment [of birth] to seven days ­later.”80 As we ­will see, for less studied ­legal prac­ti­tion­ers—­the police officers who investigated the crimes and even the l­ awyers who prosecuted them—­these confusions did not fade away with the consolidation of medico-­legal doctrine. The crimes of abortion and infanticide w ­ ere also indirectly affected by new laws regulating the practice of medicine. The 1890 code criminalized the illegal practice of medicine, charlatanism, and healing (curandeirismo) (Articles 156, 157, 158).81 While the Philippine Ordinances outlawed witchcraft and sacrilegious healing practices, the 1830 Criminal Code omitted both t­ hese and the illegal practice of medicine from its statutes. Nineteenth-­century public health boards regulated medical licensing standards, but this made practicing medicine without a license a regulatory offense and not a criminal one.82 The 1890 code, then was the first to explic­itly criminalize t­ hese practices in Brazil, and it classified them as crimes against public health, to be prosecuted by the state. It is perhaps unsurprising that physicians w ­ ere the main lobbying force for the inclusion of ­t hese crimes in the republican ­legal code. Beginning in the 1880s, physicians argued for a state crackdown on quacks and charlatans,



The Law of Responsibility 41

purging their own ranks of ­t hose who sought to muddy the status of professional medicine.83 The illegal practice of medicine (Article 156) related most directly to the practices of abortion and infanticide, as many midwives or physicians who provided abortions practiced illegally and ­were prosecuted ­under its auspices. The law criminalized the “exercise of medicine in any of its fields . . . ​w ithout being licensed according to the laws and regulations,” and it carried a prison sentence of six months and a fine.84 The law further stipulated (§) that the practitioner would be legally liable for any other crimes, such as hom­i­cide, that occurred during medical treatment.85 At first, jurists debated ­whether the law contradicted Article 72§24 of the 1891 constitution (passed a­ fter the 1890 code), which guaranteed the “­free exercise of any profession.”86 The republican government mitigated this l­egal conflict in 1904, however, when it passed Decree 5156, a sweeping piece of sanitation legislation that restricted “the art of curing” in any of its fields to licensed prac­ti­tion­ers.87 Article 157 criminalized spiritism, magic, and charlatanism but excluded the practice of “curing,” which was addressed in Article 158: “To administer, or simply prescribe, as a curative method for internal or external use, and ­under any prepared form, substance of any of the kingdoms of nature, ­doing, or thus exercising, the craft of healer [curandeiro].”88 The crime held the same sentence as Article 156, with successive increases in punishment if the prescriber caused physical or m ­ ental harm or death.89 ­Here I focus on Articles 156 and 158 as the state prosecuted reproductive healthcare u ­ nder their statutes.90 The only time the police investigated or arrested a practitioner for charges related to ­women’s health ­under Article 157, it was in conjunction with ­either Article 156 or Article 158.91 How did the increased regulation of the medical profession affect the criminalization of abortion and infanticide? In the first several de­cades of the republic, the criminal justice system sporadically investigated physicians and midwives who provided gynecologic and obstetric care without a license. In the 1920s, the number of investigations increased, a trend seen in the heightened prosecution of not only reproductive healthcare but also all healing-­ related practices.92 Further change occurred ­a fter Vargas came to power and passed successive laws that expanded the criminal justice mandate t­ oward the illegal practice of medicine. In 1931, for example, the city’s police force created a special division for the suppression of “Drugs, Narcotics, and Mystifications” (Tóxicos, Entorpecentes e Mistificações). This inspectorate cracked down

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on unlicensed midwifery clinics, among other targets, for containing illegal medi­cations.93 ­Women’s access to reproductive healthcare, which often lay in the hands of unlicensed prac­ti­tion­ers, became subject to police surveillance and state prosecution. Yet it was midwives, and not their female patients, who faced full ­legal responsibility.94 The practice of the law further circumscribed potential ­mothers’ criminal responsibility.

Married W ­ omen, “Savages,” and Youth: The Civil Incapability of the Weaker Sex While abortion and infanticide law treated ­women as citizens subject to the full extent of the law (with some caveats), the 1891 constitution excluded ­women from po­liti­cal citizenship. Article 70, which expanded suffrage to literate Brazilians, did not explic­itly mention ­women, a fact that male politicians interpreted to exclude ­women from voting or holding elected office.95 Middle-­and upper-­class ­women w ­ ere not content with this marginalization in the po­liti­cal sphere, and a­ fter World War I, Brazilian feminists formed the Brazilian Federation for Feminine Pro­gress (Federação Brasileiro pelo Progresso Feminino, FBPF) to fight for ­women’s suffrage. It would take regime change, however, for the government to support gender equality. In 1932, ­under Vargas’s provisional government, the FBPF won, for literate w ­ omen 96 over the age of twenty-­one, the right to vote. In the lead-up to the 1934 rewriting of the constitution, feminists also successfully lobbied for the inclusion of feminist princi­ples including w ­ omen’s suffrage, equality before the law regardless of sex, and l­abor legislation such as paid maternity leave.97 In fact, throughout the early to mid-1930s, the FBPF, led by Bertha Lutz, shifted ­towards promoting w ­ omen’s economic and social rights, broadening their appeal to working-­class w ­ omen.98 Of course, many working-­class w ­ omen in the industrial sector had long advocated for ­t hese rights within the Brazilian Communist Party, even if male u ­ nion leaders w ­ ere less sympathetic to their claims.99 By 1937, however, Vargas had dissolved congress and ended electoral politics; thus, many of the gains ­women had made three years ­earlier ­were never implemented.100 Both the 1934 and 1937 constitutions, moreover, reinforced the importance of the nuclear, patriarchal ­family to the ­f uture of the nation.101 Civil law, for its part, explic­itly subordinated married ­women to their husbands. Brazilian civil legislators based their proj­ects on the 1804 Napole-



The Law of Responsibility 43

onic Code, which dictated not only property relations but also personal ones, prescribing men and w ­ omen’s roles in the f­amily and in society at large.102 Whereas neighboring countries like Chile and Argentina passed a civil code in the nineteenth c­ entury, Brazilian jurists failed to do so. As Keila Grinberg has shown, the nineteenth-­century po­liti­cal alliance between church and state, the continued power of the extended patriarchal ­family, and, most impor­tant, the incompatibility of liberalism’s doctrine of equal rights with the institution of slavery, all hindered the imperial government’s passage of a comprehensive civil code.103 ­Until the country’s code went into effect in the early twentieth c­ entury, then, Brazil still relied on the Ordinances as well as imperial and republican decrees that regulated civil and property relationships and rights.104 While the incompatibility of liberal law with slavery ended ­after abolition, debates over w ­ omen’s rights continued to plague national efforts at passing civil legislation. When renowned l­awyer Clóvis Beviláqua took on the proj­ ect of redacting a civil code in 1899, for example, numerous congressional committees heatedly debated its wording, and it took seventeen years before it became law in 1916 (although personal animosities and grammatical scuffles ­were part of the delay).105 The reformist Beviláqua tried to expand w ­ omen’s civil rights in his first draft of the code—­supporting divorce, elevating married w ­ omen’s decision-­making capabilities in the ­family, and expanding the possibility for illegitimate ­children to inherit—­but the vari­ous legislative committees that debated the draft rejected ­t hese attempts at gender equality. In the 1916 code, Article 6 equated married ­women with minors and “savages” (selvícolas), and they remained legally subordinate to their husbands who exercised parental rights (pátrio poder) over their ­children.106 The code also outlawed divorce (although annulment and judicial separation ­were allowed) and reinforced a double sexual standard in relation to illegitimacy.107 The code enshrined the longstanding Iberian ­legal tradition of granting married c­ ouples equal owner­ship over communal property, but it also introduced new patriarchal practices that had not existed in the imperial period, forcing ­women to automatically acquire their husbands’ surnames and requiring husbands to support their f­ amily.108 A wife needed her husband’s permission to pursue remunerated work outside the home, although she had the individual right to dispose of her wages as she saw fit.109 Despite the ideological kerfuffle between reformist and conservative jurists over definitions of the f­amily, neither questioned the po­liti­cal importance of

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the institution to the ­future of the country.110 Beviláqua himself began his ­introduction to the code emphasizing both the Brazilian ­family and his own: “If the general interest of society dominates the relations of civil law, the influence of the f­ amily is more intense an influence on it. In the Civil Code, the thinking of the ­family occupies a lengthy space: in this book, the affection of the home was an inspiring light, of a soft irradiance, but per­sis­tent.”111 A crucial aspect of this view of the ­family was an emphasis on ­women’s inherent maternal nature. For example, in his discussion of ­women taking their husbands’ name upon marriage, Beviláqua argued it did not imply that ­women ­were “lesser” in the ­family. Rather, they ­were better suited to run the domestic domain “for which they received from nature par­tic­u ­lar talents.”112 Brazilian society had naturalized w ­ omen’s maternal disposition, and civil legislators incorporated this thinking into codified law. Scholars have analyzed the civil code in relation to ­women’s marital and parental rights, property owner­ship, and sexual honor, but they have paid less attention to the code’s discussion of fetal rights, which ­were an impor­tant part of civil law. Article 4 stated: “The civil personality of man commences at his birth with life; but the Law protects, from conception, the rights of the unborn person [nascituro].”113 Beviláqua contended that a “natu­ral” person was a subject with laws and duties, and that birth was the moment in which the ­human’s personality was consolidated, as it marked the beginning of juridical life.114 Yet the code still afforded the unborn child l­egal protection, and it included vari­ous conditions that granted a fetus full civil rights (if only to be exercised a­ fter birth).115 Article 357§ and Article 363§1, §2, for instance, stipulated the ­legal par­a meters surrounding conception, illegitimacy, and property rights. ­Fathers could legitimize a child “only conceived,” and illegitimate ­children could demand parental recognition and inheritance upon reaching adulthood depending on when they ­were conceived.116 Articles 1169 and 1718 further clarified when an unborn child could receive donations or inheritance.117 Propertied Cariocas took t­ hese rights seriously. In July 1921, for example, twenty-­nine-­year-­old Ernestina da Silva Gonçalves was three months pregnant. When her husband died suddenly, her ­lawyer advised her to get medical confirmation of her pregnancy to ensure the inheritance rights of her unborn child.118 In the 1930s, experts debated ­whether they could apply ­t hese new civil definitions of life in the criminal context. Physician Joaquim Moreira da Fonseca argued, for example, that civil law influenced “the entire juridical order.”119



The Law of Responsibility 45

­ awyer Melchiades Picanço, however, rejected a “complete harmony between L penal and civil law” when he wrote that “civil responsibility . . . ​cannot be confused with criminal responsibility.”120 For Picanço, nonetheless, abortion was “a crime against the security of the person and life,” and thus criminal law implicitly inferred life upon the fetus.121 Accordingly, most criminal jurists argued that while civil law had no bearing on penal jurisprudence, it did protect the fetus from conception. And b ­ ecause the penal code put abortion ­under “crimes against persons and life,” criminal law clearly considered the fetus a person—­w ith rights.122 The civil code’s section on the ­legal guardianship of incapacitated persons (curatela) stipulated the par­ameters of juridical repre­sen­ta­tion for the unborn child, and it brings into sharp contrast the in­equality of fetal and maternal rights within civil legislation. Article 462 read that “a ­legal representative [curador] ­shall be assigned to the nascituro, if the f­ather dies while the wife is pregnant and [she] does not have pátrio poder. Single Paragraph. If the wife is interdicted [legally incapacitated], her curator s­ hall be [the same as] that of the unborn child (Art. 458).”123 In what instances, however, would a pregnant w ­ oman have, or lose, l­egal jurisdiction over her unborn child? The civil code stated that f­athers, and not m ­ others, exercised pátrio poder over their ­children, although an illegitimate m ­ other exercised it in the absence of paternal recognition.124 The code further stipulated that if a ­woman’s husband died, she assumed pátrio poder.125 But a ­mother (or ­father) could lose parental rights for excessive punishment, abandonment, or for “practicing acts against morality and good customs [contrários à moral e aos bons costumes].”126 And, perhaps most impor­tant, ­either parent could lose pátrio poder if found guilty for crimes whose sentence exceeded two years in prison (for instance, infanticide).127 Hypothetically, then, in certain circumstances a pregnant ­woman whose husband had died while she was pregnant, or a single pregnant ­woman who had subsequently lost her parental rights, had no ­legal standing in relation to the child she was carry­ing in her womb. Rather, a court-­appointed l­ egal representative exercised t­ hose rights. Jovelina Pereira dos Santos, for example, had not been living with her husband when she conceived. The civil code stated that if the child was unrecognized by its ­father, the ­mother had pátrio poder but it did not clarify ­legal rights in the case of a child of an adulterine relationship.128 Of course, Santos precluded any hy­po­t het­i­cal ­legal wrangling over her child by killing it, and if she had not committed infanticide, she prob­ably

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would have mothered the child outside the reaches of the ­legal system. Thus, although t­hese scenarios existed more in the realm of l­egal theory than in daily practice, the manner in which civil law incorporated fetal and maternal rights set the tone for ­women’s larger position in civil society as ­mothers. As we ­w ill see, obstetricians seized upon the code’s discussion of fetal rights to argue both for and against therapeutic abortions, ultimately valorizing fetal rights over ­t hose of the ­mother. The civil code’s understanding of ­women’s ­legal responsibility ­u nder criminal law further underscores the contradictory position ­women held in early twentieth-­century Brazilian ­legal regimes. Article 242§6 outlined ­under which circumstances a married ­woman needed her husband’s permission to exercise ­legal rights in the public sphere, and it prohibited married w ­ omen from litigating in civil or commercial courts. But Beviláqua argued that a married w ­ oman could defend herself in criminal litigation without her husband’s authority.129 The patriarchal reach of criminal law, then, superseded a husband’s individual ­legal rights. In abortion and infanticide law, the penal code defined w ­ omen as full citizens subject to prosecution u ­ nder the law. In the civil realm, state regulations shared patriarchal control with the male head of ­house­hold. A ­woman who committed the unthinkable act of abortion or infanticide, rebelled against not only her husband (if married) but also the state, giving it the right to intervene.

“The F ­ amily Is a Bio-­S ocial Unit”: Mothering Racially Fit Citizens Beviláqua’s understanding of w ­ omen’s position within the f­ amily underscores the impor­tant role patriarchal understandings of motherhood played in definitions of w ­ omen’s juridical responsibility. But his description of the f­amily as a “bio-­social unit” also demonstrates the l­egal sphere’s incorporation of medical discussions of motherhood.130 Elites had valorized w ­ omen’s roles as ­mothers since the beginning of Portugal’s colonization proj­ect. The colonial church, for example, saw m ­ others as a conduit through which they could transmit cultural values and institutionalize church authority within the ­family.131 In the nineteenth c­ entury, however, the medical profession slowly began to co-­opt the church’s hegemonic control over social understandings of maternity, and with it, definitions of gender and sexuality. Much like the church, the medical profession redefined motherhood to institutionalize its



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position in society.132 The field of obstetrics was at the forefront of the campaign to valorize motherhood through their adoption of the science of puericulture, or the “scientific cultivation of the child,” which began in mid-­ nineteenth-­century France u ­ nder obstetrician Adolphe Pinard in response to low fertility and high infant and maternal mortality rates.133 French puericulture linked pronatalism to medicine, and obstetricians saw ­mothers and ­children as, according to Nancy Leys Stepan, a “reproductive, collective po­liti­ cal economy.”134 Puericulture was influential in Brazil’s medical circles where physicians, like their Latin American counter­parts, drew from the French intellectual tradition.135 By the republican period, Carioca obstetricians invoked pronatalist sentiments in their writings, privileging the “mother-­child unit” as a place of medical intervention and introducing the notion of ­children as po­liti­cal goods, an idea Vargas seized upon in the late 1930s.136 By the 1920s, the medical profession—in par­tic­u ­lar obstetricians and pediatricians—­began promoting the idea of scientific motherhood, a technocratic approach ­toward childrearing that, although relying on essentialist maternalist understandings of w ­ omen’s nature, nevertheless emphasized medical knowledge and interventions.137 As with burgeoning maternal-­infant health movements across the hemi­sphere, Brazilian physicians thus extended maternal meta­phors beyond w ­ omen’s “inherent” knowledge to encompass the impor­tant role science should play in the reproduction of the Brazilian population.138 Through advances in medicine and hygiene, physicians would improve clinical care, reduce infant mortality, and educate m ­ others on how to properly raise ­children. In d ­ oing so, obstetricians and pediatricians legitimized their own profession as the way to a healthier and stronger nation. Physicians engaged in a pedagogical proj­ect that taught ­women to care for their ­children’s physical health and moral education while si­mul­ta­neously introducing and cementing bourgeois values and skills.139 Female obstetrician Irêne Drummond’s 1932 Maternity Primer (Cartilha da maternidade) underscores this emphasis. In it, Drummond advised her pregnant patients that “the use of pants that are loose in the waist or shirt pants that are now in style, is indispensable, and they should be ironed before worn.”140 Medical approaches ­toward motherhood clearly relied on essentialist understandings of gender difference based in the biological body.141 Even feminists fighting for equality in politics and the workforce ­were not immune. Katherine Marino has shown that Bertha Lutz, for example, believed that feminist demands for equality would allow w ­ omen to overcome their “biological limitations” based on anatomy.142

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The scientific motherhood movement allied itself with not only gender essentialism but also racialized scientific theory.143 The turn of the c­ entury was a key period in which Brazilian intellectuals harnessed Eu­ro­pean theories of racial hierarchy to reaffirm social inequalities in the face of the abolition of slavery and the implementation of democracy.144 But Brazil was facing a dif­fer­ ent demographic real­ity from Europe a­ fter a nearly four-­century involvement in chattel slavery that resulted in the forced importation of over five million enslaved Africans.145 In Rio de Janeiro, for example, a ­little over 37 ­percent of the population was of African descent in 1890.146 Thus, the country’s intellectuals had to fit Eu­ro­pean racial theories into a local context.147 Social Darwinism, which posited that the races formed a natu­ral hierarchy, and that miscegenation worked against this division and thus led to degeneration, was a prominent racial ideology in post-­abolition Brazil.148 Yet it was a contradictory position for Brazilian elites, who faced the demographic consequences of centuries of slavery and miscegenation: a large population of color. Lilia Schwarcz argues that in response to this theoretical and “practical” dilemma, Brazilian thinkers adapted the theory of social evolutionism, which posited that all races w ­ ere evolving t­ oward a state of “perfectibility.” Social evolutionism did not negate that hierarchical racial differences existed; rather, it supported the view that miscegenation would lead to a better race b ­ ecause white genes would prevail.149 The result was the creation of an explicit “whitening thesis” in the first de­cades of the Republic, which, on the surface, seemed more benign than its scientific racist pre­de­ces­sor. As Paulina Alberto has shown, however, the whitening thesis put forth the idea that Brazilian miscegenation was proof of the country’s “unique openness and enlightenment in racial m ­ atters,” while si­mul­ ta­neously envisioning “the disappearance of nonwhite ­people.”150 High rates of Eu­ro­pean immigration (supported by state governments like São Paulo) and the elite belief that mixed-­race Brazilians preferred lighter-­skinned partners underpinned this argument.151 The whitening thesis ameliorated Eu­ro­pean claims of degeneracy while still upholding whiteness as the ideal; through miscegenation, “superior” white genes would triumph over their indigenous and African counter­parts. Some elites, for example, the Bahian medico-­legal physician Raimundo Nina Rodrigues, continued to despair about their country’s “degenerate” racial state at the turn of the ­century. Much like Tobias Barreto had argued for gender a de­cade e­ arlier, Rodrigues combined racial theories of degeneracy with positivist criminology to argue for differential l­egal applica-



The Law of Responsibility 49

tions based on race in his 1894 book on the subject. How could a black (negro) Brazilian, who had the “fickle” character of a child, have ­free ­will and thus full ­legal responsibility in criminal law?152 For Rodrigues, the right to be punished equally implied that blacks, Indians, and mestizos had equal intelligence and capacity for rational thought as did white Brazilians. B ­ ecause this was not the case, according to Rodrigues, criminal law needed to be reformed.153 Moreover, as Mariza Corrêa has demonstrated, Rodrigues linked blackness and femaleness together in a web of inferiority, superimposing his beliefs about female hysteria onto the black race and its alleged hypersexuality back onto w ­ omen of color. For Rodrigues, both w ­ omen and African-­descended p ­ eople w ­ ere inferior to white Brazilians, which criminal law needed to reflect.154 But other jurists, including ­those who drafted the 1890 penal code, rejected his ideas.155 The majority of Brazilian scientific and l­egal thinkers came to terms with their country’s racial makeup through the theory of whitening. This turn t­ oward whitening coincided with the arrival of eugenics in the country. When psychiatrist Renato Kehl formed the country’s first eugenics society in São Paulo in 1918, Brazil became the first Latin American nation to host one. As the eugenics movement gained force in the 1920s and moved its headquarters to Rio de Janeiro, leading physicians like medico-­legal specialist Afrânio Peixoto and Fernando Magalhães, known as the “­father” of Brazilian obstetrics, joined its ranks. Nancy Leys Stepan demonstrates that most Brazilian eugenicists propagated a neo-­Lamarckian theory of heredity. French naturalist Jean-­Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet (the Chevalier de Lamarck) believed that altering an organism’s environment could produce permanent hereditary changes (transmutation) that could be passed on to ­future generations. Mendelian theory (the basis of our modern knowledge of ge­ne­tics) separated heredity from environmental influences, and Mendelian scientists did not believe changes in the social environment would permanently change hereditary traits.156 The Brazilian scientific community’s Lamarckian roots resulted in support of “preventive” mea­sures, which worked to improve the health and social hygiene of the population at large, rather than the negative eugenic mea­sures like sterilization that dominated the United States’ Mendelian-­based eugenics movement.157 Brazilian public health reformers’ insistence that science and medicine could combat “degeneration” through disease control and sanitary mea­sures further supported this claim.158 Yet, the Brazilian eugenics movement was never that cut-­a nd-­dried. As Vanderlei Sebastião de Souza has argued, while eugenicists initially adhered

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to neo-­Lamarckianism, by the late 1920s and early 1930s some leading thinkers ­were operating within a Mendelian intellectual framework. Moreover, Mendelian eugenicists in Brazil w ­ ere not all supporters of negative mea­sures; in fact, many supported preventive or positive mea­sures.159 By the late 1920s, some Brazilian eugenicists of the Mendelian bend had shifted t­oward a negative position. They advocated for more coercive mea­ sures like the sterilization of “degenerate” individuals and the regulation of marriage through prenuptial certificates.160 The rise of German eugenics influenced Kehl and a small group of Mendelian psychiatrists, who expanded their definition of what caused “degeneration” to include urbanization, alcoholism, syphilis, tuberculosis, leprosy, and environmental defects, thus incorporating the issues that the movement previously had viewed from a preventive framework.161 Brazilian theories of degeneration w ­ ere thus malleable in the early twentieth ­century. Some thinkers like Rodrigues understood the term in relation to race—as an individual characteristic based on phenotype and as the collective citizenry.162 ­Others viewed degeneration in terms of psychiatric decline, which although related to race, was not exclusive to it. This psychiatric vein gained prominence in the late 1920s.163 At that time, some physicians, mainly psychiatrists led by Kehl, believed that the sterilization of specific ­people was for the “good of the ­family, society, collectivity, and country [pátria].”164 Other Brazilian intellectuals rejected this more negative trend, however.165 At the First Brazilian Eugenics Conference in 1929, for example, anthropologist Edgar Roquette-­Pinto, who was also a Mendelian theorist, vehemently opposed the racist position of many members. He continued to argue, using Mendel’s theory of heredity, that the “Brazilian prob­lem” was not one of race but one of hygiene.166 Most importantly for w ­ omen’s reproduction is that the field of obstetrics—­ led by Fernando Magalhães—­remained firmly rooted in a preventive or positive framework. Scholars have expertly detailed the intellectual complexities of the eugenics movement and how it changed over time, but their discussion of sterilization and other policies related to w ­ omen’s reproduction has focused mainly on the psychiatrists who proposed (if unsuccessfully) sterilization policies in the 1930s. I contend that this approach overlooks obstetricians’ role in the eugenics movement. A ­ fter all, it was obstetricians who had clinical contact with w ­ omen on a daily basis, and it was their job to deliver the babies many eugenicists found dangerous to the country’s f­ uture. It was also obstetricians who would have put into practice ideologies surrounding steril-



The Law of Responsibility 51

ization and abortion. The country’s first national eugenics conference in 1929 is a case in point. Most participants supported Alberto Farani’s proposal in ­favor of the “eugenic sterilization of criminals.” In it, he declared “vasectomy and tubal ligations [resecção tubaria]” as “benign,” and that the sterilization of “degenerates” was “legitimate” within “neuro-­psychiatric indications.”167 But obstetricians such as Fernando Magalhães also presented an antiracist position, excluding mixed-­race individuals from psychiatric definitions of degeneracy. “Eugenics does not exclude mankind,” Magalhães told the conference participants, “pigment does not exclude quality. ­There is an injustice ­because our entire past was based on the mestiço, ­because we are all mestiços.”168 Perhaps more dangerous than any sort of racial mixing w ­ ere changing gender roles. Magalhães said so when he warned participants that feminism was the true “danger that threatened the race.”169 This position lent itself ­toward obstetricians’ emphasis on scientific motherhood. B ­ ecause Magalhães and o ­ thers located issues like infant mortality or syphilis in habits and not necessarily heredity or skin color, they positioned themselves as the ­bearers of the education needed to “uplift” the impoverished classes. The first step of this pro­cess, of course, was teaching w ­ omen how to raise and educate their ­children to contribute productively to Brazil’s growth as a nation.170 Instead of rejecting darker or poorer Brazilians as unfit citizens, and thus supporting contraception, sterilization, or even abortion among certain populations, obstetricians believed they could “train” all ­women to raise proper Brazilians, including the working-­class population of color. O ­ bstetricians continually called for social assistance for poor m ­ others, not contraception.171 This helps explain the unan­i­mous rejection of abortion within the eugenics movement. Even the most ardent supporters of negative eugenic mea­sures such as Renato Kehl opposed the procedure.172 In the years following the 1929 conference, po­liti­cal and cultural changes further emphasized a top-­down rejection of negative mea­sures such as sterilization. The regeneration of Catholic intellectualism in the 1920s, with its subsequent po­liti­cal activism in the 1930s, also stood in the way of more negative policies.173 Doctrinal changes coming from the Vatican, including the 1930 papal bull Casti connubii, which directly condemned eugenics, birth control, and abortion, further increased international and national Catholic pressure on the Brazilian eugenics movement.174 Moreover, by the time Kehl and his followers began debating sterilization in the 1930s, the church had allied itself with Vargas, and physicians’ debates never translated into policy. Vargas’s

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rejection of more radical eugenics policy did not mean that he eschewed the movement in general. In fact, eugenics took a central spot on the po­liti­cal stage when Vargas included “the promotion of eugenic education” in the 1934 constitution and included obligatory prenuptial health examinations.175 Federal legislation’s inclusion of eugenics demonstrates its legitimation as a scientific and public discourse.176 The reconfiguration of racial ideologies within a cultural paradigm in the 1930s also blocked the implementation of negative eugenic mea­sures. ­Because elites believed that the nation was whitening itself, physicians and other leading thinkers began to valorize Brazil’s black past in the cultural realm.177 The idea of racial democracy, often attributed to famed sociologist Gilberto Freyre but in fact a theory that arose from a variety of intellectual debates in the 1930s, celebrated Brazil’s racial mixing and incorporated Afro-­Brazilian culture into a new national (and raceless) understanding of Brazilianness.178 The rise of the Estado Novo in 1937 coincided with Vargas’s widespread adoption of the idea of racial harmony, which supported racial mixing (mestiçagem) not ­because it whitened the population, but b ­ ecause it produced a “new” Brazilian citizen. But racial democracy never attacked the equation of whiteness with pro­gress or the social exclusionary structure that marginalized Brazilians of African descent.179 Vargas, then, created a new version of what it meant to be Brazilian even while racial and class hierarchies continued to structure society. While racial democracy shifted mentions of race from biology to culture, many of racial democracy’s main proponents w ­ ere disciples of previous racist thinkers, and the evolutionary model of supposed white ge­ne­tic superiority went unchecked.180 Vargas’s incorporation of a national policy of mestiçagem paralleled his institutionalization of scientific motherhood into state policy. His attempts to create a unified and orderly nation required training c­ hildren into the duties of citizenship. Vargas became the “­father” of all poor ­children, making the state a meta­phor for the nuclear f­ amily at its core.181 ­Mothers became the point of interaction between state agencies intent on appropriating generational and social reproductive activities like education and hygiene in the private sphere, and their reproductive capabilities ­were now public property.182 Fernando Magalhães encapsulated this line of thought in his influential 1933 obstetrics textbook: “Due to her sex, a ­woman is linked to the eternity of the species; the female genital apparatus is not individual property, it is the property of the [­human] race of which the w ­ oman is the depository.”183



The Law of Responsibility 53

One ­thing was clear: obstetricians saw themselves on the front line of “maintaining the purity of the race” and creating a new Brazilian populace.184 And eugenic thinking, just like scientific motherhood, allowed physicians to insert themselves into the ­family in the name of the nation.185 By the 1930s, doctors ­wholeheartedly included poor (and thus Afro-­Brazilian) w ­ omen in their efforts to improve the Brazilian race through education, better health ser­v ices, and the moral strengthening of the lower classes.186 Obstetricians saw poor health as a result of class-­based inequalities (and habits), and not racial ones. In 1930, for example, obstetric reformer Clovis Corrêa da Costa argued that the absence of racial differences in stillbirth statistics was due to the lack of racism in the country. The lower classes, no m ­ atter their race, faced 187 the same adverse health conditions. (Costa failed to discuss the precarious state of vital statistics collection as a pos­si­ble reason for t­ hese results.) In his call for hygienic education and social reform of the lower classes nearly a de­ cade l­ater, however, Costa admonished the Brazilian ­people (povo) for their laziness, “inherited, perhaps, from the aboriginals or from enslaved blood.”188 Clearly, viral racism was embedded within the obstetric profession. Yet their rejection of negative eugenics based on skin color resulted in most obstetricians’ support for all ­women to reproduce and ­mother—­under the watchful eye of the medical profession. • • •

New criminal and civil legislation, the per­sis­tence of longstanding maternalist ideologies refashioned through positivism and science, and shifting racial ideologies all s­haped the way jurists, politicians, and physicians approached w ­ omen’s biological reproductive capabilities in the early twentieth ­century. W ­ omen, and particularly m ­ others, occupied a contradictory status in relation to their ­legal rights. By treating ­women as full citizens ­under criminal legislation but restricting them in civil law, legislation obliged ­women to undertake their “natu­ral” maternal duties. It criminalized abortion and infanticide without giving them the economic or l­ egal rights to ensure their c­ hildren’s survival in the absence of a male partner. L ­ egal doctrine was not without its prob­ lems, however. As republican legislators refashioned the legislative foundation of the Brazilian nation, they strug­gled to reconcile competing ­legal trends of liberal classical theory and positivist doctrine. Juridical debates over the efficacy of abortion laws, nonetheless, did not debate w ­ hether w ­ omen should have access to abortion, but rather argued over the best form of criminalization.

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The reconfiguration of longstanding cultural and social maternal ideologies into new “scientific” forms further supported the l­egal restriction of ­women to their reproductive capabilities and subsequent maternal obligations. By the 1920s, obstetricians had co-­opted colonial and nineteenth-­century Catholic views of ­women’s maternal nature, arguing that the exigencies of the modern world required physicians to play a more expansive role in the f­amily. Physicians did not question that all w ­ omen wanted to be m ­ others. Instead, they argued that for w ­ omen to properly bear and raise hygienic citizens, they needed the guidance of the medical profession. The manner in which scientific motherhood articulated its position in relation to racial ideology was another crucial axis upon which elites debated w ­ omen’s reproduction. Late nineteenth-­century scientific racism morphed into a less overtly racist but still hierarchical position on whitening by the first de­cade of the twentieth ­century. As preventive eugenics gained force in the country in the following years, obstetricians argued that hygiene and not the restriction of reproduction was the key to properly reproducing the Brazilian nation. Rather than limiting certain w ­ omen’s reproductive capabilities, for example, ­those of poor immigrant ­women or ­women of color, eugenicists believed they could improve mothering skills through scientific motherhood and hygiene through public health efforts. This approach melded into the rise of racial harmony ideologies in the 1930s, which incorporated all w ­ omen—as m ­ others or potential m ­ others—­into the Brazilian nation. But t­ hese ideologies w ­ ere not restricted to the intellectual realm. As the next chapters show, physicians and legislators made concrete efforts to put their views on gender, race, and motherhood into practice.

2

Constructing Motherhood Obstetricians, Politicians, and the Creation of a Reproductive Healthcare System

I N J U L Y   1 9 3 3 , T H E P R E S S , local officials, leading obstetricians, and the cream of the female philanthropic elite gathered outside the Cascadura Maternity Hospital (Maternidade Cascadura, also known as the Suburban Maternity Hospital or Maternidade Suburbana) in the suburbs of Rio de Janeiro. A cele­bration was in order as the city government, for the first time in its history, was funding and administering a public maternity hospital. The director, Herculano Pinheiro, made a speech, as did the city’s mayor (and former obstetrician) Pedro Ernesto. A celebratory lunch with champagne followed.1 For po­liti­cal and philanthropic reformers, motherhood was fi­nally getting the medical assistance it deserved. Two years l­ater, Cascadura was again the site of press attention. At one ­o’clock in the after­noon of August 15, 1935, a hospital physician telephoned his local police precinct. About thirty minutes e­ arlier, a public ambulance had brought twenty-­seven-­year-­old branca Jurema Lindgren de Araújo to the hospital presenting with signs of a miscarriage. ­After physicians successfully treated Araújo, they questioned her about ­whether she had provoked an abortion, an act the married ­woman vehemently denied. The attending physician did not believe her story, however, and called the police. Despite the physician’s suspicions, Araújo presented no physical signs of an illegal abortion, and eventually she was released from the hospital to her husband and two ­children.2 Once again, the institution had supported motherhood. Physicians not only had successfully treated a ­mother in reproductive distress but also 55

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had alerted the police when an alleged abortion threatened the hospital’s under­lying goals: the treatment of pregnant ­women and the birth of healthy babies. Physicians’ efforts to develop the institutional framework of reproductive healthcare in republican Rio de Janeiro represented the implementation of the ideology of scientific motherhood in practice. Obstetricians pushed for the construction of maternity hospitals and the development of home obstetric ser­v ices, institutionalizing maternalism within the built landscape of medical assistance. Republican public health reforms included provisions for obstetric ser­v ices, but t­ hose efforts often took a backseat to sanitation policies such as vaccination campaigns and mosquito control. Constant shifts in jurisdictional power between the national and municipal government and the republican government’s federalized structure further frustrated a uniform expansion of health ser­v ices in the city, although Rio de Janeiro, as the capital, benefited directly from national policies.3 In the realm of reproduction, financial issues also surfaced. U ­ ntil the 1920s, most policymakers supported a public-­philanthropic approach t­ oward funding, which often fell short of a­ ctual need.4 Republican legislators, despite espousing the importance of ­women and ­children to the formation of a modern nation, ­were less enthusiastic in supplying the necessary financial support. As the historiography on ­women’s health in Brazil has demonstrated, Vargas’s rise to power in 1930 altered the maternal-­infant healthcare model.5 Po­liti­cal turmoil and bureaucratic turnover marked health policy during his provisional government (1930–34), but by the mid-1930s and particularly during the Estado Novo (1937–45) Vargas had strengthened a centralized federal government and expanded public health mea­sures. Moreover, he consolidated sanitation reforms and medical assistance into the larger public health apparatus. By the 1940s, he had institutionalized maternal-­infant and reproductive healthcare ser­v ices nationwide. In Rio de Janeiro, at least, government programs now provided the necessary institutional and financial support to improve health outcomes. This chapter explores the interconnected trajectory of public policy and hospital care in the realm of ­women’s reproductive healthcare. It shows how, in fits and starts, Rio de Janeiro began to aid pregnant ­women. But my research also complicates this linear narrative. In fact, despite the central role maternal-­infant health played in both republican and Vargas-­era policies, government actions did l­ ittle to change w ­ omen’s be­hav­iors; most w ­ omen con-



Constructing Motherhood 57

tinued to give birth at home. Moreover, the more sinister side of this expansion, was, as the cases of Araújo and Isalina Vieira show us, the increased criminalization of poor ­women’s reproductive health.

The Art of Delivery: The Imperial Origins of Obstetric Ser­v ices and Education Medical assistance in colonial Brazil was scarce.6 The arrival of the Portuguese court in 1808, however, advanced both medical training and the subsequent expansion of medical ser­v ices. The royal government began regulating medical prac­ti­tion­ers (including midwives), and the crown opened the first schools of surgery in Bahia and Rio de Janeiro and implemented sanitary regulations and maritime inspections to increase foreign trade.7 ­After Brazil gained in­de­pen­dence from Portugal in 1822, the pro­cess accelerated. Physicians founded the country’s first professional medical association, the Society of Medicine of Rio de Janeiro (Sociedade de Medicina do Rio de Janeiro) in 1829, which, in 1835, became the Imperial Acad­emy of Medicine (Academia Imperial de Medicina), and the government reor­ga­nized the existing surgery faculties into full-­fledged medical schools in 1832.8 The acad­emy amplified the collective voice of a growing field of professional medicine, propelling many physicians into positions of po­liti­cal power.9 In the mid-­to late nineteenth ­century, the imperial government implemented a series of reforms that changed obstetric training in Rio de Janeiro. The government first reor­ga­nized the country’s public health ser­v ices. The imperial government created Brazil’s Central Board of Public Hygiene (Junta Central de Higiene Pública) in 1850 (and regulated it the following year) to govern national public health issues. Based in Rio de Janeiro, the board certified diplomas and regulated the practice of medicine.10 This power was reaffirmed in 1882, and in 1886, the board became the Superior Council of Public Health (Conselho Superior de Saúde Pública), with a streamlined orga­ nizational structure.11 As the government restructured public health bureaucracies and medical licensing procedures, medical schools incorporated clinical training into their obstetric and gynecological curriculum.12 Throughout the nineteenth c­ entury, most Brazilian doctors received broad humanistic training and participated in societal debates on hygiene and the f­ amily.13 This meant, however, that for the first half c­ entury of their existence, Brazilian medical schools provided

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mainly theoretical and not clinical training. In response, individual obstetricians in Rio de Janeiro worked to construct private maternity hospitals to train midwives and physicians. Without municipal government support, however, most efforts floundered.14 Although the city was home to numerous private clinics (both ­legal and illegal), they ­were for paying clientele and not teaching purposes. It was rare for ­women to deliver outside of their places of residence, so t­ hese clinics’ clientele consisted of enslaved ­women, freed blacks, and poor mi­grants who could not give birth in their own homes.15 Physicians’ attempts to expand clinical training in the late nineteenth ­century dovetailed with the specialization of medicine, and, in the fields of obstetrics and gynecol­ogy, a reification of sexual difference based on the biological body. By the second half of the ­century, Brazilian obstetricians and gynecologists reinforced gendered hierarchies by linking ­women—­t hrough their bodies—to their identities as ­mothers and their capacities to reproduce.16 But the lack of teaching hospitals meant that physicians’ interactions with ­women’s bodies was ­limited, and clinical obstetric and gynecological training lagged ­behind its Eu­ro­pean counter­parts.17 The only teaching hospital available to medical students in the nineteenth c­ entury was the Catholic charity hospital the Santa Casa da Misericórdia, which also served as a public clinic and charity institution.18 For instance, it ran the “wheel” or turnstile (roda), which allowed w ­ omen to anonymously abandon newborn c­ hildren they could not, or would not, care for, and between 1859 and 1908, an estimated 17,000 newborns w ­ ere left t­here.19 But b ­ ecause the institution’s s­isters challenged the presence of male doctors during childbirth, the hospital only instituted formal clinical training for obstetrics and gynecol­ogy in 1884.20 Late imperial reforms also opened up obstetric training to w ­ omen physicians. The first ­woman to gradu­ate from a Brazilian medical school was Rita Lobato Velho Lopes in 1887 (Bahia). Two years l­ater, Antonieta Dias Morpurgo graduated from the Rio de Janeiro medical school. Th ­ ese w ­ omen faced fierce opposition from their male colleagues, however, who did not view their entrance into the caring profession as an extension of their “inherent” nurturing role.21 The Santa Casa, moreover, only had a small maternity ward, so physicians continued to ask for a publicly funded maternity hospital to train students. State funding lagged, forcing physicians to rely on philanthropic efforts. In 1876, for example, physician José Rodrigues dos Santos created the private Santa Isabel Health Clinic and Maternity Hospital (Casa de Saúde e Maternidade Santa Isabel), which, in accordance with Rio de Janeiro’s municipal



Constructing Motherhood 59

I M AG E 3  ​Blueprint of the Maternidade Santa Isabel, 1899 source: (AN) Série Saúde, IS(3)29 (1899), Ministério do Império, Maternidade de Santa Isabel, Orçamento das obras e planta do edifício.

chamber, he turned over to the city in 1881. The newly named Santa Isabel Municipal Maternity Hospital (Maternidade Municipal Santa Isabel) operated within an existing clinic while Santos worked with the municipal government and religious authorities to construct a new building (Image 3).22 Despite Santos’s efforts, construction faced bureaucratic delays, and the city’s municipal chamber confirmed its death knell in 1898 when it refused to fund its construction. Changes in po­liti­cal tides ensured that Rio de Janeiro’s first public maternity hospital never opened its doors.23

“Brazil Is Still a Vast Hospital”: Republican Nationalism and Maternity Hospitals The failure of Santa Isabel in the early republican period demonstrates that the nineteenth-­century issues surrounding obstetric healthcare outlasted the fall of the Empire. Republican politicians may have described the new po­ liti­cal climate as a marked shift in Brazilian society, but the implementation of democracy did not resolve nineteenth-­century health prob­lems such as

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epidemic disease or insufficient clinical obstetric training.24 During the first several de­cades of the new ­century, however, po­liti­cal governance coalesced with physicians’ interest in improving public health. Social reformers realized that ­because infectious diseases like yellow fever did not re­spect hierarchies of class or region, only a national collective approach could contain threats to the country’s “social interdependence.”25 The result was the slow but steady infrastructural expansion of the country’s public health apparatus, which directly benefited Rio de Janeiro as the capital.26 A presidentially appointed mayor held full veto power over the city council, and thus municipal politics ­were aligned with national policymaking.27 Moreover, the federal government held partial control over public health initiatives within the city. While the municipal government initially oversaw public health policy, the national General Directorate of Public Health (Diretoria Geral de Saúde Pública, DGSP) created in 1896 and regulated the following year, was soon subsumed within the federal Ministry of Justice. The DGSP continued imperial actions like midwifery regulations, sanitary inspections of housing and ports, and disease research in the city.28 One key ­factor ­behind the republican alignment of politics and public health was the po­liti­cal role physicians played in the government. Republican Rio de Janeiro experienced the integration of what Sueann Caulfield terms “enlightened authoritarians”—­physicians, engineers, and l­awyers—­into its government.29 Thus, the medical profession’s involvement in national and local politics, combined with improved medical training, resulted in early twentieth-­century governmental efforts not only to address public health concerns like epidemics but also to expand access to medical assistance. Physicians, and obstetricians in par­tic­u­lar, w ­ ere anxious about stillbirth and infant mortality rates, and they wanted to combat t­ hose figures through increased pre-­and postnatal assistance to w ­ omen and their ­children.30 Part of t­ hese efforts focused on infant mortality, and the burgeoning field of pediatrics emphasized the need to expand its clinical presence in the lives of young ­children.31 The philanthropist and physician Arthur Moncorvo Filho, for instance, worked to reduce infant mortality rates. His Childhood Protection and Assistance Institute (Instituto de Proteção e Assistência à Infância, IPAI), inaugurated in 1899, created the city’s first infant health center, which expanded in subsequent de­cades.32 For obstetricians, improving maternal-­infant health required the medicalization of childbirth, and they wanted ­women to give birth in the presence of



Constructing Motherhood 61

­T A B L E   1  ​Location of registered births, Rio de Janeiro, 1894–1903 Non-­homebirthsa

Total birthsb

Homebirths as % of total births

Year

Homebirths

1894

15,480

61

15,541

99.61

1895

17,457

72

17,529

99.59

1896

17,494

43

17,537

99.75

1897

18,120

296

18,416

98.39

1898

18,061

316

18,377

98.28

1899

18,332

444

18,776

97.64

1900

18,579

412

18,991

97.83

1901

18,137

339

18,476

98.17

1902

18,212

411

18,623

97.79

1903

17,574

305

17,879

98.29

source: Directoria Geral de Estatistica, Registro Civil de 1894, 2–3; Registro Civil de 1895, 2–3; Registro Civil de 1896, 2–3; Registro Civil de 1897, 16–17; Registro Civil de 1898, 16–17; Relatorio de 1901, 30–31, 46–47, 62–63; Relatorio de 1902, 16–17, 32–33, 48–49; Relatorio de 1903, 161. a Rec­ords for this period differentiate between homebirths and non-­homebirths. I assume that non-­homebirths occurred in a hospital. b Total number of births includes stillbirths.

a licensed professional in a hospital setting. They had an uphill b ­ attle ahead of them, as most w ­ omen at the turn of the twentieth c­ entury gave birth at home. Although data for the city of Rio de Janeiro are incomplete, the existing numbers establish that homebirths ­were the norm. Despite small declines in the percentages of homebirths in 1900 to 1902, the rate changed ­little, with the mean for the period remaining on the order of 99 ­percent (­Table 1). Clearly, if obstetricians wanted w ­ omen to deliver in a hospital setting, the city needed to finance and build maternity institutions. The first major government-­funded advance in maternal health occurred u ­ nder the presidency of Francisco de Paula Rodrigues Alves (1902–6), who appointed the reformer mayor Francisco Pereira Passos (1902–6) to transform the country’s capital through extensive urbanization proj­ects. Part of the reforms included extensive and punitive sanitary regulations to combat yellow fever and plague epidemics through mosquito and rat control policies and mandated smallpox vaccinations.33 This legislation further reor­ga­nized the city’s health ser­v ices, so they w ­ ere ­under national and not municipal control.34 The Passos reforms included reproductive healthcare, and influential obstetricians seized the moment to expand w ­ omen’s access to prenatal and clinical l­abor and delivery

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I M AG E 4  ​Inside the Maternidade Laranjeiras, May 13, 1908 source: Museu da Imagem e do Som, Rio de Janeiro (MIS).

ser­v ices.35 In 1902, the municipality approved the funding for the construction and maintenance of a publicly funded but philanthropically led hospital, and in 1904 the Laranjeiras Maternity Hospital (Maternidade Laranjeiras), in which Isalina Vieira would ­later try to give birth, opened its doors to provide ­free pre-­and postnatal care to the city’s impoverished ­women (Image 4).36 Laranjeiras also partnered with the woman-­run Maternity Hospital Auxiliary Association (Associação Auxiliadora da Maternidade) that had offices in the hospital’s building.37 In 1918, it became the medical school’s official teaching hospital.38 Laranjeiras was built in the then-­district of Gloria, which was near vari­ous weaving and textile factories that employed female workers. It was also the farthest north region of the city’s wealthy southern zone (zona sul). Thus, the hospital served working-­class ­women, who, although poor, ­were not indigent. As scholars have demonstrated, hospital rec­ords from its early years demonstrate that the hospital’s clientele comprised working-­class w ­ omen of color.39 My research into rec­ords from the 1920s confirms this finding, and the major-



Constructing Motherhood 63

ity of clients who entered the obstetric clinic continued to be w ­ omen of color (­Table 2). Moreover, I have found that nearly 40 ­percent of the white patients ­were immigrants (­Table 3). The physicians who recorded (and thus de­cided) the patients’ color did not document other identifying information such as literacy, so we are left with incomplete socioeconomic data. Yet we can hypothesize that b ­ ecause the majority of w ­ omen relying on f­ ree healthcare w ­ ere of color or white immigrants, both of which can serve as proxies for poverty, they likely hailed from the poor, working-­poor, or working classes.40 Scholars have demonstrated that in nineteenth-­century Rio de Janeiro, as in the United States, the bodies of enslaved and indigent ­women served as the training grounds for the country’s obstetricians.41 The rec­ords from Laranjeiras reveal that the construction of new maternity hospitals a­ fter abolition facilitated the improvement of physicians’ clinical skills through the bodies of working-­class ­women of all colors. Medical students honed their use of the ­T A B L E   2  ​Color of obstetric patients, Maternidade Laranjeiras, 1922–1926 Number of total patients

Color Branca (white) Parda (mixed-­race) Preta (black)

As percentage of total patientsa

1,131

42.30

783

29.28

760

28.42

­Women of color (parda, preta)

1,543

57.50

Total

2,674

100

Percentage total is of white and ­women of color percentages. The total number of patient rec­ords numbered 2,823, of which 149 did not include the patient’s color, for a total of 2,674 analyzed h ­ ere. See the Notes on Sources for a detailed description of t­ hese clinical reports.

a

­T A B L E   3  ​Nationality of white obstetric patients, Maternidade Laranjeiras,

1922–1926 Nationality Brazilian Immigrant Total

Number of total patients 653 426 1,079a

As percentage of white patients 60.52 39.48 100

sources for ­t ables 2 and 3: Rolindo, “Registo”: June–­December 1922; January–­December 1923; January, February, June, September–­December 1924; January–­June, August–­December 1925; January, February, April 1926. a Of the 1,131 patients recorded as white in ­Table 1, 52 did not include nationality, for a total of 1,079.

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Simpson Barnes forceps, learned vari­ous cesarean section techniques, and practiced methods of anesthesia on hospital patients.42 From the ­limited rec­ ords that remain, however, it does not appear that physicians explic­itly racialized their medical practice; in fact, some argued that “race” (if not color) had no effect on ­women’s physiological experiences with pregnancy and childbirth.43 Of course, only de­cades e­ arlier Brazilian physicians had discussed how black ­mothers had higher pain tolerance during childbirth.44 Moreover, obstetricians in the 1920s continued to study ­whether race affected reproductive health from a biological standpoint, and forensic courses into the late 1930s taught on “racial differences.”45 In the end, the absence of explic­itly racist medicine did not negate the larger structural inequalities that forced ­women who could not afford private ser­v ices to serve as the training grounds for obstetricians. It would be over a de­cade before physicians and philanthropists managed to open a second maternity hospital. In 1918, a­ fter vari­ous professional and personal disputes with other clinicians at Laranjeiras, including claims of medical malpractice and the death of a patient ­under his care, Fernando Magalhães founded the Pro-­Matre Hospital (Hospital Pro-­Matre) in the city center.46 True to the private-­public framework that marked republican health efforts, Magalhães’s efforts depended upon the support of elite ­women philanthropists who operated the Association of Charity and Mutual Help (Associação de Caridade e Auxílio Mútuo).47 Dif­fer­ent from Laranjeiras, whose location catered to the working classes, the Pro-­Matre was built in the city center, close to where many leading politicians, urban reformers, and physicians believed the city’s “dangerous classes” lived. Pro-­Matre’s clientele w ­ ere poorer than their working-­class ­sisters at Laranjeiras, and many toiled in the ­ omen could informal sector.48 The hospital began as a lying-in clinic—­where w wait out their illicit pregnancies in secret and which obstetricians believed reduced rates of abortion and infanticide.49 Soon a­ fter the hospital’s doors opened, however, it became a maternity hospital due to the high demand for hospital beds, and by the 1930s it also provided courses in midwifery.50 Both Laranjeiras and the Pro-­Matre had the support of philanthropic clubs of Rio’s elite w ­ omen who seized upon the discourse of scientific motherhood to enter public life.51 Despite ­women’s crucial roles in opening maternity hospitals, physicians’ valorization of motherhood legitimized hierarchies of gender by insisting that although ­women ­were intellectually inferior to men, they w ­ ere morally superior.52 As James Wadsworth argues, philanthropic ef-



Constructing Motherhood 65

forts to improve maternal-­infant health reinforced class and gender hierarchies, as they “emphasized the role of w ­ omen as wife, m ­ other, and provider,” while si­mul­ta­neously allowing elite ­women to enter the public sphere through legitimate paths.53 This model—­including its ideological under­pinnings of “civilizing and modernizing childbirth” through social and scientific philanthropy—­ would serve as the basis for ­later public maternity hospitals.54 When the Pro-­Matre opened its doors in 1919, it also developed a system of ambulatory obstetric care that served w ­ omen in their homes in the hospital’s neighborhood.55 The expansion of home obstetric care had been a priority for obstetricians since the beginning of the c­ entury. Physicians believed this ser­ vice would complement hospital care, and they acknowledged that expanded maternal health ser­v ices needed to incorporate both the widespread culture of homebirths and the realities of poor ­women’s everyday lives.56 Historians of nineteenth-­century Brazil have shown that poor ­women associated hospitals with philanthropic ser­v ices provided to the destitute; ­t hese ­women saw internment as public humiliation.57 By the early twentieth ­century, however, physicians argued that poverty was the barrier between poor w ­ omen and hospital care. In 1913, for example, Antonieta Morpurgo, the first ­woman to receive her medical degree from Rio de Janeiro’s medical school (1889), supported home obstetric care b ­ ecause poor and working-­class ­women’s work and ­family obligations precluded them from accessing hospital ser­v ices.58 Morpurgo argued that supporting pregnant and laboring w ­ omen in the home would not only prevent ­women from seeking abortions but also shore up the nuclear ­family. “It is necessary,” Morpurgo wrote, “that the government of our nation . . . ​bring them [­women] the care [so they can] provide one more being to the beloved homeland [pátria], without them leaving the home, their husbands, their c­ hildren.”59 ­Because the Pro-­Matre’s ambulatory ser­v ice was l­imited to its immediate neighborhood, medical students pushed for a state-­f unded, citywide plan. Obstetricians wanted to expand the existing public ambulance system, which had only two posts for the entire city, and associate the ser­v ice with the city’s established maternity hospitals, providing a continuum of care that was or­ga­ nized in accordance with the city’s resources and the population’s customs.60 Obstetricians divided the system into urban and suburban zones, each with central headquarters. Following the Eu­ro­pean tradition, licensed midwives would provide the majority of prenatal, delivery, and postnatal care, and an obstetrician would only attend emergencies.61 In 1927, however, leading

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pediatrician Fernandes Figueira warned his colleagues against blindly implementing a domiciliary system, “enthusiastically advocated as of late,” due to many poor ­women’s unhygienic living conditions.62 His warnings proved unnecessary, however, as a lack of funding precluded the implementation of a citywide ser­v ice.63 Physicians’ domiciliary plans also included licensed midwives as w ­ omen’s health prac­ti­tion­ers; in fact, many republican obstetricians supported licensed midwives, arguing they provided crucial prenatal and delivery care.64 In 1922, obstetrician Arnaldo de Moraes argued that “the profession of midwifery . . . ​ is in ­grand de­cadence. I d ­ on’t say this . . . ​as a weapon of combat against the licensed midwife, but to rescue the profession that I desire to be exercised by ele­ments whose banner is culture and professional honesty.”65 They w ­ ere not so open t­oward the “curious” or lay midwives (parteiras curiosas), who attended ­women across the city. As one obstetric student wrote in 1923, “[With] obstetric assistance dispersed in this manner [domiciliary system], no more instances would pre­sent themselves in which curiosas act so vastly and unbridled . . . ​resulting in catastrophes of m ­ others and fetuses, accomplices of their ignorance.”66 The public-­private inauguration of the Pro-­Matre hospital and its home obstetric ser­v ices in 1919 also occurred at a key moment in the city’s public health trajectory. In the 1920s, the republican government began including maternal-­infant health within its public healthcare endeavors, increasing funding and expanding and reor­ga­niz­ing health entities in both the federal government and the municipality. A 1914 decree had once again “municipalized” the city’s health ser­v ices, but in 1919, the national government reor­ga­ nized the DGSP into the National Department of Public Health (Departamento Nacional de Saúde Pública, DNSP), again federalizing the city’s public health governance and expanding its regulatory reach both within the city of Rio de Janeiro and across the country.67 In 1923, legislation further regulated the DNSP in relation to w ­ omen’s health by incorporating provisions for the protection of maternity and infancy and the inspection and regulation of the city’s maternity hospitals, and explic­itly including midwifery into the 1890 Penal Code’s definition of the illegal practice of medicine (Article 156).68 In the context of expanded governmental public health efforts, the municipality, u ­ nder Mayor Carlos Sampaio, entered into an agreement with the Pro-­Matre in 1920 to build a maternity hospital in the city’s growing suburban environs.69 As with the Pro-­Matre, a female-­run auxiliary group was to administer the hospital, and the city would provide the land in the suburban



Constructing Motherhood 67

district of Méier and pay for the construction and maintenance of the building.70 Although physicians’ and philanthropic efforts resulted in the placement of the hospital’s “foundational stone” in 1926 (Image 5), early pro­gress languished.71 Thus, despite the initial fanfare, construction on the Méier Maternity Hospital (Maternidade do Méier) never continued. Why, despite initial government and philanthropic support, did it fail? Some newspapers cited financial difficulties, but reports from the municipal council demonstrate that the government provided sufficient funds.72 More impor­tant, perhaps, was po­liti­cal infighting among physicians, which led to the dissolution of the hospital’s orga­nizational committee soon ­after its inauguration.73 Obstetrician Herculano Pinheiro, then president of the hospital’s commission, gave leadership over to the ­women of the Pro-­Matre ­after ground was broken for the initial construction. Pinheiro cited that “tumult and personal invectives” had marked the commission’s discussions, making it impossible to resolve bureaucratic discussions. Moreover, Pinheiro felt personally slighted, as “ele­ments of the same commission” had not “supported and

I M AG E 5  ​Foundational stone of the Maternidade do Méier, 1926 source: Museu da Imagem e do Som, Rio de Janeiro (MIS).

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aided” his position “as it should be for the success of the organ­ization.” He believed that the ­women of the Pro-­Matre, with their established association, ­were better suited to “orient and direct the novel suburban organ­ization.”74 The professional infighting that led to the suburban hospital’s downfall demonstrates that conflict marked the obstetric profession. Moreover, the prominent position of the Pro-­Matre’s female auxiliary members in the photo of the foundational stone underscores the integral role elite w ­ omen played in expanding reproductive healthcare. Yet even their orga­nizational acumen was frustrated by physicians’ competing professional ambitions. Ironically, Pinheiro inverted the gender hierarchy when he discussed the ­women philanthropists as rational and organized—in contrast to the rowdy and impassioned male obstetricians. The failure of the Méier Maternity Hospital shows that despite improvements in public health efforts like vaccination campaigns, advances in the infrastructure surrounding reproductive healthcare during the First Republic w ­ ere few and far between. One medical student described the dire consequences of the lack of hospital beds in 1924: “A poor pregnant w ­ oman, on the verge of giving birth, wracked with pain, coming from far away distances, is still made to leave down the stairs of one of t­ hese establishments b ­ ecause ‘­there 75 is absolutely no room.’ ” On the eve of Vargas’s rise to power, obstetricians continued to argue that childbirth was a critical area in need of professional intervention as the city lacked a “modern” maternity hospital with adequate ser­v ices and supplies.76 The medical profession seemed less ­eager to pinpoint po­liti­cal and personal infighting among its own members as another reason ­behind this lack of pro­gress. The last years of the Republic did include some improvements to the city’s maternal-­infant healthcare system, however. In January  1928, the DNSP opened the Inhaúma Health Center (Centro de Saúde de Inhaúma) in the city’s suburban north district (Image 6). Before Inhaúma, a function model dictated the municipal healthcare infrastructure in which hospitals served only one clinical purpose (tuberculosis, prenatal care, dentistry). A district model such as Inhaúma meant that each neighborhood clinic provided a variety of ser­v ices. Specialist ser­v ices, for instance, leprosy treatment, w ­ ere still concentrated in specific hospitals, but p ­ eople no longer had to travel outside their district to access basic healthcare—­including prenatal ser­v ices such as syphilis and gonorrhea testing and treatment and urine exams and blood pressure mea­sure­ments to monitor hypertension.77 The Inhaúma district



Constructing Motherhood 69

I M AG E 6  ​The waiting room at the Centro de Saúde de Inhaúma, 1927 source: Fraga, “Introducção ao relatorio dos serviços do Departamento Nacional de Saude Publica.”

clinic was a trial of what would ­later become the city’s new public healthcare system ­under mayor and obstetrician Pedro Ernesto and provisional president and then dictator Getúlio Vargas. The republican implementation of a district model that incorporated hospital and medical assistance into larger public health provisions and was publicly funded showed that change had occurred from the ­earlier, sanitary model based on a public-­private partnership. In the capital city, modifications in municipal and federal control often frustrated jurisdictional capacities, but what started out as a sole focus on infectious disease had shifted ­toward a more expansive understanding of public health that included reproductive healthcare and preventive medical assistance.

“A New Pátria [for] All Its C ­ hildren”: Ernesto, Vargas, and the Federal Consolidation of Reproductive Healthcare Although Vargas’s rise to power in 1930 marked a watershed moment in the nation’s po­liti­cal and bureaucratic trajectory, it did not dissipate the issues

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that had long plagued the provision of public health and reproductive assistance in the capital.78 During Vargas’s provisional government (1930–34), public health mea­sures w ­ ere marked by the same po­liti­cal insecurity and personnel change that defined the overall po­liti­cal landscape.79 Thus, prob­lems over the jurisdictional authority of public health and medical provisions in Rio de Janeiro continued. The divide between public health efforts and medical assistance also marked initial Vargas-­era reforms. Shortly ­after taking power in 1930, Vargas created two federal ministries to provide healthcare. The Ministry of Work, Industry, and Commerce (Ministério do Trabalho, Indústria e Comércio, MTIC) provided health benefits to urban industrial workers by subsuming all ­labor u ­ nions and their benefits ­under state control. The MTIC provided medical care to Brazilians “formally” included in the nation. But for the millions informally employed, Vargas created the Ministry of Education and Public Health (Ministério da Educação e Saúde Pública, MESP). Public health efforts such as disease control w ­ ere part of the latter, and thus the division between medical assistance and public health continued into the mid-1930s.80 Despite initial orga­nizational issues, improving prenatal care and expanding access to maternal-­infant health ser­v ices became a key part of Vargas’s larger restructuring of the country’s national identity. In Rio de Janeiro, this trend resulted in municipal support for maternity hospitals. This was partly due to the po­liti­cal rise of Pedro Ernesto as Rio de Janeiro’s mayor. Ernesto’s background as an obstetrician meant that maternal-­infant healthcare became one of his administration’s foundational pillars, and he oversaw an expansion of hospital ser­v ices across the city.81 ­Under his administration the city funded and administered its own public maternity hospital, the Cascadura Maternity Hospital, where, as we saw at the beginning of the chapter, Araújo appeared in reproductive distress. Pedro did not eschew the public-­private efforts that had long marked the provision of reproductive healthcare in the city, however, and he looked ­toward the w ­ omen philanthropists ­running the Pro-­Matre for help. By the early 1930s, the w ­ omen had given up on the Méier Maternity Hospital, focusing their efforts instead on gaining financial support from the municipal council and allying themselves with influential obstetricians to open Cascadura.82 The city took full control of the hospital in 1933 and inaugurated it in 1934 with Pinheiro as its director.83 Cascadura’s opening came at a crucial time, as Vargas was organ­izing a constituent assembly to rewrite the constitution and consolidate power, and



Constructing Motherhood 71

Rio de Janeiro—­headed by Ernesto—­was pushing for direct-­mayoral elections. It was also a watershed moment in the history of public health in the country. ­After Vargas won the presidency through an assembly vote in 1934, his minister of health and education Gustavo Capanema instituted a series of centralizing reforms, further relegating states to an administrative role in ­matters of public health, expanding the provision of hospital care, and institutionalizing the importance of maternal-­infant health to the ­future of the nation.84 Follow-up legislation in 1939 definitively put the administration of the city’s public health ser­v ices in municipal hands.85 Most impor­tant, Vargas’s inclusion of maternal-­infant care in the reor­ga­ni­za­tion of public health ser­ vices reinforced the idea that the duty of w ­ omen as citizens was to procreate 86 the f­ uture of Brazil. And, of course, healthcare became part of official po­ liti­cal patronage networks consolidated ­under the corporatist politics of the Vargas era.87 The Cascadura Maternity Hospital, then, was a po­liti­cal example of the city’s modernization ­u nder Vargas and Ernesto and of the importance of reproduction—­and maternal-­infant health—to the f­ uture of the city and the nation. In Rio de Janeiro, however, advances in hospital infrastructure and the centralization of public health administration w ­ ere not without their prob­lems, and reports from Cascadura showed a dirty underbelly.88 Nurses ­were reported working sixty hours a week.89 One editorial lambasted the conditions in the hospital. Imploring the secretary of health Clementino Fraga to take action, the anonymous editorial described the hospital’s state of care. “It is enough to say that the consultation cards are distributed at 8 o ­ ’clock in the morning and the physicians only arrive at noon. During this space of time, poor ­women in an in­ter­est­ing state [pregnant], and ­others with l­ ittle ­children in their arms, stand in the hallways, awaiting the clinicians. Not one bench exists where they can rest!” After receiving their consultation time, employees sent ­women back to their homes, instructing them to return at the time of their appointment. “Nothing, however, so monstrous,” wrote the editorial, in reference to the long waits and numerous appointments. “Many of ­t hose ­women live far away from the Maternity Hospital and many cannot manage, ­because of their [pregnant] state, ­t hose continued journeys.”90 It is clear that the hospital had not reached its initial goal—to provide a local maternity hospital to the growing suburban population. The construction of new hospitals meant nothing if the bureaucratics of health care continued to have negative effects on ­women’s lives.

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I M AG E 7  ​Outside the Centro de Saúde de Inhaúma, 1927 source: Fraga, “Introducção ao relatorio dos serviços do Departamento Nacional de Saude Publica.”

Despite long hospital wait times and overworked staff, other advancements in public health occurred in the 1930s. By 1935, for example, the Ernesto administration, u ­ nder Capanema, had institutionalized the district model of clinical care first implemented during the Republic. Each of the city’s twelve districts had its own public health clinic, which provided prenatal ser­v ices (Image 7).91 The municipality also constructed an urgent care hospital in the suburbs, the First Aid Hospital (Hospital Prompto Socorro), to accompany the expansion of the health clinics in the suburban northern and eastern zones, providing a regional hospital to ­t hose who lived far from the Santa Casa.92 The growth of dedicated maternity hospitals and the expansion of the public health system meant that by 1937, the city had sixteen public or charity hospitals that ­were ­either maternity hospitals or had dedicated maternity wards. All offered prenatal and ­labor and delivery care to indigent ­women ­free of charge. Seventeen more private casas de saúde offered maternity care to ­women who could afford their ser­v ices.93 Did this expanded infrastructure change the place where w ­ omen gave birth, as obstetricians had hoped? Historians have placed the transition from



Constructing Motherhood 73

­T A B L E   4  ​Location of registered births, Rio de Janeiro, 1936–1938 Hospital births

Non-­hospital birthsa

1936

7,564

1937

8,692

1937 adj. 1938

Year

Total birthsb

Non-­hospital births as % of total births

29,570

37,134

79.63

27,498

36,190

75.98

9,200

26,990

36,190

74.58

6,384

31,114

37,498

82.98

sources: C. Costa, “Estado atual,” 175–80; IBGE, Anuário estatístico, 108, 641–42. a Rec­ords for this period differentiate between hospital births and non-­hospital births. I assume that non-­hospital births occurred at home. b Total number of births includes stillbirths.

homebirths to hospital births in São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro in the 1930s, yet few have provided quantitative evidence.94 Data from the late 1930s indicate that a mean of 80 ­percent of registered births occurred at home (­Table 4). This is a significant decrease from thirty-­five years ­earlier, but most ­women continued to give birth at home. It must be said, however, that only half of all the city’s hospitals reported their statistics to the government during ­t hese years, and the data do not tell us which hospitals (non-­maternity or maternity) the report included. For 1937, nonetheless, one obstetrician’s report on the location of all registered births provides insight into ­t hese numbers’ accuracy. Public or public-­private maternity hospitals, which provided ­free care to indigent ­women, recorded 7,476 births. Private clinics and hospitals recorded 1,724 births. Together this accounted for 9,200 births that occurred in a hospital setting in 1937, or 508 more births than the official statistics of 8,692—­only a 1.4 ­percent increase. It appears, then, that the hospital data in relation to homebirths w ­ ere relatively accurate. The city government’s implementation of a ­limited ambulatory obstetric plan in the 1930s highlights officials’ recognition that hospital births ­were still far from the norm. The system’s provisions for midwifery care also show the government’s continued acknowl­edgment of the impor­tant role licensed and unlicensed midwives played in ­women’s reproductive lives. Thus, the Ernesto government expanded upon a republican pi­lot program within the Inhaúma clinic, which included the registration and training of all ­women—­licensed or unlicensed—­who practiced the “art of delivery” in that district (­Table 5).95 Midwives licensed at the clinics (even if not gradu­ates of any official courses) could attend normal deliveries if a clinic physician had already seen the pregnant w ­ oman before l­abor began.96 Although not all physicians supported the

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­T A B L E   5  ​Regulation and training of unlicensed midwives, Rio de Janeiro,

1935–1938 Year

Number of meetings

Total number of attendancesa

1935

107

1,234

1936

132

2,891

1937

268

4,343

1938

217

4,854

source: Fontenelle, A saude publica, 276–77. It is unclear ­whether this refers to the number of individual midwives or if it reflects midwives who attended more than one meeting. I suspect the latter.

a

licensing program, other public health officials, perhaps begrudgingly, acknowledged that some of ­t hese curiosas w ­ ere knowledgeable. One physician and public health official wrote in the late 1930s that “among ­t hese ­women ­t here are some very capable of performing the[ir] occupation.”97 By including them in their ser­v ices, both physicians and the government w ­ ere trying— on a l­imited scale—to provide a continuum of prenatal care to w ­ omen of all classes, thus acknowledging the impor­tant role midwives played in w ­ omen’s healthcare.98 ­Women’s dependence on midwives for homebirths forced obstetricians and public health officials to incorporate both licensed and unlicensed midwives into their growing health infrastructure.99 The midwives that physicians wanted to incorporate into public health clinics ­were not a uniform group, however. Maria Lúcia Mott contends that midwives in nineteenth-­century Brazil comprised two groups, lay and licensed.100 My research demonstrates, nevertheless, that by the early twentieth ­century, midwives ­were divided into four categories based on training. The first group consisted of lay w ­ omen—­female neighbors or f­amily members who assisted neighbors and loved ones. ­These ­women ­were often older, had given birth to numerous c­ hildren, did not charge for their ser­v ices, and ­were not part of what both contemporaries and scholars t­ oday would consider “professional” medical care. A step above laywomen in terms of training ­were what physicians, state officials, and community members called “curious” or “practical” midwives (parteiras curiosas or práticas). Th ­ ese w ­ omen charged for their ser­v ices, although they held no formal training and did not operate clinics. The next group consisted of unlicensed midwives, who unlike curiosas (also unlicensed) had some form of formal medical training, often as nurses, and opened clinics in which they provided w ­ omen a variety of ser­vices includ-



Constructing Motherhood 75

ing sterilization treatments, abortions, deliveries, and venereal disease care. Formally trained and licensed midwives comprised a small group of professionals, who, although working within the official medical establishment, still constituted a professional (and monetary) challenge to male obstetricians.101 Midwives ­were divided not only by skill but also by race and class. Both lay ­women and parteiras curiosas included ­women of color, white Brazilians, and Eu­ro­pean immigrants. Unlicensed midwives who had clinics and more established clientele w ­ ere almost all white, and many w ­ ere immigrants from Portugal, Germany, and Italy. This racial stratification resulted in specific patterns of state surveillance. The republican government used both the 1890 Penal Code and vari­ous sanitary regulations to sporadically attack unlicensed midwives of all levels of training.102 By the mid-­to late 1930s, however, the police increased their surveillance of unlicensed midwives, and even licensed midwives ­were not immune.103 For black lay midwives, this resulted in the increased vigilance of their activities surrounding childbirth, as they worked in the homes of other ­women.104 In the case of white midwives, mainly immigrants, the medical profession solicited the police to shut down their established clinical presence, portraying the clinics as abortion mills.105 ­Legal attempts to regulate midwifery, then, w ­ ere based both on longstanding racial hierarchies and on more recent class-­based ones. Brazil’s slaveholding society had relied on a mixture of African, indigenous, and Eu­ro­pean folk healing throughout the colonial and imperial periods, and the presence of Afro-­Brazilian midwives, barbers, and religious healers did not dis­appear with the end of slavery.106 With the arrival of Eu­ro­pean immigrants a­ fter abolition, however, white immigrant ­women came to dominate urban midwifery in Rio de Janeiro. While physicians began accepting curiosas into the growing public health infrastructure, the criminal justice system did not. And it was the police and not physicians who de­cided ­whether a midwife was practicing illegally. Although cracking down on abortion and infanticide on a national level was not necessarily the central component of Vargas’s efforts to improve maternal-­infant health, efforts to control pregnant ­women’s reproductive decisions, including who attended their deliveries, underpinned his expansion of reproductive healthcare ser­v ices. In fact, the bureaucracies of the licensing system constituted both an impediment to ser­v ice and an ave­nue through which the state could criminalize ­women. The description of a prototype system, although published in the

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republican period, served as a basis for Vargas-­era licensing regulations, and it demonstrates the red tape surrounding homebirths: [The pregnant ­woman] would address herself to her district police precinct [delegacia], where, registered in the book of the poor [livro dos pobres], she would receive a card with the right to a consultation in the neighborhood clinic [Guarda]. At the clinic, to which the ­woman would go several days ­later, she would be examined thoroughly, with the result of the exam written down on the appropriate card. According to the resulting conclusion, the pregnant ­woman would be advised [­whether] or not she [needed to] be interned in a maternity hospital. In the case in which it had been resolved that an assisted homebirth [would be the best option] . . . ​t he card would be given to the midwife that lived in the same district.107

This scenario merits analy­sis in relation to the daily realities of the city’s poor and working-­class w ­ omen. H ­ ere the pregnant w ­ oman would first go to the police, who, ­a fter verifying her impoverished status, would give her the necessary paperwork. The ­woman would then continue on to the local clinic for an examination. Depending on the exam’s results, the ­woman would then be told ­whether or not she should go to a maternity hospital or if she could give birth at home. If the latter, the w ­ oman would then give her medical rec­ords to the registered midwife who lived in her district, who would come to her home when ­labor began. The levels of bureaucracy—­the ­woman first went to the police, before being sent to a doctor, before giving her card to a midwife, who would only arrive during ­labor if called—­are telling when we remember that most poor w ­ omen seeking t­ hese ser­v ices w ­ ere illiterate, worked long hours up to the moment of ­labor, and perhaps did not have the social capital or familial network required to understand and ask for assistance. Some of ­t hese ­women would have been placed ­under suspicion at the police station if they arrived in obstetric distress. The system did not consider the realities of poor ­women’s daily lives, or even the biological impossibility of deciding when ­labor began. The l­abor and delivery of Irene Pereira da Costa highlights the impracticality of the ambulatory system, and how it put unlicensed midwives, even ­t hose who registered with the public health ser­v ice, at increased risk of criminalization. When the married Costa went into ­labor near midnight in September 1934, her husband was out, so she had a neighbor fetch the local curiosa. The midwife, thirty-­eight-­year-­old preta Maria do Rosario, was licensed by the Inhaúma health clinic to attend homebirths as long as a physician



Constructing Motherhood 77

had first examined the ­mother and the birth was normal. Rosario delivered a healthy boy, cutting the umbilical cord “with well-­disinfected scissors.”108 She came back several times over the following week to check on his pro­ gress. When Rosario “delivered the infant to his parents” on the eighth day, he was healthy and thriving. A week or so ­later, however, the child developed conjunctivitis in both eyes, l­ ater determined as caused by the Neisseria gonorrhoeae bacteria—­gonorrhea.109 The ­father complained to the police that Rosario had caused the infection. The police questioned the health center’s physicians, who, although correctly identifying the cause of the infection, de­cided that it was due to “the ignorance or malpractice [imperícia] of the parteira curiosa.”110 Perhaps the physicians viewed Rosario as a threat to their own professional livelihood, and thus they cast her as an ignorant w ­ oman who spread disease. While Rosario could have carried the gonorrhea bacteria on her fin­gers, it is more likely that the m ­ other was a carrier of the disease and had passed it on to this child and her other c­ hildren during delivery, something the midwife herself recognized. According to witness testimony, the ­couple’s other three ­children “­were born like that [with an eye infection] and w ­ ere treated with a homemade eye solution.” But the arguments of the police hinged upon the physicians’ testimony, which contradicted that of the witnesses (neighbors), who all repeatedly stated that the infection had begun a week ­after the midwife ­stopped caring for the child and that the parents had refused to treat the infant. Only ­after the child went blind in one eye w ­ ere the neighbors able to force the f­ ather to go to the clinic, but the ­couple abandoned the treatment soon ­after. During the investigation, the health clinic fined Rosario for attending a birth that a licensed physician had not first evaluated. In her defense, Rosario’s private ­lawyer highlighted the impracticality of the midwifery ser­v ice. He acknowledged that Rosario could only attend to laboring w ­ omen who had already been examined by a licensed physician (which Costa had not). But, as her l­awyer argued: “At the time of night at which the defendant [Rosario] was called, would that restriction be practical? Solicitously attending to the call, the defendant rendered the relevant ser­v ices to the laboring w ­ oman, only calculable to ­t hose who have already experienced similar emergencies.”111 The realities of ­labor and delivery did not fit into the bureaucratized health center model. The contradictory actions of the physicians who gave Rosario the license to practice but then criminalized her for d ­ oing so was an acknowl­ edgment both of their larger distrust of midwives and of their inability to

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attend to pregnant ­women’s needs. The Vargas-­era medical and governmental expansion of an ambulatory model provided ­women with much-­needed pre-­ and postnatal care, but it also criminalized the laywomen and midwives who had long dominated childbirth. Often, historians write the history of midwifery as a ­battle between male physicians and female midwives in which ­women, both as patients and prac­ti­tion­ers, lose control over both knowledge and their bodies.112 In early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro, the medical profession enlisted the police to crack down on midwives, particularly ­t hose performing abortions, but this strug­gle was not a linear ­battle in which ­women lost control. In fact, obstetricians also realized that they had to work with ­t hese ­women if they wanted to provide comprehensive prenatal and delivery care.113 The history of obstetric assistance in twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro is not that of a “male” takeover; physicians, ­a fter all, had been attending difficult births since the early nineteenth ­century, but rather that of an expansion of an institutional healthcare system run by men. • • •

In republican Rio de Janeiro, new understandings of disease and public health changed the governmental landscape. Public health reformers included maternal-­infant health and reproductive healthcare in this expanded definition, and physicians and philanthropic associations worked to develop a comprehensive and uniform network of maternal-­infant healthcare across the city, constructing maternity hospitals and expanding prenatal care within existing public health ser­v ices. Yet without comprehensive state support, ­t hese efforts never matched ­women’s reproductive health needs. The confusion over municipal or federal health jurisdiction in the capital city, the lesser status of medical care and hospital assistance within larger public health efforts, and the longstanding belief in the power of philanthropic support resulted in republican obstetricians’ inability to create a comprehensive public maternity health system—­and increase w ­ omen’s access to clinical medicine. In relation to reproductive healthcare, the republican government’s policies w ­ ere marked by a failure of both capacity and ­w ill.114 Public health agencies had a daunting task ahead of them when they began expanding access to maternal-­infant healthcare in the early twentieth ­century. But legislators also lacked the desire to provide the necessary financial backing to help pregnant w ­ omen.



Constructing Motherhood 79

Despite their many shortcomings, republican obstetricians and public health reformers provided the framework for Vargas’s centralized expansion of public health reforms in the late 1930s. Vargas clarified the public health jurisdictions within Rio de Janeiro, expanded the concept of public health to include hospital assistance and medical care, and provided the necessary government support for physicians’ decades-­long campaign to improve reproductive healthcare. During the Estado Novo, Vargas institutionalized maternal-­ infant welfare into the bureaucracies of health, and he introduced full-­fledged pronatalist rhe­toric into the government’s platform.115 But as the case of Jurema Lindgren de Araújo demonstrates, Vargas’s emphasis on ­mothers and their infants relied on an implicit opposing narrative: that w ­ omen’s deviations from this nationalistic duty should be criminalized. The construction of maternity hospitals resulted in the increased scrutiny of all aspects of w ­ omen’s reproductive lives. Moreover, improved access to reproductive healthcare did not change w ­ omen’s poor reproductive health outcomes overnight.

3

Birthing Life and Death Childbirth, Stillbirth, and Maternal Mortality

I N 1 9 1 0 , A S T U D E N T at Rio de Janeiro’s medical school published a dissertation outlining the ideal hospital conditions for ­labor and delivery.1 In his version, the licensed (male) physician had access to a plethora of drugs and equipment to assist with the birth, including vari­ous antiseptic solutions. The room was “spacious” and “well ventilated,” and it was not crowded with ­people, “a custom, unfortunately, always in vogue among us.”2 The bed was comfortable, covered with clean sheets and extra pillows, and away from the walls so that the doctor could attend the patient from all sides. To maintain cleanliness, a large, impermeable cloth was placed over the bedclothes. The laboring ­woman was dressed in loose-­fitting clothes. She only ate easily digestible foods, and the “prejudicial habit” of giving strong coffee or wine “with the supposed end of comforting the laboring ­woman” was forbidden as it could “augment [her] ner­vous excitation.”3 Although confined to the room, the w ­ oman walked around in the early stages of l­abor. Once her w ­ ater had broken, however, she reclined on her back with her head against the pillows. If the pain was unbearable, a physician was to use chloroform to help with the delivery. Since preventing infection was key to a “hygienic” birth, the hospital’s antiseptic condition was its most impor­tant attribute.4 Central to this description was the control the physician had over l­ abor and delivery. This scenario was a far cry from the way that many Carioca ­women of modest means delivered their c­ hildren. On an early April morning in 1923, for example, twenty-­year-­old Emilia Teixeira went into l­abor. Teixeira was at 80



Birthing Life and Death 81

home with her common-­law husband (amasio) Elizeu Barnabé in a northern hillside favela when she delivered twin girls.5 ­A fter the delivery of the first infant, Barnabé rushed out and found his neighbor Paula Rodrigues, who delivered the second infant, “as she was accustomed to do in that area.”6 Afterward, Rodrigues cut and tied the twins’ umbilical cords and gave them their first bath, “­because she is a ­mother and . . . ​she cut the [umbilical cord] of her [own] ­children.” Soon, Teixeira began hemorrhaging, so Barnabé, at the insistence of Rodrigues, called the public ambulance to take Teixeira to the hospital. The ambulance arrived at the neighboring train station, but the d ­ rivers “refused to go up the hill” and left. In desperation, Barnabé found three of his friends, and the men put Teixeira in a chair and carried her down to the main thoroughfare. Barnabé once again called the ambulance, but by the time it arrived, Teixeira had died. The declared cause of death: partial placental abruption (the premature separation of the placenta from the uterus) and consequent hemorrhaging.7 The twins survived. The birth of Teixeira’s twin girls demonstrates many of the common features of childbirth in early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro, characteristics that contradicted both the medical student’s previous sterile description above and the efforts to expand reproductive healthcare explored in Chapter 2. The birth occurred at home, and a lay female neighbor who prob­ably attended other births in the area assisted Teixeira in the late stages of l­abor. The poor ­couple only resorted to the public health system ­a fter complications arose. But the ambulance was not equipped nor did it want to ser­v ice Teixeira’s impoverished neighborhood. And although the female neighbor may not have caused the partial placental abruption, she did not have the medical training or knowledge to respond to obstetric hemorrhaging.8 Most deliveries in early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro occurred at home, attended by unlicensed midwives or laywomen in the poor and working classes and by licensed midwives and physicians in the ­middle and upper classes. Elevated and sustained stillbirth and maternal mortality rates marked all ­women’s reproductive lives. Syphilis and obstetric complications during childbirth ­were the two main c­ auses of stillbirths, and puerperal fever (infection) was the main culprit of maternal death. Physicians could have reduced stillbirth rates to a ­limited extent by providing a health infrastructure that adequately addressed difficult l­abors (syphilis could not be fully cured ­until the arrival of penicillin).9 But physicians in Brazil, and across the western world, waged a losing ­battle against the Streptococcus bacteria that caused most cases of puerperal

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fever and the majority of maternal deaths before the widespread use of sulfa drugs in the mid-1930s and the introduction of penicillin in the early 1940s. Comprehensive reproductive health statistics for republican Rio de Janeiro are unavailable, for the government did not adequately rec­ord or define births, deaths, and disease.10 Yet by piecing together the ­limited data available and presenting descriptive statistical analyses of available stillbirth and maternal mortality rates, we can create a general understanding of w ­ omen’s health. Moreover, when juxtaposed with w ­ omen’s own experiences (culled from medical and criminal rec­ords, including police investigations and court cases), we see the practical implications of ­these numbers, no ­matter how incomplete. This chapter relies on both medical and ­legal sources in its telling of a woman-­centered and embodied history of pregnancy and childbirth. Historians of maternal-­infant health often rely on medical journals and dissertations or institutional health rec­ords.11 Scholars studying contraception, abortion, and infanticide, in contrast, use judicial sources including criminal investigations.12 ­Here, I compare ­t hese two sets of sources to understand the ways in which clinical practice and ­women’s experiences intersected in ­women’s reproductive lives. When read in relation to medical publications, criminal sources provide new insights into w ­ omen’s experiences of pregnancy and childbirth. Despite physicians’ and policymakers’ ideological and institutional efforts to medicalize childbirth and increase access to clinical healthcare, no real improvements in w ­ omen’s reproductive health occurred in the fifty years following the abolition of slavery. Of course, changes in health trends do not happen overnight, and Vargas’s expansion of a reproductive health infrastructure in the 1930s created the necessary institutional framework for the ­later improve­ ere ments that came about mid-­century.13 Moreover, Carioca physicians w not alone in their inability to improve reproductive health; sustained drops in high stillbirth and maternal mortality rates worldwide only came in the 1940s. This, however, did not make it any easier for the ­women who embodied ­t hese statistics.

­L abor Pains: W ­ omen’s Experiences of Childbirth Historians have analyzed the medicalization of childbirth from the Congo to the northeastern United States, presenting it as an impor­tant realm in which traditional and modern medical practices clashed.14 For Rio de Janeiro, this



Birthing Life and Death 83

pro­cess began in the early twentieth c­ entury, but as Chapter 2 highlighted, most ­women in the republican era continued to give birth at home, often without a licensed physician. However, homebirths ­were not a uniform experience but divided according to socioeconomic status. Middle-­and upper-­ class ­women gave birth with the assistance of a licensed midwife or male physician. Working-­class ­women who had fewer resources, but still enough to pay for medical care, often relied on curiosas. The l­imited data demonstrate that curiosas charged a consistent rate of 50$000 milréis per delivery throughout the 1920s and 1930s.15 In 1923, for instance, the curiosa Maria Adelaide da Conceição Pinto Montenegro charged between 30$000 and 50$000 milréis for her ser­vices during ­labor and delivery (an abortion allegedly cost 40$000 milréis).16 Montenegro fixed the price of her ser­v ices before her patient went into ­labor, and she even allowed her clients to pay in installments. For comparison, Montenegro’s price for delivery was between three and five times the monthly cost-­of-­living index (basic foodstuffs).17 Moreover, a professional nurse’s monthly salary for that year was 19$375 milréis, so delivery ser­v ices by an untrained midwife ­were around double a professional ­woman’s monthly wages.18 ­These prices mean that even curiosas’ ser­v ices ­were out of reach for poor ­women like Emilia Teixeira, who instead relied on laywomen, often female relatives or neighbors. Scholars have contended that poor and working-­class ­women across Brazil began resorting to hospital care for childbirth in the early twentieth ­century.19 I have found, however, that many poor ­women in Rio de Janeiro, particularly ­t hose without kinship networks or social and cultural capital, never sought out institutional healthcare. Impoverished ­women, for example mi­grant domestic servants, gave birth alone, often in secret. For comparison, we can take the deliveries of two domestic servants, both poor but to dif­fer­ent degrees. In January 1904, twenty-­t wo-­year-­old parda Olivia Nogueira da Gama awoke early in the morning and went to the latrine to urinate. She felt pains in her abdomen that “contracted more and more,” and ­after “much force” she gave birth standing up.20 The infant fell to the floor, and Gama killed the child by stabbing it in the neck. Gama was illiterate and did not know her parents’ names. She had been raped by her former employer in the interior of the state, ­after which she had migrated, alone, to Rio de Janeiro. Compare Gama to the case of twenty-­one-­year-­old preta Anna de Carvalho. In 1915, Carvalho sought out a public maternity hospital to give birth to her son, Alcino.21 Carvalho was no doubt poor; she l­ater abandoned her son on its f­ ather’s doorstep for lack of resources. But she knew the names of both her

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parents, and she could sign her own name and was thus nominally literate. She also had the social capital to seek out her ex-­partner and demand that he care for his son. Although both w ­ omen of color ­were poor, young domestic servants, their levels of social capital varied greatly. Carvalho went to a hospital to give birth. Gama’s impoverished state and her exposure to sexual and physical vio­lence precluded her ability to do so. She ignored her pregnancy, gave birth in secret, and then committed infanticide. Like Gama, the city’s poorest w ­ omen, often live-in domestic servants, strug­gled to find a place to deliver their ­children.22 Some employers explic­ itly stated that their live-in domestic servants needed to deliver their child elsewhere. When eighteen-­year-­old live-in domestic servant Alice do Espirito Santo felt l­ abor pains in 1902, she gave birth in the back room of her employer’s ­house. According to the court case, Santo did not provide the necessary care to the infant ­a fter the delivery, and it died soon a­ fter. Her employer had not ignored her pregnancy or upcoming delivery. When he saw that Santo was in ­labor, he implored the cook to find a midwife, “since he would not let his employee Alice [Santo] give birth in his home.”23 Perhaps he hoped to avoid the exact scandal that occurred when Santo was ­later prosecuted for infanticide. Despite ­t hese tragic cases, not all domestic servants faced the shame and solitude of unwanted pregnancies and deliveries. In 1908, for example, Antonio Ferreira Campos called his ­mother, a “practical midwife” (parteira prática), to attend the homebirth of his live-in domestic servant Maria Emilia.24 Dif­fer­ent from the truly destitute, working-­class ­women like Emilia Teixeira gave birth at home in the presence of a curiosa or of female friends or relatives. On one November day in 1907, for instance, Alice Maria da Conceição began having contractions in her home. ­After laboring for an unspecified period of time, Conceição called her female neighbor, who, “not being able to give the help that Alice needed,” summoned an older female neighbor.25 By the time the second w ­ oman arrived, however, Conceição was already delivering the newborn. The infant was in a breech position (buttocks or feet first), with its legs and trunk outside of the vaginal canal but still “imprisoned at the neck” (head entrapment, a complication of breech pre­sen­ta­tions).26 The infant prob­ably died during the difficult delivery, but her female neighbor did not necessarily contribute to the death as she arrived so late in ­labor. ­After the birth, several other female neighbors arrived at Conceiçã­o’s home to provide extra support. While ­women surrounded her in the birthing room, Conceição asked her male neighbor to contact the municipal authorities for help bury-



Birthing Life and Death 85

ing her infant. As Monica Green argues, historians who have emphasized a woman-­only history of homebirths have overlooked the gendered contours of childbirth. Th ­ ese only come into focus when we “cast our gaze to the periphery of ­these scenes,” where, she argues, you ­will find men.27 This proves true in the case of early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro, where men—as neighbors, ­family members, and ambulance d ­ rivers—­huddled around the edges of homebirths. Most impor­tant, they proved crucial in commanding state authority.28 Gendered understandings of familial responsibility thus ­shaped working-­ class w ­ omen’s birthing experiences. Familial dynamics come into further focus when we explore the timing of when w ­ omen called for help beyond their immediate circle of female ­family members and friends.29 In 1908, thirty-­four-­ year-­old Olympia Octavia da Faria had been experiencing ­labor pains for a day when her w ­ ater broke. Despite her discomfort, Faria spent the w ­ hole day at home, waiting for her husband, Antonio da Costa, to return from work, “to not bother him.”30 Early the next morning, perhaps twenty-­four hours ­a fter Faria’s w ­ ater broke, her husband called the lay midwife who had delivered the ­couple’s three other ­children. The midwife discovered that the infant was already dead and presenting in a breech position, and the midwife had to extract the infant “with much force” to save Faria’s life. ­After the birth, the midwife washed Faria’s genital area with an antiseptic solution and fed her broth.31 She came back the next day to check on Faria’s health and found she was d ­ oing well despite the difficult delivery. The c­ ouple’s gendered understanding of ­family, that Costa—as the husband and head of household—­de­cided when his wife could call a midwife, resulted in a stillbirth. While ­women dominated the delivery itself, men’s and w ­ omen’s understanding of patriarchal power within the ­family often dictated ­women’s health outcomes.32 As we saw in Conceiçã­o’s delivery, the working classes relied on curiosas or female friends in the late stages of l­abor.33 For the laboring poor, their working schedules further ­shaped their actions. Twenty-­year-­old Jesuina Maria’s delivery of a stillborn infant highlights this trend. On one January day in 1908, Maria, a domestic servant, went to work as usual.34 She felt ­labor pains throughout the day but only went home and called a midwife in the after­ noon. By the time the midwife arrived, Maria was in the ­middle of delivering her child (breech pre­sen­ta­tion), indicating that she was prob­ably in the advanced stages of l­abor when she left work. From the testimony of Maria’s female roommate who assisted the delivery, Maria walked around the ­house freely and was seated on a staircase during one period of l­ abor. B ­ ecause Maria

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only received care when the fetus was already entrapped, ­t here was a good chance that the child prob­ably died during the birth itself.35 That is not to say that it was Maria’s fault for asking for help late in ­labor. Rather, the schedules of the working poor prob­ably increased the number of difficult deliveries that ended in a stillbirth. Con­temporary obstetric research confirmed this. In 1930, the obstetric reformer Clovis Corrêa da Costa’s study of 200 stillbirths showed that in 136 cases ­women had worked ­until the delivery itself.36 Like the lower classes, the ­middle and upper classes often only went to the hospital in cases of grave danger to the life of the m ­ other.37 Of course, middle-­ class homebirths had better surroundings and better-­trained providers—­ licensed midwives and male obstetricians—­than t­hose of working-­class ­women.38 It appears, however, that middle-­class w ­ omen approached delivery in a manner similar to their lower-­class counter­parts by receiving medical assistance late in l­abor. In one 1937 homebirth, for example, twenty-­t hree-­year-­ old Alcyr Graça da Cunha Mattos gave birth in a rented room in the presence of her ­mother and a licensed midwife. Despite the ­family’s middle-­class status—­t hey ­were literate, and the ­father was an army colonel—­t he ­mother only called the midwife during the late stages of ­labor, when Mattos was “almost fully dilated.”39 Culturally ingrained practices presented strong barriers to obstetricians’ medicalization efforts. Lower-­and working-­class ­women may only have been able to afford a midwife in the late stages of ­labor, but middle-­class ­women’s adherence to this trend suggests that perhaps ­women felt well-­accompanied by their female f­ amily members or lay attendants. Due to privacy or costs, perhaps, most w ­ omen only found a trained practitioner necessary at the moment of birth or in the case of an obstetric emergency. For the first four de­cades of the twentieth c­ entury, the majority of Carioca ­women gave birth in their homes, with varying degrees of medical attention. The attendant, w ­ hether a trusted friend or lay or licensed midwife, often arrived in the late stages of ­labor. For the truly impoverished, both financially and socially, births ­were a solitary endeavor. Male physicians had an uphill ­battle to move births to a hospital setting. But clinical reports and reproductive histories show that new maternity hospitals ­were changing ­women’s experiences with ­labor and delivery. Of the 2,814 patients who entered the obstetric ward at Laranjeiras between 1922 and 1926, for example, 1,148 (almost 40 ­percent) w ­ ere delivering their first child.40 It is likely that this experience set pre­ce­dence for the remainder of their childbearing years. The 1935 clinical history of Nimpha Figueiredo de Castro similarly underscores this point.



Birthing Life and Death 87

Castro had been married for four years during which she had been pregnant three times.41 The first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage, whereas the second two pregnancies resulted in live c­ hildren—­both delivered in a hospital. Castro was just one of many w ­ omen whose l­abor and delivery would now occur in a hospital ward and not in their bedroom. It is impor­tant, of course, not to romanticize homebirths. As we have seen, many of them ­were dangerous and resulted in the death of the newborn, the ­mother, or both. Medical ignorance or malpractice caused some of ­t hese deaths. But before the arrival of penicillin and blood transfusions in the 1940s, many of ­t hese complications would have resulted in a stillbirth or maternal death even if the birth had occurred in a hospital.

Mais jeito, menos força (More Skill, Less Force): Clinical Practice and Miscarriage and Stillbirth Rates Obstetricians’ efforts to improve the city’s healthcare ser­v ices through the construction of hospitals and the medicalization of childbirth ­were responding to the city’s high and sustained miscarriage and stillbirth rates.42 Notwithstanding physicians’ preoccupation with ­t hese numbers, public health entities in early twentieth-­century Brazil, as in many western countries, neither clearly defined nor accurately recorded their c­ auses and rates.43 For miscarriages, obstetricians differentiated between first, second, and third trimester fetuses in their clinical practice, but public health data did not rec­ord first-­or second-­trimester miscarriages, obscuring their a­ ctual rates.44 As with medical classifications of miscarriage, public health definitions of stillbirth remained unclear for much of the early twentieth ­century. In Brazil, republican public health officials first defined stillbirth as “a child that did not pre­sent, upon birth, signs of life, or that died during delivery,” l­ater amended to read “any dead fetus or one that dies immediately before delivery.”45 Most impor­tant, a stillbirth was the lack of respiration ­after delivery, which was also crucial to determine an infanticide.46 Statistics likewise did not differentiate between the death of the fetus in utero and before the onset of l­ abor (antepartum) and the death of the fetus during birth (intrapartum). In an effort to improve their data, early twentieth-­century physicians and public health officials in Brazil suggested three categories: (1) in utero fetal demise (antepartum stillbirth); (2) death during delivery (intrapartum stillbirth); and (3) death immediately ­after birth (early neonatal death). Health officials

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would categorize the first two as stillbirths and the third as a live birth and subsequent infant death.47 They based ­these classifications on the then governing International List of C ­ auses of Death (now known as the International Classification of Diseases, ICD), the League of Nations’ public health guideline. By the late 1920s, Brazilian obstetricians continued to push for systematic definitions in line with subsequent modifications from the League of Nations.48 Furthermore, due to the decentralized structure of republican bureaucracy, municipalities and states often differed in their definitions, although Rio de Janeiro, as the capital city, adhered to the federal guidelines. It was not u ­ ntil 1940 that Brazil’s official national definition became that of the ICD: “A dead-­birth (stillbirth) is the birth of a ­viable fetus, of at least twenty-­eight weeks gestation, in which pulmonary respiration does not occur; death may occur before, during, or a­ fter delivery, but before [the fetus] has breathed.”49 Physicians’ frustrated efforts to improve the definition and thus registration of stillbirths (taken from the civil registry) demonstrate that the data relating to t­ hese events w ­ ere neither well defined nor reliably collected. Historians have shown that the underreporting of births and deaths was common in republican Rio de Janeiro, a fact con­temporary officials also noted.50 As such, stillbirth numbers w ­ ere not accurate, and the rates before 1930, when Vargas began improving the collection of government statistics, ­were prob­ably higher than recorded.51 Post-1930 rates may have experienced a registration effect, in that they ­rose due to more accurate reporting.52 What the ­limited numbers show is a relatively stable stillbirth rate (SBR) of between seventy and ninety stillbirths per thousand total births from 1890 to 1940, or a mean of seventy-­seven stillbirths per thousand total births per year (Figure 1). In other words, roughly one out of ­every eight births resulted in a stillbirth in the city, and rates only began to decrease in the mid-1940s. Rates this high would have had a significant impact on ­women’s understanding of reproduction—­and society’s valuing of babies’ lives. The obstetric profession, for its part, was embarrassed by ­t hese numbers. As Costa wrote in 1930, stillbirth rates ­were one of Rio de Janeiro’s g­ reat social prob­lems. The city was the country’s center of civilization, for which it “has a ­great responsibility on its shoulders, since . . . ​ it constitutes itself as the standard and model to which are turned the sights of all other ­great and small cities of the country.”53 Its high stillbirth rate was simply shameful: “What can be observed in Rio de Janeiro in relation to maternal assistance is frankly an embarrassment! . . . ​We are embarrassed, humiliated, when foreign colleagues visit us.”54



Birthing Life and Death 89

100 90 80 70 60 50

Rio de Janeiro

40

São Paulo

30 20 10

54

50

19

46

19

42

19

38

19

34

19

30

19

26

19

22

19

18

19

14

19

10

19

06

19

02

19

98

19

94

18

18

18

90

0

F I G U R E   1  ​Stillbirth rate per thousand total births, Rio de Janeiro and São

Paulo, 1890–1956

source: For Rio de Janeiro: C. Costa, “Inquerito,” 144; M. Machado, Mortalidade, 46; Scorzelli, “Mortinatalidade,” 12–13; Serviço Federal de Bioestatística, Anuário de bioestatística, 6–7, 74–75, 142–43, 210–11; Serviço Federal de Bioestatística, Informes de estatística vital, 30–31, 60–61; Vianna and Rangel, “Movimento do Estado civil,” 226–29. For São Paulo: http://­produtos​.­seade​ .­gov​.­br​/­produtos​/­500anos​/­index​.­php​?­t ip​= ­esta, accessed January 13, 2018. I thank Herbert Klein for sharing his data from São Paulo with me.

The differences between Brazil’s two largest cities—­São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro—­merits attention. Regardless of under-­or misreporting, the numbers show a consistently higher SBR in Rio de Janeiro than in São Paulo. One pos­ si­ble explanation is that São Paulo underwent successful public health campaigns in the early twentieth ­century. ­These reforms reduced the prevalence of infectious disease and improved sanitation. Nevertheless, syphilis and obstetric complications—­t he two main c­ auses of stillbirths—­were never the main focus of São Paulo’s health campaigns (and could not be fully addressed ­until World War II).55 ­These differences merit an in-­depth study of the effects of changing public health infrastructure on stillbirth rates in two growing Brazilian cities. In the early 1940s, Rio de Janeiro’s SBR began a slow decline that would continue throughout the de­cade and into the mid-1950s. This story is not par­ tic­u­lar to Rio de Janeiro—or Brazil for that ­matter. In Eu­rope and the United

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States, significant drops in SBR also began in the 1940s. What caused this decline? Both social ­factors—­poor nutrition, inadequate medical training—­and ge­ne­tic f­ actors, which cause the majority of early fetal deaths, influence miscarriage and, to a lesser extent, stillbirth rates. Yet ge­ne­tic ­factors remain relatively constant over time; thus, downward trends result from social c­ auses.56 The effective treatment of diseases such as syphilis as well as the improvement of nutrition lowered antepartum rates. Intrapartum stillbirths are tied to mea­sures of obstetric care, and better access to proper medical assistance during birth decreased rates. ­After World War II, Robert Woods hypothesizes that three main ­factors caused the sustained decline of stillbirths. The skill and quality of birth attendants improved, reducing intrapartum stillbirths. Additionally, the discovery and implementation of new drug and medical technologies, such as antibiotics, prenatal syphilis screening, and l­ater in the twentieth c­ entury ultrasound technology, reduced antepartum stillbirths. Fi­nally, demographic changes, including reduced fertility rates, affected both antepartum and intrapartum rates.57 With this in mind, Carioca physicians’ often-­frustrated efforts to improve stillbirth rates w ­ ere not unique to the city; rather, they w ­ ere part of the larger and longer trajectory of western obstetric medicine. Obstetricians’ and public health reformers’ efforts to lower the SBR ­were based on their accurate understanding of most of the pathological c­ auses of early fetal death (miscarriage) and stillbirth. For instance, they correctly linked diseases associated with poverty such as syphilis and tuberculosis to early fetal death.58 By the 1920s, Carioca physicians had identified syphilis as the main cause of miscarriages and antepartum stillbirths.59 Take Olympia Octavia da Faria’s reproductive history.60 By 1908, the f­amily had used the same midwife for Faria’s four pregnancies, three of which she had carried to term (one she miscarried early on in the pregnancy). The first pregnancy that Faria carried to term ended in the premature delivery of a stillborn infant of seven months gestational age. The second child, a girl, was born at term, and was alive and well. The last pregnancy had ended in a stillbirth. The police autopsy verified antepartum fetal death and maceration, prob­ably due to maternal syphilis.61 Perhaps unsurprisingly, then, the ­limited f­ree prenatal care available to poor w ­ omen focused heavi­ly on syphilis detection and treatment, which, before the first successful use of penicillin to treat the disease in 1943, was l­ imited to prophylactic and not therapeutic mea­sures.62 Prenatal clinics tested pregnant w ­ omen using the Wasserman reaction (developed in 1906), a blood test



Birthing Life and Death 91

that, b ­ ecause it tested for non-­specific antigens, was not always accurate.63 Treatment included mercury injections, and, beginning in the 1920s, salvarsan and then neosalvarsan (arsenic compounds discovered in the early 1910s).64 Both improved symptoms, with the latter being more effective, but none rid the person of the disease. All, moreover, had side effects due to their toxicity. Physicians also confirmed that poor ­women had higher rates of miscarriage and stillbirth, as t­ hese are clustered in relation to nutrition, infection, and general health.65 For impoverished populations with poor sanitation and nutrition and higher rates of disease, both miscarriages and stillbirths ­were more common.66 In 1921, Miguel Couto, the president of the National Acad­ emy of Medicine (Academia Nacional de Medicina, ANM), told his colleagues that he kept fastidious statistics of the w ­ omen u ­ nder his care: “Well, I can assure my colleagues that, in my statistics, I have more than 80% of [my patients with] cases of natu­ral abortion [miscarriage]. I know few w ­ omen who have not had a miscarriage!”67 Julieta Joaquina Dias’s reproductive history underscores Couto’s declaration. By 1904, the twenty-­six-­year-­old Dias had had three pregnancies with her partner; the first was born full-­term and survived, the second resulted in a miscarriage, and the third was born full-­term but died at two months of age.68 Dias’s ­sister had helped during her first and third deliveries at home. The second miscarriage occurred when she was alone. Dias’s h ­ ouse­mate also had a son who had died at eigh­teen months of age. For intrapartum stillbirths, physicians identified obstetric ­factors such as breech births and placenta previa (where the placenta covers the cervix) as the leading cause seconded by delivery conditions.69 Fernando Magalhães, lecturing at Rio de Janeiro’s medical school on the dif­fer­ent ­causes of antepartum and intrapartum stillbirths in 1933, emphasized that the latter ­were preventable with better healthcare ser­v ices. Employing data from his residencies at Pro-­Matre and Laranjeiras, he cited that preventable health indicators included birth complications such as obstructed ­labor, placenta previa, and umbilical cord prolapse. Magalhães particularly condemned unlicensed midwives for their role in obstructed ­labors: “It is common ­here to find a laboring ­woman searching for help when at home she has already despaired of lay and ignorant assistance. One sees in ­t hese ­women the long delays that kill the fetus.”70 Medical students’ clinical notes seem to support Magalhães’s claim. In 1923, for example, an ambulance transported the twenty-­year-­old parda A. M. to Laranjeiras ­a fter she had labored at home for four days, attended by a curiosa.71 Obstetricians extracted the dead fetus through a mutilating

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pro­cess called a “basiotripsy” (basiotripsia), in which the physician punctured the head of the dead infant with a long, sharp surgical instrument while it was still inside the vaginal canal. The doctor then evacuated the brain m ­ atter from the ­woman’s vagina by reducing the size of the head and removing the body in pieces.72 A. M. suffered a vesicovaginal fistula (or a tear from the bladder to the vagina) two fin­gers wide as well as a lacerated perineum. ­After a month of medical care and surgery, she was released. Perhaps if the curiosa had called for help ­earlier, A. M. would not have suffered such debilitating injuries. Judicial documents also highlight that untrained midwives ­were a cause of obstetric-­related intrapartum stillbirths. In 1936, for example, Conceição de Oliveira, a forty-­year-­old preta midwife attended the home delivery of twenty-­nine-­year-­old Antonia Pinto. The child presented in a breech position, and while the first part of the delivery occurred without prob­lems, the child remained “imprisoned at the neck.”73 Several hours ­later, Pinto and her husband called the public ambulance ser­v ice, which took her to the nearby hospital. The on-­duty physician performed the Mauriceau maneuver, in which he externally rotated the infant out of a breech position, but the child was already dead.74 On the surface, the case proves Magalhães right. An “ignorant” midwife (­here a w ­ oman of color) acted incorrectly during an obstetric complication and caused an unnecessary fetal death. But a careful reading provides a dif­fer­ent understanding of what happened. When Oliveira arrived at Pinto’s home, she recognized the problematic l­abor and advised Pinto to call an ambulance. But Pinto only did so a­ fter her husband arrived home from work, nearly two hours ­a fter the infant had become imprisoned at the neck. The delay in calling the ambulance was, in fact, due to the absence of Pinto’s husband and not b ­ ecause the midwife believed it unnecessary, which Pinto’s ­sister corroborated. H ­ ere, gendered understandings of who could interact with the state—­only a man called an ambulance—­prob­ably proved the deciding ­factor in Pinto’s difficult delivery. Moreover, physicians had their own role in causing stillbirths.75 Magalhães briefly mentioned physician-­caused deaths from forceps, but other obstetricians ­were more vocal in their condemnation.76 In 1924, Carlos da Rocha Fernandes wrote, “If one day court cases ­were initiated for the crimes of forceps, of pituitrin [a hormone used to induce l­ abor and treat hemorrhage], and of curette, I do not know how many prisons would be necessary.”77 Costa’s 1930 report on the city’s stillbirth rates found that physicians’ use of forceps was the second leading cause of fetal death.78 He cautioned his fellow physi-



Birthing Life and Death 93

cians against “violent mea­sures”: “neither supporting the feet on the bars of the bed during forceps operations nor pulling on the fetus’s neck during difficult extractions—­more skill [jeito] and less force.”79 Costa’s guidance would have been useful for the young physician Pedro Ernesto in 1912 (who, as we saw, became mayor of Rio de Janeiro u ­ nder the Vargas administration and championed the Cascadura or Suburban Maternity Hospital). During a difficult delivery, Ernesto used forceps to extract an infant, causing a “compression of the brain” and a “dislocation of the cranial bones.”80 The infant died. Forceps deliveries could be traumatic without leading to fetal death. When Octávio de Souza used forceps to deliver the first child of a preta, twenty-­ three-­year old patient in 1924 at Laranjeiras, he had difficulty placing the second blade, causing “a small involuntary trauma.”81 The infant survived, although with bruises and lacerations on both sides of the face. ­Women too faced physical vio­lence from forceps.82 In August 1925, a seventeen-­year-­old branca Brazilian w ­ oman was delivered via Simpson Barnes forceps at Laranjeiras. During the delivery, her perineum tore to the “second degree,” and it took over a month for her to recover.83 In a November 1924 delivery, Octávio de Souza first used Simpson Barnes forceps to deliver the thirty-­one-­year-­old branca Brazilian ­woman.84 When the forceps proved insufficient, Souza completed the delivery with the Kristeller maneuver (external fundal pressure on the uterus), a violent mea­sure in which the obstetrician pushes the baby from the outside.85 The result was a “double rupture” of the cervix that “bled abundantly.”86 Fortunately, both ­mother and infant survived. Physicians also believed that the city’s impoverished population lacked morals, which resulted in illegitimacy, syphilis, and alcoholism, and, subsequently, higher rates of miscarriages and stillbirths.87 Other physicians faulted ­women. One medical student argued in 1911 that ­women miscarried due to “the lack of adherence to hygienic princi­ples specific to pregnancy; the high rates of working w ­ omen . . . ​and feminism.”88 For him, feminism, “a disease of the pre­sent,” caused heightened emotional activity, which was detrimental to the fetus: “Feminism is the cause of miscarriage, b ­ ecause it requires an agitated life [which] . . . ​is full of emotions; and [­t here is] nothing like repeated emotions to f­ avor the interruption of [a] pregnancy.”89 And, as we w ­ ill see, although physicians acknowledged high miscarriage and stillbirth rates, they also believed that criminal abortion rates ­were just as high; some doctors argued that nearly 50 ­percent of all miscarriages w ­ ere criminal abortions.90 How did physicians explain miscarriage and stillbirth rates in the m ­ iddle and

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upper classes? The prob­lem was greed, as consanguineous marriages to save inheritance resulted in unhealthy fetuses.91

“A Very Strong Fever”: The C ­ auses of Maternal Mortality The case of A. M., in which she brutally lost her infant and retained serious physical injuries, begs the question of how safe childbearing was for ­women in the early twentieth c­ entury. T ­ oday, maternal mortality is the mea­sure­ment of the risk a ­woman has of ­dying during pregnancy, ­labor, or the puerperium (the forty-­two-­day postnatal period) from non-­accidental c­ auses.92 Before the 1930s, the main ­causes of maternal mortality across the globe ­were, respectively, sepsis (infection, often septicemia), toxemia (now known as “preeclampsia” or “hypertensive disorders of pregnancy”), and hemorrhage, in that order. Deaths from septic abortions also ranked as an impor­tant cause, yet the exact numbers of its prevalence are difficult to determine b ­ ecause many w ­ ere not classified as maternal deaths due to early gestation and secrecy. For example, before the 1930s, Brazilian public health officials classified many septic abortion deaths as puerperal fever or septicemia.93 The c­ auses of maternal mortality occurred in­de­pen­dent of the overall rate, or regardless of ­whether a country’s or region’s rate was high or low, the c­ auses occurred in the same proportion to each other. The two main determinants that caused differing rates between regions ­were clinical standards and social and economic conditions.94 While historians looking at the latter have pinpointed nutritional deficiency as the main ­factor, Irvine Loudon has argued for a broader definition of poverty, for example a w ­ oman’s “ability to command the resources of health care.”95 For poor, illiterate w ­ omen in Rio de Janeiro, the inability to find or afford a doctor could be a ­matter of life or death. The maternal mortality ratio (MMR) is defined as number of total maternal deaths over 100,000 live births.96 Historians, however, have found it easier to use 10,000 total births in their calculations ­because of the higher rate of deaths in the past and the uncertainties around reporting.97 But the data for Rio de Janeiro are reported in live births; thus, I use the number of maternal deaths per 10,000 live births. The city’s MMR increased in the early de­cades of the twentieth c­ entury before spiking in 1932; it then sharply decreased and remained relatively steady throughout the 1930s. In 1942, it again plummeted with another large drop in the late 1940s (Figure 2). The increase



Birthing Life and Death 95

120

100

80

60

40

20

19 0 19 3 0 19 5 0 19 7 0 19 9 1 19 1 13 19 1 19 5 1 19 7 19 19 2 19 1 2 19 3 2 19 5 2 19 7 2 19 9 3 19 1 3 19 3 3 19 5 3 19 7 3 19 9 4 19 1 43 19 4 19 5 4 19 7 4 19 9 5 19 1 53 19 55

0

F I G U R E   2  ​Maternal mortality rate per ten thousand live births, Rio de Janeiro,

1903–1956

source: Fontenelle, A saude publica, 268–70; Serviço Federal de Bioestatística, Informes de estatística vital, 36–37.

and then large spike in the MMR around 1930 ­were most likely registration ­effects. However, the drop in the late 1930s and again in the mid-1940s prob­ably represents first a decline in Streptococcus virulence and then the isolation of penicillin, which greatly reduced maternal deaths from infection. What ­causes of death did Brazilian public health officials include in their definition of maternal mortality? In the 1930s, the national public health body (by then called the National Department of Health, or the Departamento ­Nacional de Saúde, DNS) defined maternal death as caused by: ec­topic pregnancies, abortion and miscarriage, puerperal hemorrhage, infection and septicemia, puerperal tetanus, eclampsia and other toxemias, and accidents of birth and obstetric shock.98 Although it is unclear when officials implemented t­ hese guidelines, they strictly followed the League of Nations’ ICD, first developed in an international context in 1900 and then incorporated into the League ­a fter its creation.99 Brazil’s subsequent redefinitions of maternal death followed ICD revisions.100 Definitions became standardized in the 1930s, but the

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­ nderreporting of births and deaths in general prob­ably resulted in continued u irregular reporting around maternal deaths. This included the nonreporting of maternal deaths due to septic abortions or ec­topic pregnancies (occurring early in the pregnancy, and in the case of illegal abortions, shrouded in secrecy) or the reporting of indirect maternal deaths (associated deaths due to a disorder not directly related to the pregnancy or delivery) as non-­childbirth-­related (for example, citing a death from tuberculosis as only attributable to the disease rather than recording pregnancy as a secondary cause). This registration effect could explain the increased number of total maternal deaths per year in the 1920s and 1930s when public health officials better identified and then reported deaths once thought unrelated to pregnancy or the postpartum period. Moreover, despite this unreliability, Loudon’s analy­sis of maternal mortality across the western world has demonstrated that irregularities in reporting and definition only resulted in slight distortions of the data, for which most can be estimated.101 I assume this for Rio de Janeiro. Maternal mortality in Rio de Janeiro followed worldwide trends; septicemia and other infections ­were the leading cause of maternal mortality, followed by toxemias and eclampsia, and obstetric hemorrhage (­Table  6 and Figure  3). Historians have described puerperal fever as the most common and “most terrifying” cause of global maternal mortality rates ­until the mid-­ twentieth c­ entury. Reduced incidence of puerperal sepsis deaths was the main reason MMR began a rapid and sustained drop across the globe in the early 1940s, even when accounting for regional ­factors and variations. Both a decline in Streptococcus virulence and the introduction of penicillin reduced puerperal fever deaths, with the latter being more impor­tant.102 Puerperal fever results from an infection of the uterus during or ­a fter the birthing pro­cess, and most cases are the result of infection in the first two weeks of the puer­T A B L E   6  ​Maternal deaths according to cause, Rio de Janeiro, 1903–1938 Cause of maternal death

Number of deaths

% of all maternal deaths

3,420

46.78

1,791

24.50

993

13.58

Septicemia (puerperal fever) Toxemia Hemorrhage Other

1,107

Total

7,311

source: Fontenelle, A saude publica, 268–70.

15.14 100



Birthing Life and Death 97

160 140 120 100

Septicemia Toxemia gravidica

80

Other

60

Hemorrhage 40 20

21 19 24 19 27 19 30 19 33 19 36

18

19

15

19

12

19

09

19

06

19

19

19

03

0

F I G U R E   3  ​Maternal deaths per year according to cause, Rio de Janeiro,

1903–1938

source: Fontenelle, A saude publica, 268–70.

perium (or post-­birth period). In Eu­rope, before physicians implemented antisepsis and asepsis princi­ples in hospitals in the 1880s, puerperal fever most often occurred in a clinical setting.103 Rio de Janeiro, which did not have maternity hospitals in the nineteenth c­ entury, did not experience the puerperal infection epidemic that ravaged Eu­rope’s maternity wards.104 Accordingly, the antiseptic revolution that improved maternal mortality rates in Eu­ro­pean hospitals was not as impor­tant in relation to puerperal fever mortality rates in nineteenth-­century Brazil. Antisepsis and asepsis resulted from bacteriology’s discovery of the pathological basis for infections, and Joseph Lister first recorded its surgical use in 1867 in ­England. Although the implementation of antisepsis and asepsis in clinical practice in Brazil is understudied, Jaime Benchimol has demonstrated that Brazilian scientists ­adopted Pasteurian theories during the period in which

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t­ hese practices became standard in Eu­rope. (The French scientist Louis Pasteur helped reduce puerperal fever deaths in France through antisepsis and ­asepsis.)105 Thus, when physicians began their efforts to construct hospitals in early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro, antisepsis and asepsis w ­ ere already standard practice. Physicians sterilized their hands, instruments, and the w ­ oman’s 106 genitals, and hospitals isolated infectious patients. In 1924, for instance, when the obstetrician Octávio de Souza used forceps to facilitate the delivery of an infant at Laranjeiras, he practiced “the habitual asepsis [practices] of the genital organs.” Both infant and ­mother survived without infection.107 Despite t­ hese practices, puerperal fever occurred in hospitals into the early twentieth ­century. The fever was predominantly due to Streptococcus disease, meaning it could be carried asymptomatically, and turn-­of-­the-­century asepsis standards w ­ ere insufficient to combat the virulent organism. For example, when Souza performed a cesarean section on another ­woman that same month, he applied iodine to the patient’s uterus. This time, however, he did not prevent an infection (although the ­woman survived).108 Only when science recognized asymptomatic carriers and then discovered sulfonamides (sulfa drugs) in 1937, followed by the isolation of penicillin in 1944, did maternal deaths from puerperal fever begin a sharp and sustained downward slope.109 Thus, Brazilian physicians w ­ ere not alone in their inability to combat puerperal fever before the age of antibiotics. Yet even leading obstetricians like Fernando Magalhães did not comprehend the etiology of infection. In his 1933 obstetric textbook he wrote, “I ­will continue to say that puerperal infection is benign and self-­curable.”110 Although some w ­ omen recovered from infection before antibiotics, it was anything but benign. Magalhães’s own clinical actions highlight the danger this belief presented to his patients. In 1924, a twenty-­six-­year-­old preta Brazilian ­woman was admitted to Laranjeiras to deliver her first child. The w ­ oman had an obstructed l­abor due to a pelvic deformity, so Magalhães performed a cesarean section. Magalhães wrote in his clinical report that the fetus was extracted “with ­great difficulty.”111 ­A fter opening the abdomen and uterus, Magalhães first used forceps blades to extract the infant, but ­after this proved unsuccessful, he used the forceps’ h ­ andle to extricate the now stillborn child. Before Magalhães closed the uterus, however, this unnamed ­woman’s body became the training ground for the hospital’s physicians. “Note: this patient was touched by all of the residents and students pre­sent due to the verification of the existence of the Bandl ring,” Magalhães wrote in his report, concluding that “around twenty ­people manually verified the uterine cavity.” (The Bandl



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ring is a thinning of the uterine lining due to prolonged ­labor and demonstrates the possibility of uterine rupture.)112 Unsurprisingly, the w ­ oman died. The clinical notes leave out the cause of death, but we can assume infection played a part. In early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro, as across the globe, untrained midwives and healers also could spread the Streptococcus that caused puerperal fever during homebirths. The death of Maria Campos de Azevedo is demonstrative of this point. In 1918, the thirty-­two-­year-­old Azevedo gave birth to a son, Djalma, with the help of the curiosa, Sylvana. A ­ fter the delivery, a healer (curandeiro) helped with postpartum care. Azevedo, however, remained weak and “burning from fever.”113 The ­family called a local “practical” (untrained) pharmacist, who found Azevedo in a “grave” state with a “very strong fever.”114 The pharmacist administered quinine bisulphate (an antimalarial drug and abortifacient), but he recognized the inadequacy of the treatment in the face of puerperal fever. Azevedo died soon a­ fter, and the police investigated the cause of death. Although the curiosa’s statements do not reveal ­whether she performed a vaginal exam on Azevedo, perhaps transmitting Streptococcus, the police chief argued that if Azevedo had gone to a public hospital a­ fter the delivery, she would have received proper treatment and would have survived. Magalhães’s clinical practice in the previous case demonstrates that this was not necessarily the case. Azevedo may have delivered in an antiseptic environment at the hospital in 1918 (unlike the septic environment of the midwife and healer), but ­t here was no effective remedy for puerperal fever at the time of her death. The police chief ’s words w ­ ere more reminiscent of a witch hunt against the unlicensed midwife than a true understanding of the medical situation. Although official health statistics did not clarify w ­ hether they included postabortion sepsis in the category of puerperal septicemia or fever, it still remained a cause of maternal death for Carioca ­women. In December 1937, for example, twenty-­four-­year-­old branca Maria Luisa Bessa, a bank teller, sought out an illegal abortion. The unlicensed midwife who performed the curettage (raspagem) procedure (where a scalpel-­like object is used to scrape the uterine walls), perforated the uterus and small intestines.115 Bessa had the familial support and friendship network to receive immediate and safe medical treatment at a reputable small clinic, but despite the surgical intervention, in which physicians drained the abdominal cavity and sutured the uterus, Bessa died a day ­later from “perforation of the uterus and of the small intestine [and]

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consecutive fibrinopurulent peritonitis” (an infection in the abdominal cavity).116 Bessa’s death is prob­ably just one of many illegal abortions that ended in infection and death. The abortion method that Bessa underwent merits attention. In the early twentieth c­ entury, both medical (or pharmacological) and mechanical (or surgical) abortion methods w ­ ere common. Curiosas and healers most often prescribed medicine or herbs. Other times, ­women, through female social networks, accessed popu­lar remedies by themselves. Medical methods included both indirect and direct agents, the former comprising purgatives (such as potassium iodide), sudorifics (to cause excessive sweating), and toxic substances such as arsenic.117 ­These caused a ­woman to become ill, and if she aborted, it was due to her overall bad health and not any direct action on the uterus. Direct agents ­were emmenagogues (uterotonics), which caused contractions. Physicians cited, and judicial documents confirm, that midwives and w ­ omen most commonly used savin/juniper, ergot, Pulsatilla or windflower, rue, wormwood, and yew to cause premature contractions. Less active emmenagogues included lemon verbena, chamomile, cinnamon, parsley oil, and jalap.118 ­These medi­cations differed in both effectiveness and lethality. When Nimpha Figueiredo de Castro became pregnant for a fourth time in 1936, for example, she told her husband that she did not want to have another child. Her husband opposed the abortion, but Castro went to a midwife who gave her “a purgative of Aguardente Alemã” (also called Agua Vienense), or “composed jalap” and “five capsules of quinine hydrochlorate, for a total of one and a half grams.”119 Sometime ­a fter taking the medi­cation, Figueiredo began bleeding, and she eventually died from hemorrhage and pulmonary edema (excess fluid in the lungs, often caused by blood loss).120 In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, ­women and physicians used abortifacients not only to purposefully interrupt a pregnancy but also to regulate menstruation and treat postpartum complications.121 While emmenagogues for menstrual regulation could have been a euphemism for first-­ trimester abortions (which some nineteenth-­century physicians believed), as scholars studying both medieval and early modern Eu­rope and nineteenth-­ century Mexico and Argentina have demonstrated, w ­ omen (and physicians and midwives) did not always consider emmenagogues as abortifacients, and many believed that a blocked period was dif­fer­ent from pregnancy.122 Nancy Scheper-­Hughes shows that w ­ omen in northeast Brazil held t­ hese beliefs well into the twentieth ­century.123



Birthing Life and Death 101

If medicine failed, ­women resorted to surgical methods, which ­were divided into three categories. The dilation method involved dilating the cervix with an instrument—­ranging from a rubber probe (sonda de borracha) to a tightly rolled bundle of vegetables like collard greens (couve)—to cause contractions and miscarriage.124 ­Women also employed this method on their own. When Clara do Nascimento became pregnant for a fourth time in 1926, she inserted a sonda into her cervix. She aborted the fetus, but the procedure caused an infection and ultimately her death.125 Judicial documents demonstrate that midwives and physicians commonly used laminaria—­hygroscopic (moisture-­absorbing) sticks of seaweed that dilate the cervix in hours—­a fter which they induced contractions with a probe.126 ­Today, laminaria are used in second-­trimester dilation-and-extraction abortions.127 Midwives’ use of laminaria in the early twentieth ­century demonstrates that ­t hese abortions ­were prob­ably occurring in the second trimester and w ­ ere thus riskier to the ­woman. A second, more dangerous method was to use a sharp object to puncture the fetal tissue and cause a miscarriage. W ­ omen at times performed this method on themselves by inserting crochet n ­ eedles, w ­ hale bones (from corsets), or metal hairpins, possibly scarring or puncturing the uterus. Fi­nally, trained physicians first dilated the cervix and then removed the embryo with a curettage procedure.128 Although curettage was a safer medical procedure— it was the established technique to treat an incomplete miscarriage—­the death of Bessa shows that in untrained hands, it could be fatal.129 Some providers inserted a canula into the cervix and injected warm w ­ ater or even caustic substances into the uterine cavity to cause the detachment of the fetal tissue from the uterine lining.130 This was often deadly. In 1930, for example, Celeste de Carvalho paid the midwife Elly Waeger to dilate her cervix and then inject warm ­water with hydrogen peroxide and Lysol into her uterus, a procedure that ­after prob­ably causing significant pain, killed her.131 While infections ­after childbirth or abortion ­were the leading cause of maternal mortality, toxemia, the historical term for what is t­ oday known as preeclampsia, eclampsia, or “pregnancy-­induced hypertension” (high blood pressure), was the second killer of pregnant and laboring ­women. It is a disease of the third trimester in which high blood pressure, followed by albuminuria (high levels of protein in the urine) and generalized edema (swelling), can lead to seizures and death. Unlike puerperal fever, toxemia is a noncommunicable disease; therefore, it is distributed more evenly throughout the population of childbearing w ­ omen. B ­ ecause the disease’s first sign is elevated blood pressure,

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physicians began to identify early stage cases ­a fter the development of blood pressure mea­sure­ment tools at the turn of the ­century.132 Indeed, the modern system of prenatal care was developed for the purpose of detecting toxemia.133 Carioca physicians included routine blood pressure monitoring and urinalysis in their provision of prenatal care by the 1920s.134 But the only way to resolve toxemia is to deliver the child. Induction of l­ abor was the most common technique u ­ ntil cesarean sections became safer mid-­century.135 Carioca ­women, like ­others across the globe, died from toxemia. In 1931, it was twenty-­one-­year-­old Elvira Alves Lourenç­o’s fourth pregnancy.136 She had had a difficult delivery during the birth of her first child, but the second and third births occurred without any prob­lem. When she went into l­abor, Lourenço told her husband to call the neighborhood curiosa, Jovita. With the help of Lourenç­o’s m ­ other, Jovita bathed the laboring ­woman with hot ­water and massaged her stomach. During her ­labor, Lourenço was active, walking around the room, but by the early morning she felt very tired. Soon, she fainted several times and began to shake, so her husband called a doctor, but Lourenço died before the physician arrived. The forensic autopsy ruled out hemorrhage or infection, and due to witness testimony—­t hat Lourenço had fainted, had a seizure, and eventually entered into a coma—­ruled the cause of death as toxemia gravidica. ­Because Lourenço prob­ably had not received any prenatal care, her state of hypertension went undetected. Yet preeclampsia can develop late in pregnancy or even during ­labor itself, and thus prenatal care does not detect all cases.137 Brazilian obstetricians, like their colleagues in Eu­rope and the United States, had begun using anticonvulsants (anticonvulsivantes) including magnesium sulfate (sulfato de magnésio) in the 1920s during seizures.138 Thus, if Lourenço had delivered in a hospital, she might have received treatment to end the seizure, but it would not necessarily have prevented her death.139 The last major cause of maternal mortality was obstetric hemorrhage, which most often occurs from trauma to the placental site. Antepartum hemorrhage includes placental abruption and placenta previa; the former is when part of the placenta detaches from the uterine wall during pregnancy or ­labor. Its ­causes are unknown, but it is most common in multiparous ­women. Placenta previa is a placental malposition in which the placenta ­either partially or fully covers the cervical opening (the os), preventing the delivery of the infant without hemorrhaging.140 Obstetric practice was not capable of effectively



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responding to antepartum hemorrhages u ­ ntil the discovery of penicillin and 141 blood transfusions during World War II. Obstetric hemorrhage affected many Carioca ­women. When thirty-­eight-­ year-­old Luiza Leite Ferreira went into ­labor in 1908, several female neighbors assisted her ­until the unlicensed midwife who had delivered Ferreira’s other ­children arrived.142 Before the midwife reached the h ­ ouse, however, Ferreira began hemorrhaging. Throughout her l­abor, Ferreira felt tired, vomiting excessively and complaining she could not breathe. The midwife gave her orange petal ­water and coffee with cinnamon to help with her weak contractions. Eventually, Ferreira delivered a stillborn infant, and ­after the birth the midwife changed the bedclothes and washed the infant. But Ferreira’s health deteriorated; she continued to hemorrhage and died soon ­after. If it was true that Ferreira was already hemorrhaging before the midwife arrived, her bleeding may have been caused by an abnormal placenta. The midwife’s actions thus did not cause her death. Physicians’ clinical observations also highlight placenta previa in their practice. In one medical student’s description of a 1923 obstetric case at Laranjeiras, M. C., a preta Brazilian w ­ oman, suffered from placenta previa. The on-­call physician extracted the live infant with forceps, but the ­mother died shortly ­a fter from obstetric hemorrhaging.143 The patient had arrived at the hospital in “a lake of blood,” and the medical student argued that if trained medical providers had attended M. C. at home during the late stages of pregnancy, they could have prevented her death.144 But placenta previa was not necessarily preventable at the time; it is currently diagnosed with an ultrasound, but other­w ise, it goes undiagnosed ­until bleeding begins.145 Perhaps M. C. had been bleeding throughout her third trimester. The fault ­t here, however, was the lack of prenatal care, which would have included the monitoring of any bleeding.146 The second category of obstetric hemorrhages occurs postpartum, often taking place during the third stage of ­labor, which is the time ­a fter the birth of the infant but before the delivery of the placenta. The third stage typically lasts between five and ten minutes, although up to thirty minutes is still considered normal. ­A fter that, the risk of postpartum hemorrhage increases.147 In the early twentieth ­century, unskilled birth attendants caused postpartum hemorrhages when they rushed the delivery of the placenta, causing hemorrhaging at the placental site.148 The 1926 death of twenty-­four-­year-­old parda

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Sebastiana Rosa Franco demonstrates how some untrained midwives rushed the third stage of ­labor. ­After Franco went into ­labor, eighty-­year-­old Jacintha de Mello, a Portuguese immigrant without any formal medical training but known in the neighborhood “as a good midwife,” delivered a healthy newborn.149 Soon ­a fter, Franco began bleeding uncontrollably. Mello had delivered Franco’s first child without any complications, but during this delivery Franco retained the placenta. Witnesses did not describe Mello’s actions a­ fter Franco delivered the infant, but due to the cause of death (an inverted uterus and obstetric hemorrhaging), the midwife may have pulled too hard on the umbilical cord prior to detachment of the placenta from the uterine wall, causing the uterus and adherent placenta to invert.150 Although Mello could manage uncomplicated deliveries, she was unable to safely address a retained placenta, which may have caused Franco’s death. The case of Franco’s death does not mean that unschooled midwives caused all postpartum hemorrhages. Obstetricians understood that aggressive actions during the third stage of l­abor, no m ­ atter the practitioner, w ­ ere a main cause of obstetric hemorrhage.151 They also correctly outlined the time between the delivery of the infant and the expulsion of the placenta—­ten to fifteen minutes.152 But a 1911 case from Laranjeiras highlights obstetricians’ inability to examine their own role in obstetric hemorrhages. M. C., a branca twenty-­six-­year-­old ­woman had labored at home for five days. At the hospital, a physician delivered her infant with forceps, but M. C. did not spontaneously expel the placenta, so the doctor performed a “digital curettage” procedure, in which he used his fin­gers to extract the placenta (what we would call the manual removal of placenta ­today).153 Soon, a large obstetric hemorrhage occurred. Although we cannot know if the hemorrhage was caused by the complications or the intervention itself, the obstetrician never questioned his own practice. A 1925 observation from Laranjeiras also points ­toward the consequences of intrusive interventions.154 When twenty-­year-­old branca Leticia Chaves went into l­ abor, she was admitted to the hospital. A ­ fter twenty-­four hours, and with her w ­ ater still intact, Octávio de Souza ruptured the amniotic membranes and delivered the infant with forceps. Like the case of the unschooled midwife Jacintha de Mello, during the extraction of the placenta the uterus inverted, and Chaves entered into shock. In contrast to Mello’s home delivery, however, obstetricians in this case ­were able to stabilize Chaves’s condition and stop the hemorrhage. In neither of t­ hese cases did the medical students question their colleagues’ intrusive methods nor ­whether the use of forceps was detrimental



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to the health of both infant and m ­ other. It was clear, however, that if medical emergencies occurred in hospitals, physicians ­were better able to prevent death. Yet they may have contributed to or caused many of the medical emergencies they ­later treated.155 The evidence from Carioca physicians and judicial rec­ords gives the sensation that most births w ­ ere dangerous and that numerous ­women died in childbirth. Many ­women died from pregnancy-­related complications, childbirth, and abortions; however, sources tend to document only difficult cases. In real­ity, over 95 ­percent of deliveries w ­ ere without significant prob­lems for the 156 ­mother or infant. Yet both maternal and fetal death marked the reproductive lives of many w ­ omen in early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro, and physicians viewed stillbirth and maternal mortality rates as pressing health prob­lems.157 • • •

While obstetricians institutionalized an ideology of scientific motherhood in their teachings and writings and worked to expand reproductive healthcare ser­v ices, their efforts did not change the experiences of the majority of Carioca w ­ omen in the early twentieth c­ entury. Most ­women gave birth at home and received dif­fer­ent levels of assistance based on class, and elevated and sustained stillbirth and maternal mortality rates remained constant. Overall, physicians believed that a lack of f­ ree and widespread prenatal and birthing care was the under­lying cause of high stillbirth and maternal mortality rates.158 Prenatal care had the potential to reduce t­ hese rates, but physicians lacked both the medical knowledge and the technology, including medi­cation, required to fully combat such events u ­ ntil the 1940s. Syphilis caused most miscarriages and antepartum stillbirths, and obstetric complications during delivery caused intrapartum stillbirths. The three main c­ auses of maternal mortality—­puerperal fever, toxemia, and obstetric hemorrhage—­ also remained major health issues. Physicians could have addressed toxemia through prenatal ser­v ices and could have managed some instances of obstetric hemorrhage through better obstetric care during delivery. In regard to puerperal fever, physicians prevented some cases of infection through antisepsis and asepsis practices, yet ­t hese ­were insufficient to cure septicemia before the arrival of penicillin. And despite medical efforts to reduce stillbirth and maternal mortality rates, many physicians still believed that the practices of contraception, abortion, and infanticide ­were equally pressing, if not more so. ­These debates are the subject of the next chapter.

4

A “Plague of Criminal Abortions” Fertility Control and the Consolidation of Medical Authority

I N 1 9 1 8 , B R A Z I L’ S National Acad­emy of Medicine (ANM) formed a committee to respond to the “epidemic” of criminal abortions sweeping Rio de Janeiro.1 The commission’s five members, including Fernando Magalhães, believed the “very pressing bio-­social prob­lem” was threatening “public security.”2 According to Magalhães, a “plague of criminal abortions” was descending upon the city, and Brazilian society was “greatly infected by this monstrous crime.”3 Carioca ­women ­were “promoting a true strike of the uterus, and [with] the pretext of revolting against the laws of men, they are wanting to separate themselves from the laws of the sexes.”4 The commission’s report included an aggressive and intrusive program to combat illegal abortion, and its findings sparked a nearly four-­year debate.5 Although physicians diverged in opinion on how to reduce abortion rates, they agreed on one central point: abortion was an abominable act. W ­ omen ­were, above all, good wives and dutiful ­mothers. Abortion allowed ­women to separate sex from reproduction and reject traditional gender roles, threatening the ­family—­a nd the nation. A year a­ fter Magalhães formed his committee, thirty-­year-­old Maria Vieira da Silva died from an illegal abortion. Silva had lived coupled with but unmarried to her partner Julio for nine years. ­After he became unemployed, Silva searched for work as a domestic servant. When she became pregnant, Silva sought out an abortion ­because “needing to work, pregnant, she would suffer a lot.”6 Silva paid a midwife 20$000 milréis for help (nearly double the 106



A “Plague of Criminal Abortions” 107

monthly cost of foodstuffs for one person).7 The midwife gave her a tea made of wormwood (losna) and other known abortifacients, and then she inserted a rolled-up bunch of collard greens (couve) into Silva’s vagina to induce contractions. Silva’s attempts to control her fertility, to rebel against the established gendered order per the ANM, was a “bio-­social prob­lem,” but not in the way that physicians i­ magined. Silva’s abortion was not a “revolt” against the “laws of the sexes” that was destroying society; rather, it was an attempt to provide for the child she already had. The unsafe procedure was a bio-­social prob­lem: it killed Silva and left her child motherless. The medical profession’s views and policies ­toward abortion ­were strikingly uniform in early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro—­and across Brazil—­ and their rejection of w ­ omen’s access to the procedure was partly in response to shifting gender norms. The rapid urbanization, increased immigration, and growing presence of w ­ omen in the workplace that characterized the turn of the ­century threatened the longstanding Catholic ideal of the traditional ­family led by a male patriarch.8 Both in response to ­t hese trends and in efforts to consolidate and professionalize, early twentieth-­century obstetricians began advocating for increased medical control over the nuclear ­family.9 During an unstable period in terms of patriarchal authority, the medical profession’s rhe­toric upheld the “new” bourgeois ­family, and its social policies facilitated the dispersal of its tenets into the heretofore sacred space of the home. Male physicians connected abortion’s (and to a lesser extent contraception’s) threat to individual patriarchal power to their crucial role within larger state efforts to control familial life. In the few instances when physicians supported abortion, for example, to save the ­mother’s life, they did so to assert scientific control over w ­ omen’s bodies and to ensure the continuation of ­women’s biological and social maternal capabilities. It is also impor­tant to note on whom physicians focused their condemnation. Midwives—­believed by obstetricians to be r­ unning an “abortion industry” in the city—­became the main source of medical ire. Physicians reinforced the idea that all w ­ omen wanted to reproduce and that ­women who sought to disrupt this “natu­ral” order of t­hings did so due to outside influences (midwives). As l­ater chapters w ­ ill demonstrate, this trend mirrored l­ egal approaches to the same issues; criminal jurisprudence depicted w ­ omen as “irrational” when they practiced abortion and infanticide. This medical fixation on an embodiment of female power—­after all, an abortion was a physical manifestation of a w ­ oman’s rejection of patriarchal understandings of sexuality and motherhood—­meant that

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physicians often saw criminal abortion as more pressing than the stillbirth and maternal mortality rates examined in Chapter 3.

­ oing to War: The ANM Debates G Contraception and Abortion In the first several de­cades of the twentieth ­century, Carioca physicians, influenced by French discussions, began deliberating neo-­Malthusian ideas, including discussions of contraception and abortion. Although Brazil was not experiencing France’s “crisis of depopulation,” the majority of physicians in the republican period ­were adamantly opposed to any form of birth control, and they viewed it as a “corrupting” influence on society.10 Brazilian physicians ­adopted the pronatalist sentiments of their French colleagues, and they argued against any individual or medically approved restriction of reproduction.11 For Brazilian obstetricians, birth control had not solved the prob­lem of poverty in Eu­rope; similarly, contraceptive use would not alleviate in­equality in their own country.12 Physicians also underscored the need to populate Brazil’s vast territory through population increase, for the country was home to abundant natu­ral resources that could accommodate a growing population.13 Under­lying ­these discussions was physicians’ understanding of fertility control as a direct threat to traditional gender roles. Physicians’ scrutiny of feminism highlight this point. Freethinking physician and neo-­Malthusian acolyte Julio Novaes contended in 1921 that the rise of suffrage movements in Eu­rope ­a fter World War I was causing a decline in Eu­ro­pean fertility rates: “The doctrine of feminism truly ­matters in the decrease of birthrates.”14 ­Women’s “perverted” aspirations to fly airplanes, become elected officials, and have a presence in the public sphere threatened the “majesty of the home, the sublimity of procreation, and the g­ rand morality of motherhood.”15 Physicians’ condemnation of feminism reinforced motherhood as w ­ omen’s innate role and cemented a gendered division of l­abor within the f­ amily—­and society at large. It is of course ironic that many of the gains Brazilian feminists made in the 1930s, including maternity leave and child ­labor laws, ­were in support of the nuclear ­family.16 And not all physicians viewed feminism as detrimental to the nation’s f­ uture. During the country’s first eugenics conference in 1929, one physician praised E ­ ngland, the “founding nation” of eugenics. The country was “inhabited by a strong, intelligent, and active race,” who had passed w ­ omen’s suffrage.17



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Not all obstetricians, then, completely rejected female autonomy. In fact, some supported ­limited forms of birth control including temporary methods of female sterilization.18 ­These obstetricians espoused the idea of “responsible maternity,” or poor w ­ omen’s medically guided use of impermanent contraception to raise better c­ hildren and contribute to the hygienic and orderly increase of the population.19 Physicians’ restricted support for contraception hinged upon their medical decision-­making capabilities; it was their professional duty to teach Brazilian ­women contraception’s moral obligations—­and control its use. One medical student argued in 1911 that it was the intention ­behind the contraceptive act that determined its morality. If a doctor made the decision, contraception was acceptable. He contended that b ­ ecause the Brazilian state did not support its impoverished population, temporary contraceptive methods ­were acceptable in the lower classes.20 Although physicians supported ­limited contraceptive use, all decried the supposedly frequent practice of abortion as a “disease” that threatened the nation’s ­f uture.21 Obstetricians presented their “war” against illegal abortion as a public health issue on par with infectious diseases such as smallpox and cholera.22 In 1915, ­a fter press coverage focused on the topic, the ANM publicly voted to repress criminal abortions.23 Their initial unan­i­mous rejection of abortion is impor­tant to remember, for the following debates divided physicians over how repression should be written into law. In other words, although physicians disagreed on the manner in which the state should criminalize abortion, they universally condemned the practice. In 1918, the topic once again surfaced within the ANM. In May of that year, Fernando Magalhães went before the Acad­emy to discuss the grave consequences of illegal abortions that he was seeing in his clinical practice. Magalhães believed that physicians needed to work in conjunction with the police to crack down on illegal prac­ti­tion­ers, and the press had to stop publishing advertisements for abortion ser­v ices.24 In response, the ANM formed their commission, which included Magalhães and medico-­legal physician Afrânio Peixoto (both also active in the burgeoning eugenics movement), to study the issue and come up with policy to pre­sent to the national legislature.25 Several months l­ater, the commission published its motion, which advocated for the repression of criminal abortions through increased medical vigilance over w ­ omen’s reproductive lives. The motion discussed criminal abortion in nine points centered around four main ideas. Commission members called for the prohibition and repression

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of all advertisements related to abortion and contraception, and they advocated for increased government regulation of all private and unlicensed maternity clinics (casas de partos), which physicians saw as abortion and infanticide “mills” (most had been outlawed since the late nineteenth c­ entury).26 The commission also proposed the requirement that physicians notify the state of all abortions and miscarriages, similar to plans made in neighboring Argentina and Peru.27 It concluded by demanding ­legal changes in the prosecution of abortion. The commission recommended that abortion prosecutions go before a judge not a jury (which became law in 1923), the absolution of the postabortive ­woman if she revealed the name of the abortion provider, and the ability of the physician to break patient-­doctor confidentiality to testify in court.28 The commission upheld patient-­doctor confidentiality only if the ­woman wanted to carry her pregnancy to term.29 As Magalhães argued, confidentiality was only owed “to the w ­ oman that has within her uterus a child, and, not to the criminal ­woman that has already expelled from her uterus the product of conception.”30 Magalhães was correct in pinpointing that patient-­ doctor confidentiality hindered police investigations into criminal abortions. In one 1915 abortion and deflowering investigation, both doctors who treated eighteen-­year-­old Maria Ferreira da Mendonça a­ fter she took the abortifacient Anemone pulsatilla refused to testify, claiming “professional secrecy” (segredo profisional).31 Fi­nally, the commission believed that the physician should be able to bring an abortion case directly to the public prosecutor, bypassing the police and the need for an investigation.32 Debate began before the motion was made public, as commission member Olympio da Fonseca refused to sign off on the compulsory notification of abortions and miscarriages and the absolution of the w ­ oman if she named the provider.33 Other dissenting physicians attacked the commission’s lack of statistics in its calculations of the “plague of abortions” threatening the city.34 Acad­emy members soon found themselves at loggerheads when personal attacks and unruly debaters forced a temporary stalemate.35 When debate reopened in April 1920, tempers again flared, and the heated arguments continued for another year and a half. The debate centered around two issues. First, physicians disagreed about ­whether or not the ­woman who sought out the abortion should walk ­free from charges if she named the provider. The commission and its supporters, led by Magalhães, believed that a ­woman should not face punishment if she named the abortion provider. Magalhães depicted ­women as helpless beings



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who lacked agency in their reproductive decisions; thus, the law should not hold them responsible for seeking out an abortion.36 The opposing camp, led by physicians Novaes and Belmiro Valverde, contended that ­women would falsely accuse honest and upright physicians in order to escape punishment. This possibility threatened not only physicians’ social standing but also their ability to practice medicine and thus their economic livelihood.37 Novaes argued that a w ­ oman, in negotiating her absolution, “due to interests of liberty or vengeance . . . ​­will outwardly deflect the responsibility of her actions, blaming and denouncing, u ­ nder oath, an innocent [doctor]!”38 Novaes was one of the only physicians who mentioned ­women’s decision-­making capabilities, yet he only granted ­women agency as vindictive and conniving patients. The second contentious issue centered on patient-­doctor confidentiality and the commission’s proposal to require the mandatory reporting of all miscarriages and abortions. Magalhães and his supporters viewed compulsory notifications as a public health issue in line with tuberculosis. Th ­ ese mea­sures existed for the greater “social good,” and thus it stood above the privacy of the individual, an increasingly popu­lar ideology within the country’s public health movement of the 1920s.39 The opposing camp did not see abortion in the same vein as infectious disease, and they believed that the end of medical confidentiality would destroy their “noble profession.”40 Fabíola Rohden contends that the debate unveiled the existence of a “continuum” of medical beliefs about abortion and neo-­Malthusian ideas in the early twentieth c­ entury.41 In Magalhães’s camp, physicians believed that they had the right—­even the duty—to control the Brazilian population, ensuring the ­f uture of the country and the security of its citizens. In opposition stood physicians such as Novaes who believed that sexuality and reproduction w ­ ere individual questions of the familial sphere. Nonetheless, both camps vehemently rejected abortion. I argue, however, that the ANM debate was more than a demonstration of the range of medical beliefs about abortion; rather, it served as a proxy for a larger discussion of the role of the physician in Brazilian society. Physicians used abortion to consolidate their professional role in a period of shifting gender norms and patriarchal authority. Some physicians believed that they had the right to intervene in the private sphere. Th ­ ese physicians supported a state-­controlled patriarchal norm. For example, Ernesto Nascimento Silva argued that the practice of criminal abortion was a “national danger.”42 Magalhães agreed. The ­future of the nation was at stake, so physicians had the obligation to enter the home.43

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­ thers believed that the ­father, the “head of ­house­hold,” held power over O his female relatives’ reproductive lives. They put forth the traditional family-­ based patriarchal norms that had long dominated Brazilian society. Commission member Olympio da Fonseca, for instance, supported the majority of the proposal’s main points, but he vocally disagreed with compulsory notification concerning all abortions and miscarriages. This practice “would invest [­legal] authority with a dangerous right, that to penetrate ­every ­house­hold, even the most respectable, to conduct an investigation, a subversive trespassing . . . ​of the ­family.”44 Valverde argued, “Nobody can launch against a f­amily suspicions of such nature [abortion], contrary to law and to morality . . . ​­There would not be one honest ­woman that called a doctor when she found herself miscarry­ing, ­because the physician would denounce her to the public health department and cast over her honorability an ignominious suspicion.”45 ANM President Miguel Couto contended that the mandatory reporting law would “weaken the Brazilian f­ amily”: “The physician . . . ​must carry out his mission to the end and thus we w ­ ill see the physician enter into the f­ amily home . . . ​to examine ­women, even against their ­w ill. We know that while it is the head of the f­ amily who chooses the physicians who enter his ­house, it is the ­woman who chooses in whose honorability she confides to expose her body.”46 For Couto, “society is constructed on the basis of the ­family and not of the individual.”47 When Couto pleaded with his colleagues, “as heads of h ­ ouse­holds,” he framed the abortion debate in terms of physicians’ responsibility to maintain traditional patriarchal norms.48 Many physicians positioned themselves somewhere between the two extremes represented by Magalhães and Novaes, yet not one supported a ­women’s right to an abortion. Couto, for example, rejected compulsory notifications of abortions and miscarriages, but he fully supported the need for a rigorous debate about criminal abortion.49 One of Magalhães’s fiercest critics, Valverde, who w ­ holeheartedly rejected the commission’s proposal, did not question that the repression of illegal abortion was a ­matter of utmost importance.50 Even the neo-­Malthusian acolyte Novaes argued, “I do not adhere to nor did I adhere to the right [to have] an abortion.”51 The debates over abortion w ­ ere never about w ­ omen’s decisions. The issue reappeared in 1922 when the First National Congress on Medical Practice (Primeiro Congresso Nacional dos Práticos) published a motion that was nearly identical to the ANM’s ­earlier document.52 As Rohden argues, this l­ater document demonstrates Magalhães’s camp had defeated the neo-­



A “Plague of Criminal Abortions” 113

Malthusians.53 Members of the medical field—­particularly obstetricians—­had accepted their role as personal repressors of abortion and patriarchal protectors of their female patients for which they needed to enter the home.

“A True Industry”: Midwives and Abortion Care The commission’s proposal to absolve the postabortive ­woman if she named her provider was a response to what obstetricians defined as Rio de Janeiro’s “abortion industry.”54 Many medical prac­ti­tion­ers believed that lay, unlicensed, and licensed midwives performed the majority of criminal abortions, often without any hygienic provisions; some even helped w ­ omen commit infan55 ticide. Physicians’ emphasis on providers—­and not the ­women themselves—­ reinforced the idea that w ­ omen w ­ ere nonrational actors who only underwent abortion procedures ­because of third-­party influences.56 Male obstetricians’ elevation of motherhood as ­women’s sublime mission rendered the practice of abortion unfathomable. “The maternal instinct is a natu­ral law that touches all ­women,” wrote one obstetric student in 1926, and “as a consequence, it is not due to bad princi­ples that a large number of w ­ omen end their first pregnancies in certain and determined circumstances.”57 Nevertheless, this approach disregarded w ­ omen’s own actions in deciding to limit their fertility. By shifting the blame—­and responsibility—­from the ­woman to the provider, obstetricians infantilized ­women’s decisions. Even physicians who argued that authorities needed to crack down on the men who seduced, impregnated, and then abandoned young ­women, while disputing gendered double standards about sexuality and responsibility, elided ­women’s decision-­making capabilities.58 A paternalistic view of ­women as victims underscored obstetricians’ ­battle to appropriate medical authority from midwives. But was ­t here an abortion “industry” in early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro? The historical evidence shows that Carioca w ­ omen w ­ ere having abortions, ­whether by seeking out providers or self-­inducing. Midwives who performed abortions advertised their ser­v ices in the city’s newspapers; thus, they maintained enough clients to sustain their bud­gets and to pay the inevitable public health fines levied by municipal authorities in their efforts to shut down clinics. In 1909, for example, the police investigated the midwife Maria Preciosa Pinto, who operated an abortion clinic on the Praça Tiradentes near the city center.59 Pinto had advertised both generic midwifery ser­v ices and veiled references to abortions in the city’s major newspapers beginning in 1901.60

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Some advertisements included only her name, address, and profession (parteira), but between 1907 and 1908, she offered abortion ser­v ices alongside traditional gynecological and obstetrical ones. One advertisement that appeared over several years and in several dif­fer­ent newspapers read that Pinto “helps ­women who cannot have c­ hildren avoid having them.”61 Pinto’s advertising practices confirmed what physicians warned against: midwives ­were paying for numerous advertisements, disguising contraceptive and abortion ser­v ices ­under the name of generic gynecological ser­v ices.62 But midwives also gained patients through word-­of-­mouth references. Many midwives passed out business cards, and ­women referred their female friends, ­family members, and neighbors.63 The police investigation depicted Pinto’s clinic as debased, with conserved fetuses in b ­ ottles of alcohol and Pinto willing to induce an abortion up to the moment of birth. Pinto charged 10$000 milréis for a gynecological exam, but a lofty 500$000 milréis for the abortion procedure (nearly 186 times the monthly cost-­of-­living index for 1909).64 Perhaps the high cost was one of the reasons Pinto’s patients included actresses, bankers’ wives, and even the relative of the vice-­consul of Portugal in Brazil. Pinto’s prices support Sandra Careli’s claim that midwives working in early twentieth-­century Rio Grande do Sul received irregular and low pay for childbirth ser­v ices, forcing them to perform abortions to make ends meet.65 But despite the police’s depiction of Pinto as a ruthless baby killer, her clinic was not simply an “abortion mill.” She also advertised ser­v ices for childbirth and gynecological treatments for conditions such as uterine infections, and by the ­later years of her c­ areer, she provided f­ ree ser­v ices to poor w ­ omen. In fact, Pinto was part of the incipient public health apparatus geared t­oward ­mothers and babies, performing ­ ere wide rangprenatal exams at Moncorvo Filho’s IPAI.66 Pinto’s ser­v ices w ing, and they responded to ­women’s reproductive realities and needs. She provided abortions, at a hefty cost, but appeared to use ­t hose profits to subsidize healthcare for impoverished ­women. Pinto’s clinic was prob­ably not what obstetrician Arnaldo Quintella, a fervent supporter of the ANM proposal, had in mind when he argued that physicians also had to combat abortion rates through improvements to the city’s maternity hospital network and prenatal care ser­v ices.67 Other midwives w ­ ere less generous with their ser­v ices. In 1929, Isolina Castro wrote a note to the midwife Elly Waeger, updating her on the status of her abortion and asking Waeger to confirm her price (Image 8):

I M AG E 8  ​Handwritten note from Isolina Castro to the midwife Elly Waeger,

1929

source: (AN) CS.0.PCR.5608 (1930).

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Madame Ely. I write t­ hese lines in order to say that I had the abortion yesterday at 8 ­o’clock, I’m not feeling anything, thank God. I ask the ­favor [that] if someone calls from Friburgo [state of Rio de Janeiro] asking how much it is, the Lady w ­ ill do the f­avor of saying that the Lady does the operation for 250$000 [mil]réis? The money I w ­ ill bring on Monday, god willing, b ­ ecause 68 I’m in bed. Your h ­ umble servant, Isolina Castro, Rio 10-10-1929.

In 1937, the midwife Odilia Ferreira Villela made it clear on her business cards that at her gynecological clinic: “Consultations are paid up front.”69 Like Pinto, other midwives who provided abortions also attended deliveries, helped foster c­ hildren, and provided gynecological ser­v ices to patients.70 Midwives, both licensed and unlicensed, stocked a variety of gynecological and obstetric instruments, some used to induce abortions and ­others for childbirth. The police inventory of one 1928 clinic raid found—­a long with gloves, cotton pads, and thread for stitches—­vaginal specula, a dilator, vari­ ous types of probes (sondas), and forceps. As the forensic report cited, “All the surgical instruments mentioned above are used in obstetric and gynecological clinics . . . ​A ll of them can be used in the provocation of abortions, except the Simpson forceps.”71 Of course, physicians knew that the medi­cations and surgical tools used for abortions ­were also employed for cases of incomplete miscarriages, difficult l­ abor, and placental delivery.72 Most midwives who operated clinics did so out of their own homes.73 Some changed addresses in attempts, perhaps, to avoid persecution; for example, Maria Preciosa Pinto’s address changed frequently in her advertisements.74 The size and cleanliness of the clinics also varied. The 1928 abortion trial of the licensed midwife Maria da Gloria Amorim demonstrates that Amorim had a large clinic in her home in the suburban neighborhood of Méier (Image 9).75 The h ­ ouse was twenty by forty-­five meters, with a patio and out­house in the back. The front door had a sign reading, “Dr. Amorim, midwife,” and the ­house had a waiting room, a consultation room, and three other rooms for recovering patients.76 Amorim had consultations from nine to twelve ­every morning and a second clinic location near the city center. From the size of her ­house and the sophistication of her equipment, it seems that Amorim not only made a decent living from her profession but also adhered to up-­to-­date medical techniques. But she was not immune to relocation, for she had previously lived and operated her clinic in a dif­fer­ent location. The gynecological clinic of Odilia Ferreira Villela was less extravagant. When the police raided



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I M AG E 9  ​Maria da Gloria Amorim’s illegal midwifery clinic, 1928 source: (AN) CS.0.PCR.4940 (1930).

her home in 1937, they found one room divided by a folding screen, with half serving as the consultation room and the other as the waiting room.77 As Chapter  6 ­w ill demonstrate, ­legal attention ­toward illegal gynecological and obstetric clinics increased in the 1930s when the police began preemptively raiding then. Press coverage sparked public attention t­oward clinics, and newspapers reported any alleged abortion-­related death or clinic raid. When the police investigated the midwife Elly Waeger for the abortion-­ related death of Celeste de Carvalho, for example, the press used its direct connection to the police to print scandalous headlines with details of the ongoing investigation.78 Reporters from vari­ous newspapers called Waeger an “angel-­maker” (fazedora de anjos), a popu­lar term for abortionists, encapsulated in the famous 1908 painting of the same name by the Brazilian artist

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Pedro Weingärtner (Image 10).79 Medical writings, judicial documents, and press headlines demonstrate that midwives ran clinics throughout the republican and Vargas years. ­These clinics provided abortion and contraceptive ser­v ices, as well as prenatal, ­labor and delivery, and postnatal care. Perhaps this was an abortion industry, as both physicians and the press seemed to believe, or ­t hese ­women ­were perhaps providing the crucial reproductive health care that the state was not.

Therapeutic Abortions, Catholic Doctrine, and Medical Authority Despite medical condemnation of midwifery ser­v ices and illegal abortions, physicians believed throughout the republican period that therapeutic abortions to save the life of the m ­ other w ­ ere legitimate medical procedures. Even in the heated ANM debate, physicians upheld their right to medically terminate a pregnancy, a right also enshrined in criminal law.80 Article 302 of the 1890 Penal Code read: “If the doctor, or midwife, practicing a ­legal abortion, or a necessary abortion, to save the pregnant ­woman from inevitable death, ­causes her death by negligence or incompetence.”81 The clause, although not explic­itly stating when a therapeutic abortion was l­egal, implicitly legalized the practice by prosecuting any doctor who caused a w ­ oman’s death during a therapeutic procedure. The prison time ranged from two months to two years with a loss of one’s medical license for the corresponding period.82 The 1890 Penal Code’s inclusion of the article further cemented the law’s emphasis on the institutional practice of medicine by specifying that only trained physicians could perform the procedure.83 Brazil’s code was part of a larger hemispheric trend; in the first four de­cades of the twentieth c­ entury, other Latin American nations also legalized the procedure when a w ­ oman’s life was in danger.84 Western obstetricians had debated therapeutic abortions throughout the nineteenth ­century, a period when the procedures ­were crisis surgeries that almost always occurred late in the third trimester or even during delivery when the lives of ­either the ­mother, the infant, or both ­were in danger.85 The most common procedures ­were craniotomies and embryotomies, which obstetricians performed on both live and dead fetuses. The former was a “lessening of the head” in which the doctor punctured the skull to reduce its volume and removed it from the vaginal canal. In an embryotomy, the physician dismembered the fetus in utero and removed it in pieces.86 The only other option

I M AG E 1 0  ​ La faiseuse d’anges [The Angel-­Maker], Pedro Weingärtner, 1908 source: Acervo da Pinacoteca do Estado de São Paulo. Photograph: Isabella Matheus.

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was a cesarean section, which, in the nineteenth ­century almost always led to maternal death, and thus obstetricians usually chose to sacrifice the fetus’s life over the m ­ other’s.87 This doctrine put obstetricians in Brazil and Eu­rope in growing conflict with Catholic dogma, which increased its valuation of fetal life over the ­century, beginning with the 1869 papal bull Apostolicae Sedis, which condemned all abortions, regardless of gestational age, and continuing with official church condemnation of therapeutic abortions in 1895.88 In response, Brazilian obstetricians argued that the church’s complete ban on abortion was erroneous.89 Nonetheless, Brazilian obstetric support for therapeutic abortions was not a complete break with the Catholic valuation of fetal life. By the turn of the ­century, Brazilian obstetricians supported the religious claim that life began at the moment of conception, but they argued it should not be the sole ­factor in a medical decision.90 The majority of obstetricians argued that if the ­woman’s life was in danger, it was always acceptable for a licensed medical profession to perform an abortion; the ­woman was already part of society, and thus her life was more valuable than the potential life of the fetus.91 In response to shifting Catholic doctrine, Brazilian physicians moved away from relying on religious justifications or restrictions to guide their practice.92 With the onset of World War I, the Brazilian medical community began discussing therapeutic abortions in the case of rape, most likely first- or secondtrimester procedures. In 1915, the year that the ANM first issued a statement on criminal abortion, Carioca physicians also weighed in on the French medical debate over abortion and rape, specifically German soldiers’ rapes of French ­women in the war. Obstetricians, medical-­legal specialists, and other physicians responded to the question in an ANM session.93 Of the eight physicians who participated in the debate, five firmly opposed therapeutic abortions in the case of rape. They argued that “civilized” centers functioned ­under the rule of law, and thus should not allow an exception.94 Obstetrician Arnaldo Quintella, for example, contended that a physician who performed an abortion in the case of rape was acting on sentimental and irrational reasons. It was the nation’s duty to “protect and help . . . ​the lives of t­ hese unfortunate ­little ­children.”95 Two of the physicians supported abortions in the case of rape, but they justified their position by affirming ­women’s natu­ral maternal instincts.96 Antonio Maria Teixeira, for example, argued that the French ­women raped during the war continued to express maternal love despite their tragic plight. He contended that French ­women did not practice birth control (an opinion



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that was contrary to common belief on both sides of the Atlantic), and thus they embraced motherhood and should not have to carry to term a child conceived through rape. Teixeira centered ­women’s experiences in his analy­sis, an uncommon position: “Can the physician not think like the poor m ­ other, can the physician not think like the disgraced virgin, he has all his good reasons supported by his studies, but who suffers, who is tortured, is she, the unfortunate one.”97 Yet Teixeira privileged the experiences of certain w ­ omen, who—as dutiful wives and ­mothers or as virgins—­conformed to patriarchal notions of female honor. On the surface, Teixeira provided ­women with self-­ autonomy and decision-­making capabilities, but his under­lying argument still upheld the idea that w ­ omen ­were only worth “saving” if they followed patriarchal prescriptions for sexual be­hav­ior. In fact, Teixeira believed that a ­woman’s morality was the basis of her rational decision-­making capabilities: “The moral sense of ­these ­women is all theirs—­her morality is the fruit of her reasoning.”98 Unsurprisingly, Teixeira rejected abortion in any other case. ­Women who did not want a child for other reasons broke both criminal laws and the “laws of nature.” Teixeira also upheld eugenic ideals in his position ­toward therapeutic abortion in the case of rape. C ­ hildren w ­ ere the f­ uture of not only the individual ­family but also the nation. An unwanted child, not brought up within the tenets of scientific motherhood, would be a dangerous addition to any population.99 Another leading physician, Erico Coelho, expressed a similar view in his 1915 medical school lecture in Rio de Janeiro. Coelho argued that the famed Italian criminologist Cesare Lombroso identified male rapists as “degenerates” and that to force a w ­ oman to bring to term a child of a degenerate was to poison ­f uture generations.100 The last physician who participated in the debate, the famed medical-­legal physician Agostinho José de Souza Lima, presented a more nuanced approach. He believed that ­because French ­women could not defend their lost honor in the courts—as ­t hese w ­ ere mass crimes committed during war—­t hey should have the right to a therapeutic abortion. He believed in a very specific application of the rape exception, which existed only when normal judicial ave­nues for defending one’s honor w ­ ere unavailable.101 If the rape occurred outside of war­time, Lima did not support therapeutic abortions. In the debate, physicians also disputed the definition of a danger to a ­woman’s health. The physicians who supported abortion in the case of rape believed a ­woman’s ­mental well-­being should be part of the definition of

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“health.” They argued that if a w ­ oman was g­ oing to commit suicide due to her rape and unwanted pregnancy, she should have access to a therapeutic abortion.102 Physicians who condemned therapeutic abortion in the case of rape restricted the definition of health to the physical body. Notwithstanding their disagreements, physicians still unequivocally agreed that only they had the right to practice therapeutic abortions and, in ­doing so, cemented their singular position as holders and prac­ti­tion­ers of medical knowledge. Despite their initial support of therapeutic abortions and valorization of maternal life, obstetricians in the 1920s slowly began equating fetal life with its maternal counterpart.103 The rise of eugenics, changes in civil law, and advances in medical techniques all contributed to this change. As we have seen, the eugenics movement shifted obstetricians’ focus from the individual ­mother to the “­f uture” of the Brazilian race.104 The ­mother was, in the words of one medical student, “the true tabernacle in which lives the sacred deposit,” the fetus, now the building block of the nation.105 Fernando Magalhães presented the protection of fetal rights as impor­tant to the ­f uture of the Brazilian nation: “Abortion is a ­great evil, an epidemic of large degradation, contagious due to the example of its impunity, deadly due to its sacrifice of embryonic life. This embryonic life is the seed of the nation, its f­ uture, its guarantee.”106 Physicians’ eugenic valorization of fetal life matched l­egal changes. As Chapter 1 demonstrated, the 1916 civil code afforded fetuses some forms of ­legal protection. Physicians interpreted t­ hese new laws to mean that life began at conception, and thus the state, and its medical allies, had the duty to protect the unborn fetus.107 Magalhães, for example, contended that ­because the code declared that a person’s civil personality began at conception, the fetus was “clearly” a person, and the obstetric profession had a special role in protecting its rights.108 As he wrote in his 1933 textbook Forensic Obstetrics (Obstetricia forense), “The Civil Code . . . ​requires decisive clarification. The rights of the fetus [nascituro] depend entirely on clinical obstetrics, from diagnosis to ­treatment . . . ​obstetric science must guarantee embryonic life in its evolution.”109 In the ANM debate over criminal abortion, physicians sparred over the value of maternal versus fetal life, but most supported the idea that fetuses had civil rights and deserved protection.110 Changes in cesarean section techniques also allowed physicians to contemplate saving the life of both the m ­ other and the fetus in a medical emergency. This complicated physicians’ understandings of embryotomies, and



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obstetricians began debating ­whether or not the procedure had a place in obstetric surgery.111 Magalhães, who championed a new, although not necessarily safer cesarean technique in Brazil in 1915, completely condemned embryotomies performed on live fetuses, arguing that the practice should be abolished from obstetrics “­because the fetus inside the uterus is someone . . . ​a natu­ral person . . . ​t he subject of rights; it is not a ­thing.”112 But although Magalhães was a devout Catholic, he did not believe that fetal life was inviolable.113 Magalhães rejected embryotomy on live fetuses as a legitimate surgical procedure, yet he still supported therapeutic abortions in certain cases, arguing that religious ideals should not preclude a necessary therapeutic abortion, which would sacrifice two lives instead of one. In 1922, he wrote, “Christian doctrine created the dogma of the inviolability of embryonic life and so strict is the ecclesiastic opinion that it allows for no exceptions [for therapeutic abortions], what­ever the indicating morbid situation . . . ​t he doctrine is erroneous and inhumane.”114 Science, not the church, should guide physicians. ­A fter the passage of the civil code in 1916, physicians put more importance on fetal life, but they never concluded that a fetus’s civil rights superseded t­ hose of its m ­ other. Rather, they changed their support of certain medical techniques. In the early 1930s, the ANM returned to the topic of therapeutic abortions, and the civil code figured prominently in the debate. In 1931, the First Congress of Medical Trade Union Members (Primeiro Congresso Médico Sindicalista) passed the “Code of Deontology [Medical Ethics],” which mentioned therapeutic abortions. Chapter 8, “Medical Duties in Certain Obstetric Cases,” outlined in five articles when licensed obstetricians could, and should, practice therapeutic abortions. The document first stated a physician was “determinately prohibited by ethics and by the law” to practice the “voluntary interruption of pregnancy,” but it also stipulated the legality and moral urgency of performing the procedure to save the ­mother’s life. The code thus reconciled fetal versus maternal rights. Physicians ­were to save the life of the fetus ­unless it posed a risk to the ­mother’s life. Article 69, for example, stipulated that in the case of difficult deliveries (where perhaps an embryotomy or cesarean section was indicated), “whenever it is pos­si­ble,” the physician should save the fetus’s life, “as long as” the intervention did not pre­sent “a risk to the life of the pregnant ­woman.”115 What caused the most uproar this time around, however, was the inclusion of eugenic reasons for therapeutic abortions. The code stated that an obstetrician could “provoke an abortion or premature delivery a­ fter a medical board verified therapeutic or prophylactic necessity.”116 The phrasing “prophylactic”

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drew on eugenic language, and it caused debate within the medical community in the years that followed.117 ­There w ­ ere three main positions. On one extreme was a small but vocal group of “leftists” led by the psychiatrist Júlio Pires Porto-­Carrero, who supported therapeutic abortions for a variety of reasons, including to save the life of the m ­ other, and for “prophylactic” reasons as diverse as economic hardship, sexual dishonor, or professional encumbrances.118 Porto-­Carrero’s support for more expansive abortion mea­sures in generic eugenic terms was bolstered by his understanding of fetal rights within the country’s civil code. Porto-­Carrero took a dif­fer­ent approach from most obstetricians when he argued that the civil code, in stipulating “the civil personality of man commences at his birth with life,” only granted personhood to an infant ­after its birth, not from its conception.119 ­Because the ­fetus did not have juridical personhood, its in utero death was not a variant of hom­i­cide. On the other extreme w ­ ere Catholic physicians who rejected therapeutic abortions in all circumstances. Joaquim Moreira da Fonseca, for example, condemned all therapeutic abortions.120 Like Porto-­Carrero, Fonseca based his argument on the civil code. Fonseca, however, believed that civil doctrine enshrined fetal personhood from conception, and thus abortion was hom­i­ cide “­because it is an attempt against a life of a person, against a life already formed.”121 The state “has the obligation to protect” the life of the fetus in civil legislation, which was the foundation for criminal abortion law.122 Medico-­ legal physician Henrique Tanner de Abreu, like Fonseca, also based his complete rejection of therapeutic abortions on the civil code’s definition of fetal rights.123 Fetal rights had to be respected “by all, namely by its own ­mother.”124 “Not even the ­woman, with her own life threatened,” wrote Abreu “has the right to accept the sacrifice of the child to escape imminent death.”125 He even argued that the jurists discussing the new penal code (eventually passed in 1940) should exclude therapeutic abortions from legislation. With obstetric advances including safer cesarean sections and symphysiotomies (where the surgeon cuts the ­woman’s pelvic cartilage), abortions ­were never necessary.126 Most physicians and jurists rejected this position. The Brazilian Society for Criminology (Sociedade Brasileira de Criminologia), for example, unanimously vetoed Abreu’s suggestion in their discussion over what would become the 1940 Penal Code.127 Most physicians occupied the m ­ iddle ground, led in this debate by medico-­ legal specialist Leonídio Ribeiro, who rejected therapeutic abortions for any



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reason other than to save the life of the m ­ other.128 Other leading medico-­legal specialists and obstetricians agreed with Ribeiro, including Magalhães, Afrânio Peixoto, Miguel Couto, Alberto Ribeiro de Oliveira Motta, and Octávio de Souza.129 Although some physicians argued that in very rare eugenic cases, including “degenerates” and “deformed” individuals, abortion should be ­legal, they acknowledged that it was almost always impossible to detect ­t hose cases, and thus it should not be a m ­ atter of medical debate. Only medical advancements would reopen the question.130 The 1930s debate over therapeutic abortions demonstrated a wider range of medical positions in relation to the procedure and the influence of the eugenics movement on obstetric thought. Some physicians condemned all abortions, even to save the life of the m ­ other, whereas o ­ thers believed it admissible if it stood in the way of a ­woman’s professional ­career. But most physicians, and obstetricians in par­tic­u ­lar, ­were firmly in the ­middle. They condemned all abortions except therapeutic ones to save the life of the m ­ other. And with continued advances in cesarean sections, they agreed that indications for embryotomies w ­ ere dwindling. But even ­those who supported a more expansive understanding of therapeutic abortions placed the issue firmly within the hands of the medical profession. A medical board, ­after all, would decide the cases. The debates over the expanded indications for therapeutic abortions ­were never about ­women’s rights or access. Article 70 of the ethics code made that clear: “The obstetrician ­w ill neither practice abortion nor premature deliveries, therapeutic or prophylactic, nor ­w ill practice an intervention that could sacrifice the fetus’s life, without the necessary authorization from the husband or closest relatives of the pregnant ­woman: parents, ­children, siblings, ­etc.”131 The code never mentioned the ­woman’s consent. Even the physicians who supported therapeutic abortions for eugenic reasons rejected ­women’s unfettered access to the procedure. Porto-­Carrero argued in 1933, for example, that “a ­woman’s social role is not complete without maternity.”132 Using rhetorical techniques similar to ­t hose of Magalhães a de­cade ­earlier, Porto-­Carrero argued that physicians had to put “the interests of society” above “­t hose of the individual,” and regulate abortion for the betterment of the race—­not for w ­ omen’s bodily rights.133 • • •

Obstetricians ­were on the front lines of discussions about gender and the Brazilian population in the early twentieth ­century, and nowhere was this

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clearer than in their discussions of abortion. Physicians’ support of both positive eugenic mea­sures and traditional gender hierarchies resulted in the almost complete condemnation of contraception and abortion for all w ­ omen. The few instances in which obstetricians supported therapeutic abortions unveiled more about the consolidation of medical authority than an ac­cep­ tance that ­women should make decisions about their fertility. Physicians’, and particularly obstetricians’, condemnation of abortion incorporated Catholic views on procreation and harnessed them for the good of their own profession, while si­mul­ta­neously using them to consolidate their scientific authority both in public and in w ­ omen’s private lives. But physicians w ­ ere not the only Brazilians to condemn abortion; the issue was a contentious one in the lives of many Cariocas, who debated its moral values in the streets, bars, and police precincts of the city. Chapter 5 explores their understandings of gender, race, and fertility control.

5

Ouviu Dizer (Heard Said) Rumor, Sex, and Race in the Republican Capital

I N M A Y   1 9 1 5 , T H E R I O D E J A N E I R O P O L I C E arrested Evenina dos Santos and Ignacia Maria do Nascimento. Their male neighbor, a local landowner, had denounced Santos for having an abortion and Nascimento for helping her bury the fetus in a nearby hill. In response to “the grave accusation” and b ­ ecause “the press made [a] g­ reat clamor,” the district police chief acted “with force and security,” arresting the two ­women, performing a pelvic exam on Santos, and excavating the alleged burial location.1 The entire pro­ cess turned out to be a cruel hoax. The pelvic exam revealed that Santos had never been pregnant, and the excavation uncovered a small doll. The police rec­ords do not explain why the male landowner made the false accusations, but he clearly tapped into police and judicial anxiety about abortion, and his actions ­were far-­reaching. Twenty years l­ater, a similar abortion denunciation caught the attention of the police. In 1936, a man told the police that two of his female neighbors had buried a fetus in a nearby hill. The police questioned Maria de Lourdes da Silva, who testified that a­ fter taking a medicine for “stomach pains,” she had miscarried at home.2 Feeling sick and weak, Silva asked two female neighbors to bury the fetus b ­ ehind the h ­ ouse. Silva told the police that “an individual named Antonio, resident of the same street” had denounced her “as an act of vengeance” ­because he “had an issue with [Silva’s female neighbors].” The police never found any fetal remains, and the courts closed the case due

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to insufficient evidence. ­Here, the vengeance and denunciation of one male neighbor coexisted with female solidarity. In early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro, gossip about and denunciations of fertility control represented the circulation and subsequent consolidation of ideas on proper female sexuality, gender, and race. Cariocas of all races and classes associated abortion and infanticide with clandestine and thus “immoral” sex, and gossip solidified t­ hose moral bound­aries in the public sphere. But moral be­hav­ior went beyond a ­woman’s supposed sexual promiscuity. Poor and working-­class Cariocas—­whose reproductive lives, as Chapter 6 w ­ ill demonstrate, more often caught the police’s attention—­defined proper be­ hav­ior not only as sex strictly within marriage but also with members of the same race. In the first two de­cades of the twentieth ­century, city residents condemned both overt forms of female sexuality and racial mixing. Accusations of fertility control further revealed the ways in which Cariocas of the popu­lar classes negotiated civic participation. Although the First Republic restricted the vote to literate men, republicanism still held the promise of social mobility and po­liti­cal power through the implementation of wage ­labor and the adoption of symbolic demo­cratic princi­ples. Within this restricted demo­cratic milieu, the illiterate and disenfranchised popu­lar classes employed gossip and denunciation to assert their authority in the public sphere.3 But this gossip actually l­ imited the expansion of freedoms through its reinforcement of restricted notions of honor based on female sexuality and racial hierarchies. B ­ ecause the police paid attention to t­ hese claims, denunciations both bestowed civic recognition on marginalized denouncers and bolstered official control in a period of state expansion. Social scientists have explored the role of gossip, rumor, and denunciation in shaping the material and collective manners in which communities form and change over time. In the 1960s, anthropologists began discussing the role of gossip in social group be­hav­ior. A structural-­functionalist approach argued that gossip functioned for the good of the social entity by creating moral bound­aries and forming group identity.4 Individualists, in contrast, viewed gossip as an individual method of communication.5 More recent scholarship has demonstrated that social structure and individual interests are, as Sally Engle Merry writes, “not mutually exclusive but complementary.”6 Gossip can both define a group and further individual interests. What is clear is that gossip both creates and exists within what F. G. Bailey terms a “moral community,” or a population with shared values that is “prepared to make moral



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judgments about one another.”7 To judge someone, w ­ hether positively or negatively, makes both the one passing the judgment and the one being judged part of that community, even if the latter is subsequently scapegoated. Historians have applied the work of social scientists to examine the historical role of gossip and denunciation in community formation.8 In Latin Amer­i­ca, scholars have shown how gender and sexuality w ­ ere central to t­ hese practices.9 This chapter demonstrates that in Rio de Janeiro, gossip about ­women’s reproduction evidences both the discrepancies and the overlap between popu­lar understandings of infanticide and abortion and the “official” narratives and policies emanating from elites and government officials. Gossip and rumor as informal methods of social control often weaken as formal institutions like the judicial system take their place.10 Although the republican state in Brazil pushed to strengthen policing institutions in the first several de­cades of the twentieth c­ entury, as Chapter 6 w ­ ill show, the city’s police force and judicial system faced bureaucratic inefficiencies that weakened their ability to act as strict enforcers. The continuation of poverty also allowed for gossip to retain social control as informal housing settlements created a fertile environment for shaming. Gossip, rumor, and denunciation ­were most prevalent in judicial documents relating to fertility control in the first two de­ cades of the twentieth ­century. By the 1930s, the presence of “fugitive speech” played a lesser role in alerting the police to alleged reproductive misconduct.11 As Vargas consolidated power, he co-­opted individual methods of denunciation and institutionalized patriarchal control over ­women’s reproduction. State officials now made accusations against ­women. Did popu­lar denunciations of fertility control imply that the ­people denouncing t­ hese practices believed what they w ­ ere saying? The historiography of early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro has analyzed the values and ideologies of the urban poor and working classes, and some scholars have argued that poor Cariocas expressed gendered values dif­fer­ent from t­hose of the state.12 Historians of fertility control have emphasized how elite ­legal and medical discourses created legitimate modes of be­hav­ior that classified abortion and infanticide as practices of the “popu­lar classes,” but they have been ­silent on how ­those classes themselves discussed the practices.13 More recent scholarship demonstrates that the working class reproduced some of t­ hose same ideologies and prejudices, particularly in relation to gender and sexuality.14 In this line of thinking, I argue that female-­initiated or intraclass denunciations of purported reproductive crimes contradict the view that it was the

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law in and of itself that created a disciplinary structure surrounding fertility control. Denunciations of reproductive crimes demonstrate that denouncers viewed certain actions as improper and also knew the police took t­ hose accusations seriously.15 Moreover, Brazil’s Catholic worldview strongly condemned abortion and infanticide; thus, it is likely that many denouncers viewed t­ hese practices as wrong, although they rarely used religious arguments to make their claims to a secular state. The sexual and gender morals of both the state, represented by the judicial system, and its lower-­class citizens converged in the accusation, investigation, and social shaming of w ­ omen. Antonio Gramsci’s definition of hegemony elucidates this paradox. According to Gramsci, hegemony is the domination of an ideology or value system that underpins all aspects of society and, in turn, enables the dominance of a par­tic­u­lar class or social order. This is accomplished through not only the ruling class’s overt po­liti­cal control but also the masses’ internalization of the value system, which thus becomes naturalized.16 In Rio de Janeiro, gossip was not a top-­down implementation of medical and ­legal discourses condemning abortion and infanticide; rather, it was a re-­creation of that disciplinary rhe­ toric within the same social class.17 ­Women’s (and men’s) daily negotiations with shifting patriarchal structures involved condemning any vis­i­ble manifestations of female autonomy.18 Community censure of abortion and infanticide mirrored larger medical rhe­toric and facilitated police inquiries into ­women’s reproductive lives.

“Where One Slanders Their Neighbor”: Community Formation, Living Spaces, and Urban Poverty ­ ecause modes of speech intersect with a community’s physical terrain, the B built environment and its influence on social formation is key to understanding how gossip functions.19 Some scholars have seen small towns as more conducive to the spread of gossip due to the tight-­k nit community structure, but Merry argues that the makeup of the surrounding social network is more impor­tant than the size of the community.20 When urban environments ­house closely connected networks with economic and social ties, gossip successfully functions as in rural communities.21 Crowded tenement housing in the first several de­cades of the republican period functioned as a small town within a large anonymous city. Every­one knew every­one ­else by virtue of proximity, which provided the perfect physical and social space for the circulation of gossip.



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In republican Rio de Janeiro, collective housing units that lacked personal privacy ­were the norm for poor residents.22 ­These crowded living spaces did not leave much room for control over one’s reputation, or what Erving Goffman has termed “the arts of impression management.”23 It was easy for private information to become public and potentially damage one’s social standing.24 This is telling when we remember that homebirths ­were the norm for the majority of the population. A childbirth or infanticide was public knowledge in a building where 343 residents shared six latrines.25 In one 1905 police investigation, for example, neighbors easily found a newborn cadaver discarded in the backyard of a tenement-­style h ­ ouse. The police questioned all the residents, and although the investigation never clarified the circumstances surrounding the infant’s death, the police chief’s remarks provide a brief yet evocative glimpse both into the living situations of many Cariocas and into the ways that authorities viewed ­t hose spaces: an old country h ­ ouse [chácara] from the m ­ iddle of the last c­ entury; with an infiniteness of rooms, bedrooms, hallways, yards and out­houses of all types: a tenement [cortiço] full of intrigues. It is situated on a hill [morro], and, in order to enter it, one must know the vari­ous stairways that give access to the diverse levels in which the building is divided . . . ​an uncouth and abandoned land.26

In this boarding ­house, the accused twenty-­year-­old Deodelina Isabel Cardozo supposedly gave birth with the help of her two female roommates and discarded the cadaver. The close living quarters facilitated knowledge of the event among the neighbors, who brought the case to police attention. Overpopulated collective housing had been a Carioca real­ity since the Empire, but in the first de­cade of the Republic, particularly in the central zones of the city, construction of ­these slum-­like buildings increased.27 Housing for the urban poor consisted of cramped and unhygienic communal arrangements in the form of boarding ­houses (casas de cômodos) and tenement-­style housing (cortiços and estalagens). Single-­family homes ­were options only for the ­middle and upper classes. In terms of collective units, cortiços and estalagens ­were the best housing for the working poor, whereas casas de cômodos, due to the transient nature of the tenants, and favelas, the informal settlements that ­were beginning to grow on the city’s hillsides, w ­ ere a step down.28 Collective housing often consisted of a group of small rooms (casinhas) lining a long passageway with a central patio and one street exit. Residents shared

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bathrooms and wash tanks. In 1901, for example, Anna Pacheco, who lived in one of the five casinhas that lined a small “ave­nue,” went to the “water-­closet” located at the end of the row of h ­ ouses.29 ­There, she found bloody rags. The police ­later discovered that her neighbor, twenty-­four-­year-­old Bella Pereira Thiller, had given birth in the latrine and abandoned the live infant in the nearby forest. Collective housing often had piped w ­ ater but favelas did not; nevertheless, all areas ­were hotspots of infectious diseases such as typhoid fever, tuberculosis, and whooping cough.30 For their part, elites viewed collective housing units as dens of immoral be­hav­ior, and popu­lar lit­er­a­ture of the time portrayed them as centers of vice and disorder.31 In 1906, one city official described an estalagem as a place “where one eats, one irons clothes, one sews, one slanders their neighbors.”32 ­Here, the official spoke in gendered terms, as ironing and sewing ­were ­women’s tasks. Elites viewed gossip as a w ­ oman’s pastime. Republican city officials hoped to curb the growth of collective housing. Cortiços ­were the first locations of direct municipal intervention into the lives of the urban poor, beginning with Mayor Cândido Barata Ribeiro’s (1891–94) destruction of the famous Pig’s Head (Cabeça de Porco) cortiço in 1893.33 A de­cade ­later, ­under the presidency of Francisco de Paula Rodrigues Alves and Mayor Francisco Pereira Passos (1902–6), the government demolished large numbers of tenements in the center of the city, pushing lower-­class residents into the surrounding suburbs and to a lesser extent into the hillside favelas.34 The expansion of rail lines into the suburban areas accelerated population growth in the rural fringes in the 1910s and 1920s.35 Subsequent urban interventions throughout the republican period further moved working-­class and poor residents out of the center zone, including the destruction of Castelo Hill (Morro do Castelo) in 1921, on whose hillside stood the last collective housing units in the city center.36 Favelas w ­ ere also an area of crowded, collective living, but during the nascent period of their growth (1890–1920) the police steered clear of direct interventions related to fertility control. So did public health officials. Remember, a­ fter Emilia Teixeira delivered her twins, the ambulance d ­ rivers re37 fused to “go up the hill.” Favelas began to grow exponentially in the 1940s, with the expansion of industry in suburban areas and the development of the city’s wealthy southern region (the zona sul).38 Yet by this time, t­ hese modes of speech had faded away from the judicial documents relating to abortion and infanticide. Through the expansion of state ser­v ices, Vargas co-­opted



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informal speech. Public health officials and physicians took on the role of denouncer.39 Denunciations w ­ ere not restricted to fertility control practices during the first de­cades of the First Republic, and the public condemned other expressions of overt sexuality, including prostitution.40 ­These denunciations drew rigid moral and geographic community bound­aries surrounding sexual and gendered be­hav­ior. As Amy Chazkel has argued, denunciations involving the public sphere in the late imperial and early republican eras implied that citizens of all classes “participated in the negotiation of normative ideas about the city.”41 Accusations that pivoted on the proper use of public space highlighted popu­lar views on the geographic bound­aries of legitimate be­hav­ior, including ­women’s attempts to control their fertility.

“The Finesse of Our Reporting”: Formal Denunciations and Civil Recognition Denunciations not only demarcated the public sphere but also reveal how individuals interacted with the state. Sheila Fitzpatrick and Patrick Gellately define denunciations in modern history as “spontaneous communications from individual citizens to the state (or to another authority like the church) containing accusations of wrongdoing by other citizens or officials and implicitly or explic­itly calling for punishment.”42 Although denunciations can be against authorities, the most common involve everyday grievances against one’s neighbors, friends, or ­family members. Most of the denunciations examined ­here, albeit couched in the ideals of a “good” denunciation (for the public good), ­were often “bad” or self-­interested denunciations.43 In December 1905, for example, a soldier denounced Maria Pinto to the police in the north-­central São Christóvão neighborhood, stating that she had been four-­months pregnant and “provoked an abortion, putting that [fetus] in a jar with alcohol.” The soldier also testified that Pinto had refused “to return to him vari­ous pieces of clothing.”44 Some denouncers couched their words in terms of Christian responsibility when attacking the female be­hav­ior they believed threatened the social order.45 Yet, as the previous example highlights, ­t hose same denunciations included personal vendettas due to unpaid debts or neighborhood rivalry. Gossip and denunciation of fertility control ­were thus an interplay between moral arguments and more personal ones.

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Scholarship has shown that denunciation as a widespread practice often occurs ­u nder totalitarian regimes. As Lauren Derby argues in her discussion of the authoritarian Rafael Trujillo dictatorship in the Dominican Republic (1930–61), denunciation afforded gossip official status. U ­ nder Trujillo’s rein, citizens participated in public life through the “Foro Público,” a state-­ sanctioned newspaper column that printed public denunciations of civil servants. The “Foro” empowered citizens while si­mul­ta­neously expanding state control, becoming a “technology of power” or “mode of submission,” according to Michel Foucault.46 Similarly, whereas formal politics w ­ ere non­ex­is­tent in Nazi Germany, denunciations became a resource for citizens to express their positions and seek change.47 Totalitarian regimes work from the bottom up by making their apparatuses available to all citizens. To further its needs, the state encourages ­people to denounce their fellow citizens, ultimately increasing state reach.48 While both personal and po­liti­c al denunciations flourish u ­ nder totalitarian and authoritarian governments, they are not exclusive to them, and the practice can occur in highly stratified demo­cratic regimes like the First Republic.49 Republican Brazil demo­cratized the po­liti­cal pro­cess by increasing the number of elected positions across government levels, expanding suffrage, and decentralizing authority. But it still remained an elite system that ser­v iced a small percentage of the population. Voter participation increased compared to the nineteenth ­century, but at the turn of the ­century, it hovered at only 2.7 ­percent of the population. In 1930, it was 5.7 ­percent.50 At a time when w ­ omen could not vote, and sanctioned participation in public life was gendered and classed, denunciations afforded lower-­class men and ­women a means through which they could engage with the state. In this way, denunciation was a means to gain civic recognition, even if the immediate goal was the social shaming of enemies. The decision of police to look into an abortion denunciation, regardless of its veracity, reified the denunciation as pos­si­ble truth in the surrounding community. Most impor­tant, the police response to fertility control accusations awarded social status to the denouncers through participation in civic life in a restricted demo­cratic regime. In this sense, gossip demo­cratized participation in the public sphere, but the state still favored more formal written methods that reinforced class-­ based hierarchies. It is surprising, then, that some lower-­class ­women’s denunciations appear in written form. In 1904, for instance, Margarida Rosa



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da Assumpção wrote two notes denouncing her neighbor Antonia “China” Mendes Bezerra for infanticide (Image 11). Dr. Police Chief, In the Travessa Onze de Maio number 16 a young ­woman had a child and that child was killed by a certain person, Aunt Lina, so that the fruit of a crime would not appear. This young w ­ oman goes by the nickname “China” and her ­father is the machinist of the steamship Brazil. This tricky scheme was done while the ­father was away for five months. So, if you want a witness, look on the same mews number 19, for the midwife Rosa who is a witness and Albertina who came to know [the situation] and the examining Doctor Mourão and said to somebody that she was in a very advanced stage [of pregnancy], fi­nally every­one from the tenement knows about the case. The child was buried in the basement of the house. —­Margarida Rosa da Assumpção. Dr. Police Chief, I am ­going to tell you something that happened in the Travessa 11 de Maio, n. 16, ­house n. 1 that every­one has surmised. In this ­house t­ here is a ­great sorceress [feiticeira] by the name of Lina who does all sorts of spellcasting, procures men for w ­ omen, and gives luck to t­ hose that d ­ on’t have fortune and also rents rooms to young men at 500 [mil]réis per hour. I am ­going to tell about the case. ­There is in this ­house 2 young ­women, one is named Rita and the other China, who got involved with a boy by the name of Saturnino. Some time ago, this boy ruined [fez mal] China and she became pregnant [and] she said to every­one that it was an illness.51 She went to consult Doctor Mourão, and he said that she was already 7 or 8 months pregnant and then the sorceress began to make medicine and magic in order to cast out [bota fora] the child but it was so that the child was born beautiful and smart and the sorceress squeezed the neck of the l­ ittle innocent child and buried it in the basement of the same h ­ ouse. The ­father of ­these 2 young w ­ omen is a machinist on the steamship Brazil. He is José Bezerra, and every­thing happened when he was on a long journey. The sorceress has a very old fetus in a ­bottle that she says was China’s, but that is a lie, every­one in the boarding h ­ ouse knows that. It was Albertina who told me, she saw the incident. Lina got that fetus a long time ago. —­Your Servant Margarida Assumpção.52

In her first note, Assumpção wrote that the entire tenement knew of the event and named specific witnesses who could testify. She wrote in her second letter

I M AG E 11  ​Margarida Rosa da Assumpçã­o’s denunciation note, 1904 source: (AN) 0R.0.IQP.3065 (1904).



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that Lina, “a ­great sorceress,” had first given medicine to China and then performed witchcraft “to cast the child out” (a reference to abortion). The child had been born alive, however, and so Lina killed it. Bezerra’s female neighbors knew she had been pregnant due to the “volume of her belly” and that Bezerra had given birth ­because “vari­ous times in the street she [the neighbor] heard said [ouviu dizer] that the same Antonia [Bezerra] had had a child, seeing that it was said vari­ous times . . . ​by more than one person of the residents t­here.”53 The testimonial rec­ord is full of “heard said,” which the police used as proof of Bezerra’s delivery. Bezerra, for her part, confirmed that she had been deflowered, and, as a consequence, had become pregnant. To “hide the crime from her f­ather’s eyes,” she had taken several drugs. The drugs had failed, and Bezerra ­later gave birth to a stillborn infant. ­Because the police never found a cadaver and thus w ­ ere unable to prove the infanticide, the force relied on the female witnesses’ ideas about pregnancy and female sexual morality to condemn Bezerra.54 The form the denunciation took, a handwritten note sent by a ­woman, is as striking as its content. In 1904, Assumpção was part of a minority of literate w ­ omen in the city. Nonetheless, her literacy did not grant her entrance to formal public life.55 Although illiteracy barred many men from voting, w ­ omen’s literacy level was irrelevant to their participation in the po­liti­ cal pro­cess as they remained disenfranchised ­u ntil 1932. Compared to the other female witnesses (of whom only Bezerra herself was literate), however, the note and the police response demonstrate the way literacy enhanced Assumpçã­o’s chances of the police hearing and responding to her claims. Her note allowed her to negotiate her role within her neighborhood and pre­ sent herself to authorities as an outstanding citizen. They, in turn, conceded her official recognition. Assumpçã­o’s literacy granted her access to the public sphere, demo­ cratizing a highly stratified and masculine society, but writing could also reinforce gender hierarchies by privileging ­t hose who already had access to public modes of communication such as newspapers, most often men. Abortion denunciations in the daily press ­were often written by and for a male audience. They galvanized government attention and reinforced gender hierarchies. In 1908, for instance, the journalist Simão Carlos published a scathing report in the popu­lar morning daily, Diario de Noticias, in which he accused the Portuguese midwife Maria Piedade Borges of ­r unning an abortion clinic.56

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How the crimes—­because the case deals with true crimes—­how they unfolded; how they unfurled, how they proceeded with impunity their devastating work, both the police and our own readers can now see and appreciate with terror, who certainly w ­ ill be astonished how events of such gravity, scandals of shocking immorality, could have unfolded in a civilized city like ours, without a vestige, a crack, a mere sliver of light, had u ­ ntil now aroused the slightest suspicion of anyone. We have found out about a horrible case, thanks to the finesse of our reporting; at first, we denied it credit, so painfully horrific was the event we came across. But, in our profession as sincere and honest journalists, we could not abandon the denouncement that came to us, and so, with the utmost secrecy, we studied the case, analyzed it in all its minutiae, in all of its mysterious details, in order to uncover irrefutable evidence . . . The crime, or, better said, the crimes became overtly clear. A physician, oblivious to his professional duties, forgetting his own humanity, makes a pact with a midwife equally culpable of contempt, and with her, practices the horrific crimes of infanticide and provocation of abortions, clearly wreaking [havoc upon] and without the slightest scruples, the code of civilization, the moral code, the Penal Code! . . . It was late at night; silence reigned over almost all of the city, and in the midst of this profound silence . . . . . . ​a high-­pitched laugh pierces the air. —­Soon ­a fter ­others. —­Others. All the whispering and disturbances stem from a h ­ ouse [sobrado] on the rua do Trem n. 14. It seemed, from the look of the h ­ ouse, [to be] a small, intimate meeting, which are so common in this capital [city], and that made the ­silent neighborhood of Santa Luzia thunder. The sounds, the laughter, continued and became lost in the sounds confused by the wind. All of a sudden, a female voice could be heard, and it laughingly exclaimed: —­A h! Ah! Ah! C ­ hildren, for what do I want ­children? They only serve to bother us! —­And fortunately we have the Mme. Maria da Piedade Borges to rid ourselves of this encumbrance.57

In response to the article, the police investigated Maria Piedade Borges, an unlicensed midwife who had worked at the maternity ward at the Santa Casa



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before starting a clinic in her home. They also questioned twenty-­one other witnesses. Although the testimony is both contradictory and contentious, it appears that in addition to delivering newborns in her illegal private clinic, Borges performed abortions and helped w ­ omen find informal foster homes for their c­ hildren, although no physical evidence proved t­ hose claims. The newspaper article and subsequent police investigation uncovered intimate aspects of the gendered power relations governing the lives of all ­t hose involved. The midwife, Borges, was a property owner who had rented a room to Carlos, the reporter. She also had rented out a room to another ­woman, Honorina Silva, whose particularly vicious testimony supported Carlos’s claims. Before Carlos published his exposé in the newspaper, both Carlos and Silva had ­stopped paying their rent, and Borges had resorted to the police to evict them. Although it seems plausible that Borges provided a range of reproductive health ser­v ices, from delivery to post-­miscarriage treatments to abortions, the ferocity of the accusation unveils how ordinary power strug­ gles could both draw from and feed into larger moral debates about proper gendered be­hav­ior—­here female reproduction. In this scenario, Borges held more economic power over her male tenant, and Carlos had no recourse in the face of an eviction except to use his privileged standing as a literate newspaper reporter to slander the ­woman who had thrown him out. He chose to accuse Borges of providing abortions ­because he knew this subject would catch the attention of both the public and the police. Moreover, Carlos, as a literate man, addressed his eviction in a way that Honorina Silva, the female tenant whom Borges had also evicted, could not. Silva was illiterate and worked as a domestic servant. She had no way to write a denunciation note let alone a newspaper article. In fact, the district chief wrote highly of Carlos’s testimony, emphasizing that Carlos took it ­u nder oath. When referring to Silva, however, the police chief found her testimony to be more “circumstantial” in nature.58 Carlos also denounced two men—­a pharmacist and a physician—­but the police never investigated them. It seems they deemed Borges’s transgressions more dangerous. Written denunciations of fertility control that appeared in the newspapers such as Carlos’s galvanized police attention and resources.59 The state took t­ hese denunciations seriously, and they mobilized significant manpower to investigate the accusations. The written word reinforced existing hierarchies by privileging literate Cariocas and ­t hose with access to the press. But it also demo­cratized the public sphere by allowing t­ hose excluded from civic participation, such as literate w ­ omen, access to state recognition.

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“Him Being White and the Child Black”: Race and Sexuality in Verbal Gossip Verbal gossip, like its written counterpart, also reflected the moral bound­aries surrounding the intersection of gender, sexuality, and race. Scholars studying vari­ous early twentieth-­century Latin American regimes have demonstrated how discourses on sexuality and gender ­were often a proxy for race, and Brazil was no exception.60 Sueann Caulfield argues that the popu­lar classes involved in her large set of deflowering cases in Rio de Janeiro in the 1920s and 1930s recognized color hierarchies and ste­reo­t ypes but ­were reluctant to explic­itly mention skin color in their testimony, highlighting what Caulfield observes as a reproduction of elites’ silence on racial issues. When Cariocas mentioned color, it was dependent on other extenuating circumstances such as economic status or personal qualities. Witnesses only associated “dark skin and moral laxity” in conjunction with other social f­actors.61 Similarly, in cases involving reproduction, witnesses invoked unofficial descriptions of color in regard to sexual relationships and supposed proclivities t­ oward fertility control practices. One manner in which color appeared underhandedly in testimony was in witnesses’ discussions of sexual partners. In the 1902 abortion and deflowering investigation involving parda Ercilia da Costa Rodinha, she and her godmother described her deflowerer as the “preto Florentino.”62 Accused deflowerers often countered the accusation by blaming anonymous men of color. When the Fróes ­family awakened on an early September morning in 1909, they discovered that their live-in domestic servant Joaquina Moreira had given birth. The police questioned Moreira for the name of the infant’s ­father, which she reluctantly supplied as José Leandro da Silva, a boarder at the same h ­ ouse. Silva vehemently negated the claim, counterattacking that Moreira’s partner was a small “moreno” man named Nabor, and that Moreira was known to have “vari­ous boyfriends.”63 Despite Moreira’s insistence on Silva’s paternal responsibility, the police tried to find Nabor—­w ithout success. ­W hether accusing or being accused, lower-­class men and ­women blamed darker men for unsanctioned sexual relationships. Hearsay about interracial sexuality also discursively linked sexual promiscuity to ­people of color. In November 1907, ­house­mates Flausina Leonidia Teixeira and Maria José da Silva got into a heated argument. Loud enough for all the neighbors to hear, Teixeira accused Silva and her partner Manoel



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Martins Gomes of infanticide. Teixeira screamed that years e­arlier, the ­couple had murdered Silva’s newborn child b ­ ecause it was not Gomes’s, “him [Gomes] being white and the child black.”64 Shortly ­a fter, the police investigated the accusation. Silva had been pregnant with another man’s child when the c­ ouple began living together eight years e­ arlier, and she had given birth to a preto child that died shortly ­after birth from natu­ral ­causes. Teixeira, however, accused Silva of having sexual relations first with a Brazilian of color (the infant’s ­father) and then with a Brazilian of Eu­ro­pean descent, Gomes, who did not want a mixed-­race child. That was why the ­couple killed the infant. According to Teixeira and her husband, Silva had had a contentious relationship with her former partner. Teixeira had “heard [at] vari­ous times” fights between Silva and the infant’s f­ather. Teixeira’s husband also testified that Silva’s former partner “told heavy insults to Gomes’s ­woman [Silva] and said to the deponent’s wife [Teixeira] that he admired her for living in the com­pany of such ­people, her being a married ­woman.”65 In their accusation, Teixeira and her husband established themselves as the opposite of Silva and Gomes: respectable, married citizens who took no part in scandalous be­hav­ ior. By inserting racial categories into her denunciation of fertility control, Teixeira further demonstrated how racial mores in relation to sexual partners marked social perceptions of gendered be­hav­ior. Silva had engaged in sexual relations out of wedlock with several men of dif­fer­ent races, marking her both as being sexually promiscuous and as transgressing racial bound­aries. Teixeira may have had personal motivations for accusing Silva and her partner of infanticide. Perhaps the two w ­ omen had repeatedly bickered in their shared home and their conflicts had come to a head that hot November after­noon. Teixeira and her husband rented a room from Silva and Gomes, establishing an economic hierarchy in which the latter held more power. The argument and resulting accusation could have resulted from festering economic resentment. Teixeira may have wanted to socially shame Silva, asserting her own dominance in the community where they lived. In this sense, Teixeira’s denunciation challenged the ­couple’s social honor at the same time that it asserted her social capital in a situation in which she held ­little. While the police chief chalked up the accusation to “merely . . . ​an intrigue between female friends,” the c­ ouple’s private lives had been aired to the w ­ hole community.66 The fact that the police never recorded Maria José da Silva’s race supports the hypothesis of an association between blackness and supposed hypersexuality. Teixeira declared that Silva’s child was black b ­ ecause its f­ ather was black.

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Teixeira believed the child would have been white if Gomes, Silva’s current (white) partner, had been the ­father. Thus, it appears that Teixeira perceived Silva as white. If Teixeira only mentioned the race of Silva’s child and her sexual partners but not Silva’s own skin color, she described Silva’s supposed sexual promiscuity through the race of her sexual partners. A similar situation occurred in the case of Joaquina Moreira and José Leandro da Silva. The police forensic examiners declared that the newborn was white. But the investigation never mentioned the race of Moreira or Silva. Silva, however, marked Moreira as promiscuous through her relationship with the mixed-­race Nabor. White ­women’s sexuality was “hyper” if associated with men of color. Witness testimony also described w ­ omen who supposedly practiced fertility control as being darker in color. When several city residents found a dead newborn in 1904, they testified that they observed a “black” (negra) or “mixed black” (creoula) ­woman abandoning the body.67 In one 1905 investigation of an infant cadaver, the documents do not include the ­mother’s race (hinting at her whiteness), but witnesses described the roommate who allegedly helped her commit infanticide as preta.68 This association continued into the early Vargas era. In 1933, for example, eighteen-­year-­old preta Mercedes dos Santos died from a ruptured uterus and hemorrhage following an abortion (Image 12).69 Santos, originally from the state of Bahia, worked as a domestic servant in the home of Emilia Dias de Oliveira, herself a preta ­woman from the neighboring state of Minas Gerais. ­After Santos miscarried in her employer’s home and began hemorrhaging, a public ambulance transported her to the nearest public hospital, where her case caught the attention of the crime reporter who accompanied the medics on their daily activities. Before Santos died, the attending physicians pressed her for more information, and they notified the police that she had confessed to an illegal abortion and had blamed her employer, Oliveira. The reporter overheard the physicians discussing the criminal abortion, and he called his colleague, who wrote an article blaming an unscrupulous midwife for Santos’s death.70 Perhaps this dual pressure—­from the hospital and the press—­influenced the decision of the police to officially accuse Oliveira based on the alleged confession of a d ­ ying w ­ oman. Of course, the police followed best practice when they investigated the confession. But the medico-­ legal autopsy never determined w ­ hether Santos had miscarried or provoked an abortion, and Oliveira’s testimony, along with that of the other domestic servants, negated Santos’s claim. (Perhaps Santos had never made a confession on



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I M AG E 12  ​Eighteen-­year-­old Mercedes dos Santos, 1933 source: (AN) CT, Cx.2010 N.535 (1933).

her deathbed.) No one had known that Santos had been pregnant, and every­ one expressed surprised when she miscarried. Perhaps if Oliveira had been white, the police would not have been so quick to place blame. H ­ ere, it was the word of one black ­woman against t­ hose of several male physicians and reporters. Both Santos and Oliveira w ­ ere black, and the physicians, the police, and the press implicated them for fertility control without hesitation. While anecdotal, ­these unofficial mentions of color show a tendency ­toward describing both male sexual “voraciousness” and female fertility control practices as darker in color. Perhaps when witnesses described a person lighter in color, they did not include it in their physical descriptions, demonstrating their own bias. Conversely, witnesses perhaps used color descriptions freely, describing the color of all individuals, but the police only wrote down the descriptions of darker Brazilians, highlighting the police officers’ own

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prejudices. In e­ ither case, t­ hese “slips” of knowledge about race expose how the community and police connected blackness and (hyper)sexuality.71 Police use of forensic science further highlights the fluidity of racial characteristics and thus how subjective understandings of race and sexuality influenced scientific “objectivity.” In the 1932 infanticide investigation of eighteen-­year-­old Maria Augusta, for example, the police categorized Augusta as preta in her pelvic exam and parda in the autopsy that followed her suicide.72 And ­because they classified her newborn as white and Augusta as a person of color, the police questioned her on the skin color of the child’s f­ ather. Augusta declared that he was “moreno but not pardo,” highlighting popu­lar understandings of mixed-­race gradation. To Augusta, and possibly the police, moreno, while still implying a person of color, signified a lighter color than pardo. Th ­ ese “gradations” are also apparent in a 1914 investigation in which the young Judith Monteiro died from an abortion. The police physicians classified Monteiro as “branca, with characteristics of mestiçagem,” or mixing.73 Although Monteiro was white, her death from an abortion implied her sexual activity out of wedlock, and in the doctors’ eyes, her “hypersexuality,” and thus her mixed-­race status. Scholars have demonstrated how the police in Rio de Janeiro perpetuated racial ste­reo­t ypes.74 Olívia Maria Gomes da Cunha—in her study of police identification practices in republican Rio de Janeiro—­contends that police documents rarely mentioned race. However, the police employed “skin color” in a way that marked certain bodies as dif­fer­ent. In this way, skin color became a “distinctive signal” that interacted with other “social classifications” to permanently mark the person in question. This allusion to skin color without explic­itly invoking race existed within a larger racist discourse that naturalized racial hierarchies. Writes Cunha, “We can imagine how the use of a terminology of ‘color’ permitted the police to allude to a picture of differences based on ‘racial’ classifications, without ‘race’ being manipulated as a relevant social category.”75 Police activities converged with a larger raceless discourse to create identities that, although explic­itly raceless, ­were implicitly racialized. Moreover, the police used ­t hese racialized identities as a qualifier for criminality. ­Women standing on the street became prostitutes and men outside a local bar (botequim) became vagrants when the police marked them as Brazilians of color.76 References to color functioned in the same way ­here. Witnesses mentioned skin color to qualify the person’s supposed sexuality. It was more plausible to



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blame a “black” w ­ oman in the neighborhood for abandoning a child b ­ ecause of the cross-­class association of blackness and hypersexuality. In the de­cades ­after abolition, associating color with hypersexuality and fertility control was one manner in which both white elites and citizens of vari­ous colors maintained more subtle forms of control over a f­ ree population of color.

“The Letters Would Have Forcefully Brought the News”: Immigration, Nationality, and Sexuality Gossip and denunciation did more than delineate prevailing views on gender, sexuality, and race. The practices also demonstrated community negotiations over immigration and demographic changes. Immigration to southeast Brazil increased in the late nineteenth c­ entury as planters searched for new forms of wage l­abor leading up to and in the wake of abolition.77 Immigration policies w ­ ere not color-­blind, however, and the Brazilian government, and particularly the state of São Paulo, made concerted attempts to attract white Eu­ro­pe­a ns.78 In Rio de Janeiro, Portuguese immigrants ­were the dominant foreign group throughout the early twentieth ­century, followed by Italians and Spanish.79 ­These burgeoning immigrant populations competed with formerly enslaved and poor Brazilians for manual, industrial, and domestic ser­v ice jobs.80 Migration also changed the city’s makeup. Throughout the nineteenth ­century, the city had had a large urban enslaved population that labored alongside freed persons of color.81 ­A fter abolition, this population expanded as formerly enslaved persons from the interior migrated to the city.82 Population growth and the continuation of poverty exacerbated national and racial divides. Denunciations of fertility control demonstrate discord between immigrant groups and native Brazilians, although they do not necessarily reveal explicit racial tensions. In 1915, for example, the Brazilian Maria Pereira da Silva denounced her Spanish neighbor Carmen Teixeira for supposedly strangling and then burying her newborn in her backyard. What on the surface seemed a ­simple denunciation of infanticide was a more complicated ­matter involving ­family feuds, neighborhood friendships, and immigrant scapegoating. Presenting herself as the vigilant, patriotic neighbor, Silva testified that while in the home of the Portuguese midwife Maria Augusta, she asked Augusta “out of curiosity” if she had attended the birth of Teixeira’s child.83 Apparently, Augusta had gone to Teixeira’s h ­ ouse a­ fter the birth where she found a dead

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newborn, which seemed to have been hung, with its eyes “bugging out” from its head. Silva also asked Teixeira about her newborn to which Teixeira replied that she had “expelled some cells [uma móla] and that the midwife told her to kill it so it would not become a lizard.” In response to Silva’s denunciation, the police dug up Teixeira’s backyard (ultimately finding nothing) and questioned nine witnesses, Silva, and the two accused w ­ omen, Teixeira and Augusta. The investigation uncovered a much larger neighborhood feud. Silva was a friend of Augusta’s ­daughter, Anna Ferreira, who had fought with her m ­ other in the days preceding the denunciation. Apparently, Augusta had yelled that despite being married, Ferreira had “had vari­ous men.”84 Ferreira had replied that it was better to be with vari­ous men than to be a “murderer” as her ­mother was for killing Teixeira’s child. Augusta’s other ­daughters (Ferreira’s ­sisters) testified that at first Ferreira, her husband, and Silva tried to spread the rumor that the s­ isters had killed two c­ hildren and buried them in the backyard. The rumor, however, did not catch on in the community, for neighbors attested to the s­ isters’ “honesty.” Ferreira and Silva then switched tactics and targeted the only Spanish immigrant, Teixeira. In other words, the w ­ omen changed their rumor to fit into socially accepted ideas about individual ­women’s be­hav­ior, underscoring Teixeira’s outsider status. As Jean-­Nöel Kapferer argues, rumors have “a strict logic,” and they must provide “explanations that are socially acceptable to the group in which they circulate.”85 Rumors that do not fit into a specific social-­historical context w ­ ill not take hold. As the only Spanish immigrant in an area of Brazilians and Portuguese immigrants, Teixeira existed on the neighborhood’s fringes. Targeting her was more logical than denouncing established group members Both Teixeira and her husband reaffirmed their marital integrity and social honor in their testimonies. She had, in fact, given birth to a stillborn infant five years ­earlier. Teixeira had no reason to hide a child “as she has been married for eight years, [and] her husband is still alive, from whose com­pany the declarant never separates.”86 ­Here, Teixeira underscored her fidelity to her husband, and she implied that a faithful, married w ­ oman would never engage in fertility control. Teixeira continued that it was Silva’s social be­hav­ior that challenged gender norms. According to Teixeira, Silva was separated from her husband, whom she had abandoned to live a “disgraced life.” Teixeira’s husband also underscored this contrast, stating that he lived in perfect harmony with Teixeira, “whom he never suspected [of] the slightest deviation stray-



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ing in her conduct as a wife.” The c­ ouple established Teixeira’s sexual honor through her marital fidelity, which ultimately reaffirmed her husband’s social honor in the community.87 Silva originally tried to socially disgrace the ­family of her friend, Anna Ferreira, through the public destruction of the ­family’s sexual reputation. When that failed, the women turned ­toward scapegoating the sole Spanish immigrant. Their accusations that Teixeira had committed infanticide (and that Augusta had helped) gained a foothold in the neighborhood and caught the police’s attention. Teixeira had delivered a stillborn infant, and perhaps the w ­ omen believed their accusation would ring true to neighbors. But it also seems plausible they targeted Teixeira ­because she was an “outsider.” And by choosing infanticide, Silva and Ferreira knew the police would respond. The police enlisted significant manpower to excavate an entire backyard and question vari­ous neighbors. In the end, the police chief concluded that the denunciation “seemed to be an action done in the lowliest perversity.”88 Silva’s denunciation of Teixeira highlights the practice of immigrant scapegoating, but accusations of abortion and infanticide also occurred within immigrant groups. The 1910 infanticide trial of Portuguese immigrant Joaquina Gonçalves reveals how notions of gender and sexuality crisscrossed the Atlantic Ocean and ­shaped the immigrant experience.89 Sidney Chalhoub, in his impor­tant study of the republican working class, found evidence of l­abor conflicts between Portuguese immigrants and native-­born Cariocas. Brazilian elites favored Portuguese workers, as white “agent[s] of the cap­i­tal­ ist order” over formerly enslaved persons and freed blacks.90 In ­t hese ­labor conflicts, both groups demonstrated solidarity within their social and ethnic communities.91 Analyzing the gendered dynamics of the Portuguese community outside the workplace, however, complicates this discussion of solidarity. Prevailing views on female sexual be­hav­ior and patriarchal power could divide an immigrant community. In May  1910, thirty-­five-­year-­old Portuguese immigrant Joaquina Gonçalves gave birth alone in the yard of the casa de cômodos where she lived with her husband, Antonio Marques.92 ­A fter the birth, Gonçalves allegedly tore the umbilical cord with her fin­gers, and the child died soon a­ fter. The tenement’s landlord, the Portuguese Manoel Duarte, notified the police about the suspicious circumstances surrounding the infant’s death. The ­couple testified separately that they had been married for ten to twelve years and had a

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thirteen-­year-­old son who lived with his maternal grandparents in Portugal. Initially, Marques had emigrated to Brazil alone, leaving Gonçalves and their son ­behind.93 During that separation, Gonçalves conceived twice—­one pregnancy that resulted in an alleged miscarriage and one in which the child died two weeks ­a fter birth from “weakness.”94 Marques had forgiven Gonçalves for her infidelity, and he maintained the ­couple lived in harmony in Rio de Janeiro. He also declared that he was the infant’s ­father. In total, the police questioned six neighbors, plus Gonçalves and Marques. Most of the witnesses declared Gonçalves had denied her pregnancy to every­ one in the tenement, including her husband. Three neighbors testified that Gonçalves had killed her child. Duarte, the landlord who notified the police, was also Gonçalves’s neighbor in Portugal. In fact, he previously had denounced Gonçalves to the Portuguese police for an alleged abortion. Duarte told the Carioca police “that ­t here began to be said in the parish [in Portugal] that Joaquina Gonçalves had provoked an abortion.”95 Duarte emphasized that in Portugal, he was a “corporal of command” (cabo de ordens), underscoring his social standing to convince the police of his higher social position vis-­à-­v is Gonçalves. The discussion of Gonçalves’s actions in Portugal formed the basis for the justice system’s denunciation. The district police chief wrote that ­because the news had spread in Portugal “that the said Joaquina [Gonçalves] had aborted,” she had engaged in “grave crimes and repeated faults.” Her rumored criminal abortion in Portugal was reason enough to condemn her for infanticide in Rio de Janeiro. The law saw Gonçalves as a repeat offender based on witness hearsay. Gonçalves’s defense l­ awyer tried to slander Duarte in the hopes of acquitting his client of infanticide. He declared that Duarte had romantically pursued Gonçalves in Portugal since before she was married. A ­ fter she rebuffed him, Duarte became Gonçalves’s e­ nemy and gathered “false witnesses” against her. According to Gonçalves’s defense, it was Duarte, in both Portugal and Rio de Janeiro, who “call[ed] public attention against the accused [Gonçalves].”96 And it was Duarte who “created the general belief that the accused [Gonçalves] was a criminal, making a horrible impression converge against her, as now it is the general voice [voz geral] that the accused has been his victim.” Gonçalves’s l­awyer brought in five male character witnesses to si­mul­ta­neously defend his client’s sexual honor and attack Duarte’s social standing. If the case pivoted on Duarte’s word, the l­awyer wanted to prove that he had no social worth from which a valid denunciation could be made.



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Three of the five defense witnesses also had been Gonçalves’s neighbors in Portugal. One witness stated that “although he had not seen [anything], he knew from information” that Duarte had unsuccessfully vied for Gonçalves’s attention in Portugal. Another witness vehemently attacked Duarte’s character with alleged firsthand information “that he [Duarte] was a cabo de ordens in the village, a classification given to countrymen who have completed their military duty, although it does not represent anything.” A third witness defined Duarte as “an individual capable of the worst infamies . . . ​he [the witness] has seen him [Duarte] always involved in the intrigues of the lives of ­others.”97 The defense witnesses argued that Duarte had denounced Gonçalves for abortion in Portugal, a lie that had spread through the surrounding villages. As a result, the Portuguese police had excavated Gonçalves’s yard in search of the fetus, without any luck. This hearsay then crossed the Atlantic Ocean with Duarte. Other formal methods of communication also ensured the exchange of knowledge between Portugal and Brazil. One Brazilian witness, a neighbor of Gonçalves, read and wrote letters for the illiterate Portuguese immigrants in the area. From his privileged position as the guardian of the written word, he declared that none of the letters from Portugal included information on the supposed abortion, “being certain that if any fact that had occurred in Portugal in which . . . ​[Gonçalves] was involved, the letters would have forcefully brought the news.”98 This witness’s literacy gave him power over his immigrant neighbors’ lives. His role as a community “reader” demonstrates the vari­ous ave­nues through which secrets could circulate beyond what both teller and receiver intended. It also appears Duarte had conspired to keep Gonçalves in his Rio tenement. According to Gonçalves’s l­awyer, Duarte, a­ fter publicly shaming the accused in Portugal, had purposely become friends with Gonçalves’s husband, Marquez, on the boat r­ ide across the Atlantic, and he l­ater convinced Marquez to move into his building. A ­ fter learning that the c­ ouple was ­going to move, Duarte asked to borrow money from Gonçalves’s husband, “saying ­a fter to other ­people that it was so he could keep them [the ­couple] in his ­house u ­ ntil Joaquina [Gonçalves] gave birth, which he would denounce to the Police as a crime.”99 Gonçalves’s husband confirmed this, for the ­couple could not move from Duarte’s tenement b ­ ecause Duarte owed them money, and he was paying them back by not charging rent. Duarte used his power as Gonçalves’s landlord to create a situation in which his denunciation had serious

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consequences. ­W hether or not Gonçalves had committed the crimes became less impor­tant than what p ­ eople said she had done. As scholars of gender, honor, and the law in modern Latin Amer­i­ca have argued, early twentieth-­century contests over gendered understandings of and access to honor w ­ ere about regulating bound­aries within similar social circles: “Public insults and their adjudication ­were part of the conflictive negotiation of social bound­aries, not so much between the haves and have-­nots as between the have-­somes, the had-­somes, and the want-­mores.”100 In the case of Gonçalves, the two sets of witnesses turned the trial into a game of social standing.101 If Gonçalves had not had a defense l­awyer who had launched an impressive l­egal counterattack, her social standing would have been inferior to Duarte’s. But the men representing her vouched for her moral character. The social position of the witnesses could be just as, if not more, impor­tant than that of the accuser and the accused. In the end, Gonçalves’s infanticide charge uncovered a much longer history of gendered power strug­gles within immigrant communities. Gonçalves had transgressed the patriarchal bound­aries of marriage, and her be­hav­ior did not fit into the mold of the dutiful m ­ other and faithful spouse. She had left a child ­behind in Portugal, been unfaithful to her husband, and neglected her child ­a fter its birth. While her husband seemed nonplussed by her past transgressions and thus “failed” to uphold patriarchal values, Duarte stepped in to regulate his community.

“In His Absence and Without His Knowledge”: Social Honor, Individual Patriarchy, and the State Duarte’s central role in Gonçalves’s infanticide trial begs the question of the larger gendered dynamics surrounding abortion and infanticide—­a nd men’s roles in ­t hese incidents. Scholars of fertility control in Brazil have argued that abortion rumors controlled ­women’s be­hav­ior by casting doubt on their sexual honor and public reputation, yet they have paid less attention to men’s actions.102 Female sexual in­de­pen­dence—­and the ability to cover up any “transgressions” through fertility control—­presented a direct threat both to men’s individual honor and to their patriarchal control over their families. Although the colonial conception of men’s honor as based on their wives’ or ­daughters’ sexuality remained common in the early republican era, by the 1920s and 1930s it began competing with the burgeoning bourgeois notion of honor as an individual characteristic.103 This shifting definition of male honor



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coincided with an expanding state bureaucracy that took over many roles previously exercised by the male head of ­house­hold. To put it another way, ­woman’s sexual choices began reflecting both familial and state honor. But ­fathers and husbands ­were uneasy with ­t hese changing definitions, and they fought hard to maintain control over their female f­ amily members’ sexuality. ­Fathers’ and husbands’ attacks on their d ­ aughters’ or wives’ individual reproductive choices also occurred within a rapidly shifting social landscape. In the post–­World War I era, industrialization and the expansion of the market economy transformed ­labor arrangements in the city. The Carioca ­middle class remained small, but in the 1920s and 1930s a growing number of middle-­ class ­women participated in the formal workforce. With wages, the “modern” ­woman began buying the latest fashion trends and entering previously all-­ male spaces.104 For the majority of Carioca ­women who remained impoverished and toiling in the informal sector, the new leisure spaces of Copacabana Beach or the movie theater remained a distant real­ity.105 For unmarried ­women in the middling and upper classes, however, work in the classroom or in the ser­v ice sector created new opportunities for fashion and freedom of movement. Both rightist and leftist thinkers viewed w ­ omen’s increased in­de­ pen­dence as a direct threat to the longstanding notion of a male breadwinner. More people believed it would lead to sexual immorality and thus an erosion of f­ amily honor.106 For Carioca f­ athers and husbands, the “modern w ­ oman’s” sexual in­de­pen­ dence, evidenced through the clandestine practice of fertility control, threatened both their eroding patriarchal control over the ­family and the colonial notion of male honor as attached to female sexuality. In response, ­fathers and husbands denounced midwives who performed abortions on their wives and ­daughters, defending their social standing and authority in both the public and private spheres. But t­ hese individual attempts facilitated the ability of the police to assume patriarchal control. Steve Stern has demonstrated how ­women in late colonial Mexico used a strategy he terms the “pluralization of patriarchs” to adjudicate familial conflicts. ­Women sought protection from abusive husbands or f­athers by turning to patriarchal authorities in the judicial system, thus expanding the number of men who held patriarchal power in their lives.107 In early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro house­hold patriarchs also participated in this pluralization pro­cess. Men relied on the judicial system to hear and respond to their claims, so they gave its agents the power to control and castigate ­women’s sexual in­de­pen­dence, ultimately circumscribing their

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individual patriarchal claims. On the surface, men’s denunciations of outside threats to their female ­family members’ sexual honor seemed to support individual patriarchy. In real­ity, however, they facilitated the state’s expansion into the private lives of all t­ hose involved. Denunciations of the men who impregnated their ­daughters was one manner in which ­fathers attempted to defend their ­family’s honor in the face of perceived threats to their status as patriarchs. The 1914 case of the navy official Isidro Borges highlights this point. In May, Borges sent a letter to the city’s deputy police chief, denouncing his ex-partner’s common-­law husband (amasio) for causing the death of his ­daughter Judith Monteiro.108 Monteiro and her stepfather had had an affair that had left Monteiro pregnant. Soon ­a fter, she died from a hemorrhage, and it was “the version in the neighborhood” that the stepfather had forced Monteiro to take an abortifacient. Monteiro’s ­father Borges was surprised with the news of his ­daughter’s death. Invoking his role as the worried f­ather, he quickly sent a letter to the police in which he stated that Monteiro’s stepfather had deflowered her and then forced her to have an abortion. Witnesses supported Borges’s version of events, relaying the “rumors and gossip” (boatos e versões) that had flowed freely through their suburban community. Neighbors, for instance, saw Monteiro and her stepfather taking the train line that connected the suburban district to the city center at all hours of the night, alone and “in very intimate conversations.” It seems that Monteiro was taking advantage of new forms of transportation to move more freely about the city as a “modern” w ­ oman. But Borges had not been the protecting ­father he evoked in his letter. Monteiro’s parents had never married, although Borges deftly noted he had officially registered both of his d ­ aughters’ births. On paper, then, he held pátrio poder. But Monteiro’s ­mother testified that Borges had left her and her ­children, forcing her to find another man to become the f­ amily’s breadwinner. U ­ nder civil law, Borges had abandoned his “paternal duties,” and thus he should have lost his ­legal power over his ­daughters.109 The death of Monteiro, then, made Borges’s inability to fulfill his role as the f­amily patriarch even more glaring. Borges had failed to defend his ­daughter’s sexual honor. Her common-­law stepfather, Borges’s stand-in, had allegedly deflowered her, and her efforts to hide her own sexual dishonor resulted in her death. The police, however, took his petition seriously; perhaps the force, as agents of the state, viewed Borges’s lack of fatherly authority as an opportunity to assume control.



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Husbands also employed abortion denunciations to curtail their wives’ in­ de­pen­dent decisions to terminate a pregnancy. Men most often levied t­ hese denunciations at the midwives who provoked the abortions, demonstrating that, to the chagrin of their husbands, ­women exercised agency in relation to their sexual and reproductive lives. In 1929, for example, Avelino Lourenço Teixeira brought a formal complaint against the German midwife Bertha Vieira. Teixeira stated that Vieira had performed an abortion on his amasia, twenty-­t wo-­year-­old Rosa Lopes, which ended in her death. Before she died, Lopes testified to the police that she had been two months pregnant, “more or less,” and wanted an abortion, so she turned to her female neighbors.110 The owner of the tenement ­house where Lopes lived, Martha Lange (also a German immigrant), took Lopes to Vieira. At her clinic, Vieira introduced a rubber probe (sonda de borracha) into Lopes’s vagina and sent her home. ­After Lopes miscarried the fetus, Lange’s domestic servant wrapped the fetus in newspapers and buried it in the backyard. Lopes became sick, and only then did she confess the abortion to her husband. He took her to the hospital, but Lopes died due to an infection caused by placental retention. Teixeira was unsuccessful in his complaint, however. Although the autopsy determined that Lopes had miscarried recently and died from a subsequent infection, the public prosecutor wrote that this was not proof of an illegal abortion: “Every­ thing is ‘by heard said’ [por ouvir dizer],” and thus without ­legal basis. Husbands also sought police help to find the p ­ eople who had provided their wives with knowledge about self-­aborting. In 1926, neighbors called Joaquim Augusto da Costa at his woodworking shop when his wife, twenty-­four-­ year-­old Clara Elisa do Nascimento, began hemorrhaging. “In his absence and without his knowledge,” Nascimento had inserted a sonda de borracha into her vagina to provoke an abortion.111 ­A fter she miscarried, however, she fell ill and died from an infection. Costa went to the police not only to report the death but also to find the person who had provided Nascimento with the probe. In the cases of both Lopes and Nascimento, their husbands emphasized that the midwives in question had influenced their wives’ decisions. To ­t hese men, their wives would never have freely chosen to undergo an abortion. Like Margarida Rosa da Assumpção, men also used written abortion denunciations to gain social recognition. In ­t hese cases, social class influenced the way a man defined his honor. In the 1914 case of the navy official Isidro Borges and his ­daughter Judith Monteiro, for example, both Borges and the police highlighted his social position as an “Official of the Ministry of the

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Navy’s General Office of Accounting.”112 In a 1923 written denunciation, in which Palmyro Silva denounced a local midwife for ­r unning an abortion clinic, Silva emphasized his class standing to make his claim to the health department. Most Eminent Sir, Doctor Director of the Department of the Control of Medicine Respectful greetings As a Brazilian and a Christian, I must bring to your knowledge the crimes practiced by an unlicensed midwife [parteira coriosa] [sic] by the name of Maria Adelaide so and so [de tal], resident of the Rua Emilio Zaluart [sic] n. 90, Estação de Ramos. The case is, most Excellent Sir, that this Portuguese ­woman, abusing our laws for a mere 40 milréis makes an angel [faz um anjo] without the slightest scruple it is a question of bringing money and subjecting oneself to her stupid operations. Being their lives in danger many w ­ omen have deplored such a reminder within t­ hese is D. Laura Machado dos Santos, resident of the same street n. 24 who w ­ ill be able to inform you of millions of t­ hese cases in this sense practiced by the already mentioned “midwife.” Awaiting the mea­sures that the case requires. I am with re­spect and esteem. Palmyro Silva, Rua Estrada da Penha 1147, furniture merchant, 18 of November 1923.113

In his letter, Silva impressed upon public health officials his status as a literate furniture merchant. He also called upon his identity as a Christian and Brazilian citizen to implore the authorities to root out this “evil.” In turn, the public health department emphasized Silva’s social status by including his occupation in its note to the police. Someone, e­ ither the police chief or public prosecutor, l­ater underlined this point as they read and commented on the investigation. Silva portrayed himself as a worthy citizen, and, more importantly, the authorities agreed. The police questioned Silva and the ­woman he named in his note, Laura Machado da Silva (he mistook her last name), who subsequently named four more “victims.” The w ­ omen, however, denied that they had gone to the midwife, Adelaide, for abortions. One witness did “not maintain intimate relationships with her female neighbors ­because they always have friction between them.”114 But the same ­woman “heard said” (ouviu dizer) that Adelaide

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performed an abortion on Laura Silva—­t he w ­ oman named in the note—­after which the two ­women quarreled. Another “victim” heard “firsthand” from the midwife that a w ­ oman in the neighborhood had gone to Adelaide for an abortion. When the ­woman’s husband found out what she had done without his consent, he caused a “scandal.” It appears Palmyro was not the husband who had caused that spectacle (although the two shared a common last name, he testified he was a widower), but Adelaide’s presence in the neighborhood still threatened his overall standing in the public sphere. ­A fter all, an abortionist practicing within his neighborhood defied male control in general. In the realm of fertility control, men attempted to assert patriarchal control over their wives or d ­ aughters by denouncing third parties. In d ­ oing so, however, they relied on a state intent on consolidating control over the ­family. Men’s individual attempts to control the sexual be­hav­iors of their wives and d ­ aughters facilitated police involvement into their private lives. • • •

In republican Rio de Janeiro, gossip and denunciation of fertility control delineated and reinforced prevailing notions of gender, sexuality, and race. Cramped living conditions and the lived experience of poverty created the perfect environment for ­t hese modes of speech to hold sway. Moreover, at a time when most residents ­were symbolically included but effectively excluded from civic life, informal speech proved one ave­nue through which lower-­class ­women and men interacted with the state. Gender and race intersected in gossip about and denunciation of abortion and infanticide in that t­ hose who gossiped and ­those who listened connected (hyper)sexuality to ­people of color. Immigration and migration further s­ haped this practice, and both inter-­and intra-­immigrant gossip played a role in social group formation or dissolution. Men’s attempts to control their female f­amily members’ reproductive actions actually circumscribed their individual patriarchal authority in f­ avor of an expanding state. The lower classes’ use of gossip and denunciation demonstrates how patriarchal and racialized norms infiltrated themselves into the daily lives of the city’s residents. One of the most obvious consequences of the denunciations was the invasive participation of the police, who proved willing listeners.

6

Policing Pregnancy Statecraft, Poverty, and Reproductive Health

O N A J U N E E V E ­N I N G I N 1 9 1 5 , eighteen-­year-­old Annita Rodrigues gave birth to a healthy baby boy in the shack (barracão) where she lived with her ­mother and a female boarder in the north-­central neighborhood of São Cristóvão.1 A Portuguese curiosa arrived moments before the child was born. ­After the birth, the curiosa cut and tied the umbilical cord with “disinfected silk” and “administered the care [os primeiros cuidados] recommended in such cases . . . ​leaving the m ­ other and son in excellent condition.”2 The next day, the midwife bathed the infant and checked on the umbilical cord, which was healing without complications. That night, however, the child began crying incessantly, so Rodrigues’s ­family called the midwife. She again checked the umbilical cord, which was as she left it, but the child was hemorrhaging from its abdominal cavity. The midwife quickly baptized the infant, and it died minutes l­ ater. ­Later that day, the f­ ather of the child, Rodrigues’s boyfriend Francisco José dos Santos, brought the cadaver to the police precinct. ­There, Santos told the on-­duty officer that the infant had died two hours a­ fter its delivery (and not two days as was the case). The police ­were suspicious of Santos’s story, however, so the precinct chief opened an official investigation to determine the cause of death. Soon, Rodrigues (who was illiterate), her m ­ other and aunt, the midwife, and Santos all told the truth—­t hat the child had been born several days e­ arlier but had died suddenly from an unexplained abdominal hemorrhage. B ­ ecause Santos had not registered the infant’s birth and lacked the 156



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financial ability to bury the child, he “suggested [to Rodrigues] . . . ​t he idea of saying that the child had been born and died [immediately after] to facilitate its pre­sen­ta­tion to the [police] Station in a small box as is habitually done with fetuses.”3 The police autopsy determined the cause of death as internal abdominal hemorrhaging without signs of applied vio­lence. To the police, the child’s clothing and the clean umbilical cord showed that Rodrigues and her ­family had cared for the infant ­after its birth. But Rodrigues and Santos ­were not married; in fact, Rodrigues was still married to another man, who had left her a year e­ arlier. Shortly a­ fter, Rodrigues began a relationship with Santos. Perhaps the c­ ouple’s unmarried status prompted the police chief’s suspicion, which only increased a­ fter he learned that Rodrigues was married to a man who was not the infant’s ­father. The c­ ouple’s story of when the infant died, employed to avoid the bureaucratic procedures of registering a live birth and then burying an infant, further cast a cloud over the child’s unfortunate death. Yet ­a fter questioning the involved persons and reading the autopsy report, the police chief cited no sign of “criminal action.”4 The public prosecutor agreed, and he closed the case. This chapter explores the larger trend illustrated in Rodrigues’s case: the conflation by the police of negative reproductive health outcomes with pos­ si­ble criminality. I argue that in the First Republic, the police force’s dual institutional structure as both a law enforcement agency and administrative organ­ization facilitated the investigation of both criminal and noncriminal reproductive events. Police investigations coincided with lower-­class ­women’s negative health outcomes, and not only fertility control but also pregnancy and birth became possible crimes. Police precincts acted as triage centers, admitting ­women to hospitals during moments of reproductive distress, autopsying infant corpses, and burying bodies all in one stroke of a pen. Gossip, the appearance of an infant cadaver, or the need for burial ser­v ices could all trigger an investigation as poor reproductive health outcomes became entangled in police suspicions of criminality. Police investigations of w ­ omen’s reproductive lives also underscore the police as agents of the expanding field of l­egal medicine, which attracted some of the brightest minds in both the l­egal and medical professions in the early twentieth ­century.5 Although medico-­legal physicians such as Agostinho José de Souza Lima or Afrânio Peixoto discussed and taught the proper way to conduct infanticide autopsies or identify a deflowered hymen, on-­t he-­ground forensic medicine was a messier, flawed version of its paper counterpart, and

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both personal biases and a lack of proper training influenced the ways police implemented forensic medicine in practice.6 The bureaucratic duties that dictated police involvement with ­women’s reproductive lives ­were only one ­factor in the implementation of sexist police practice across the city. Scholars have shown that police criminalization of the poor in republican Rio de Janeiro became a new method of social control over w ­ omen, p ­ eople of color, and immigrants.7 ­Women’s sexuality, including fertility control, became a central focus of the police.8 But the force’s focus extended beyond abortion and infanticide to encompass noncriminal events such as miscarriage and stillbirth. A closer examination of the policing of reproduction provides insight into how gender and racial biases extended beyond the police precincts and jail cells to the streets, hospitals, and homes of the w ­ omen and men involved. By the early Vargas era, the force played a lesser role in the adjudication of health administration, and thus its involvement in ­women’s noncriminal reproductive lives decreased. Yet its turn-­of-­the-­century patriarchal interpretation of ­women’s reproductive lives had successfully created an intrusive policing model ­toward w ­ omen’s bodies. The force considered ­women who did not adhere to patriarchal and racialized definitions of proper gendered be­ hav­ior as inclined t­ oward the practices of abortion and infanticide. The police thus took on the role of the public patriarch, reinscribing gender hierarchies into state bureaucracies, and they played an active role in determining the way society defined and monitored w ­ omen’s reproductive lives. W ­ omen, of course, continued to negotiate ­t hese restrictions.

The Police in Rio de Janeiro The contested reproductive interactions between Cariocas and the police in the early twentieth c­ entury w ­ ere part of a longer history of community-­police relations dating back nearly a c­ entury. Throughout the imperial period, the force acted as a repressive arm of the state, and it focused equal attention on “crimes against public order,” such as capoeira and vagrancy, as it did on enforcing the institution of slavery.9 This oppressive tendency continued in the early republican era, but by the 1910s the city’s police force had gone through a crucial period of institutionalization and professionalization.10 ­These structural reforms ­shaped the ave­nues through which w ­ omen’s reproductive lives came to the police force’s attention.



Policing Pregnancy 159

­ ecause Rio de Janeiro was Brazil’s capital, its police force was directly B subordinated to the federal government, and practices within its jurisdictional bound­a ries set pre­ce­dent for national police procedure.11 The police ­were part of the federal Ministry of Justice (Ministério da Justiça), and the president appointed the city’s chief. The force was then or­ga­nized into several satellite or auxiliary offices (delegacias auxiliaries). Th ­ ese provided direct support to the police chief while si­mul­ta­neously managing specific areas of the force’s citywide duties, such as the medico-­legal (forensic) ser­v ices, staffed by trained physicians.12 The force was further divided into urban and suburban districts or precincts (delegacias), each supervised by a district police chief (delegado). The district police chiefs ­were the highest-­ranking personnel in the precinct, and they oversaw all investigations. All held law degrees and had professional l­egal experience, demonstrating that the exchanges between the district police chiefs and citizens ­were often marked by class (and racial) differences.13 Even the lower-­ranking police deputies (comissários), who interacted most frequently with residents on a daily basis, ­were relatively well-​ educated and received middle-­class wages.14 Despite their education, district police chiefs had ­little practical police training, and most did not plan for a ­career in the police, changing positions frequently.15 Structural inconsistencies ­shaped individual ones. ­Because the Ministry of Justice presided over the force, ­every new president appointed a dif­fer­ent city police chief. He, in turn, assigned new auxiliary and district chiefs, hampering the creation of a coherent and consistent policing model.16 The district chiefs in charge of reproductive health investigations changed frequently, and no precinct investigated alleged fertility control more than o ­ thers. Within this bureaucratic structure, the police had a wide mandate, and the force held dual responsibilities, both providing social ser­v ices and repressing crime. Based on the French system of authoritarian policing, which viewed the police as agents that could both combat crime and perform larger administrative business, the Carioca force engaged in ­matters of statecraft through its civil administrative duties.17 On a citywide level, the chief of police was in charge of the state-­run orphanage, the city’s ­mental institution, and all municipal cemeteries.18 In their respective precincts, district police chiefs oversaw public health inspections, issued letters of admittance to public hospitals, and provided access to burial ser­v ices.19 In regard to reproduction, t­ hese dual responsibilities of both providing social ser­v ices and repressing crime resulted in the force’s arbitration of not only abortion and infanticide but also

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pregnancy and birth.20 The police precincts of Rio de Janeiro, then, performed functions similar to ­t hose of superior levels of justice in other contexts, for instance, the coroner’s court in Ireland and the United States or the criminal courts in Mexico.21 The structural specificities that exposed ­women to excessive police intervention intersected with burgeoning criminological theories of gender and race. Specifically, scientific racism and eugenics influenced the medico-­legal duties of the police. Republican jurists, physicians, and police chiefs embraced positivist criminology, which emphasized the mea­sur­able aspects of scientific data as the main method to combat crime, and the theory became gospel in the city’s policing circles.22 Reformers read and a­ dopted the ideas of famed Italian criminologist Cesare Lombroso and French police officer Alphonse Bertillon, and the police employed positivist criminology to theorize and combat crime based on evolutionary traits.23 As in countries across the region, positivist policing reified a supposed inherent difference between the poor and the rest of society, creating a justification for increased state action.24 ­A fter Vargas’s rise to power in 1930, the new federal government, utilizing the capital as its test site, expanded its use of statistics to combat what it saw as the continued presence of “degenerate” delinquency.25 In practice, however, the police ­were less effective in their efforts to scientifically investigate crime. For example, whereas trained medico-­legal physicians performed all forensic testing, a task for which they followed established protocol and almost always cited inconclusive results, the district police chiefs ­were more subjective in their understandings of forensic science. Moreover, in reproductive-­related investigations, constant bureaucratic delays in the pro­ cessing of medical evidence complicated investigations that relied heavi­ly on forensics for prosecution.26 In one 1936 investigation of an abortion-­related death, the district chief ordered a toxicology exam four times. In his second request to the medico-­legal ser­v ices, he insisted that “the investigation into the true cause of death . . . ​is only waiting for that evidence of absolute value for the criminal investigation.”27 The forensic ser­v ices sent back the results seven months a­ fter the initial request. Both delays in ser­v ices and physicians’ careful forensic practice frustrated the implementation of positivist criminology on the ground. When a ­woman brought her stillborn child to the precinct for burial assistance, the district police chief de­cided w ­ hether to administer the necessary paperwork or to conduct a criminal investigation. District police chiefs acted as



Policing Pregnancy 161

tacit judges on a daily basis, employing their knowledge of the law (and their lack of knowledge about medicine) to decide what might comprise a crime. The twofold nature of police duties is impor­tant when considering that the city’s lower classes relied on police stations for access to public healthcare and the use of municipal burial ser­vices. B ­ ecause poor ­women had to rely on the police for basic ser­vices, their reproductive lives became public. Middle-­and upper-­class ­women’s reproduction remained a familial or private event, for the secrecy inherent in the expanded private space they inhabited allowed private physicians or midwives to discretely address their reproductive lives.28 In contrast, lower-­and working-­class w ­ omen interacted with a police force that e­ ither addressed their health in an administrative manner or turned it into a criminal investigation.

Investigating Reproduction As historical sources, police investigations (136 total) demonstrate how both ­women and the police negotiated patriarchal definitions of sexuality and reproduction on a daily basis. While the police investigated reproductive events over the entirety of the 1890 Penal Code, most investigations occurred between 1900 and 1920, the period in which the police professionalized as a force and developed the practical procedures of their jobs (­Table 7).29 By the 1930s, overt police involvement in reproductive events had declined slightly. Due to a combination of improved police communication and expanded public health ser­v ices in the 1920s and 1930s, the role of the police in adjudicating access to healthcare decreased. For example, Marcos Bretas’s study of the police force’s daily logbooks from seven central police districts (1907–30) demonstrates ­T A B L E   7  ​Number of police investigations

per de­cade, Rio de Janeiro De­cades

Total number of cases

1890–1899

2

1900–1909

45

1910–1919

41

1920–1929

21

1930–1940 Total source: Appendix A.

27 136

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that both requests for hospital admittance letters and registered miscarriages decreased over time; what is more, by 1925 the hospital requests all involved emergency health situations.30 But even in the 1930s, improvements to health infrastructure still fell short of the population’s needs. The majority of Rio de Janeiro’s population remained impoverished, and negative reproductive health outcomes persisted. Whereas hospitals began addressing most miscarriages and stillbirths, the ­police continued to manage some noncriminal reproductive events. And the police still responded to criminal issues, by, for example, raiding abortion clinics or investigating abortion-­related deaths.31 In fact, abortion investigations become more frequent in the 1930s. Top-­down changes to police procedure highlight this increased emphasis on abortion. In 1929, the city’s chief of police conferred upon one district chief, Antonio Augusto de Mattos Mendes, the power to repress abortion across the city. Nevertheless, I have found only one case, an abortion trial, in which Mendes headed the investigation.32 When taken together with a similar 1931 directive to crack down on the illegal practice of medicine, t­ hese documents demonstrate that when the city’s police chief had a specific cause, he put investigative power into the hands of the auxiliary districts or created special task forces to tackle the prob­lem.33 Thus, the force’s heightened interest in combating abortion did not translate into significant changes to police practice across precincts. Most impor­tant, by the Vargas era official suspicion t­oward poor w ­ omen’s reproduction had expanded into other arenas. Health officials, who became first responders in miscarriages or stillbirths, now suspected poor ­women of fertility control. The investigations’ l­egal results demonstrate the extent to which the police confused negative reproductive health outcomes with criminal events. We can divide police investigations involving reproduction into three categories: criminal, including infanticide and maternal death due to abortion; misdemeanors, such as the unlawful burial of a stillbirth; and noncriminal, for example, a miscarriage. The police deemed most of the cases noncriminal, and none went to trial. Sixteen cases (12 ­percent) included evidence of a crime, for example, clear forensic and testimonial proof demonstrated an infanticide, or the force found a live child, but the police chief never identified the responsible person.34 Forty-­seven investigations (34  ­percent) involved cases with ­either inconclusive forensic or non­ex­is­tent physical evidence. ­Legal medicine often was unable to determine ­whether an infant had been a still or live birth; other times, a rumor had initiated the investigation. From the mid-1920s to



Policing Pregnancy 163

the late-1930s, this second subset of inconclusive cases included w ­ omen who died from postabortion infections. Established medical knowledge could not always accurately differentiate between an induced abortion and a miscarriage, and police physicians dutifully noted this accordingly in their forensic reports.35 The most common cases w ­ ere investigations of miscarriages or stillbirths for which t­ here was no criminal evidence. Forensic exams determined seventy-­t hree investigations (54 ­percent) noncriminal.36 This chapter focuses on this last subset. In the end, the public prosecutor never pressed charges. Yet the investigation invited social shame, casting public doubt on the accused ­woman’s sexual morality and public standing. The investigations thus functioned, in the words of Olívia Maria Gomes da Cunha, as permanent “stigmas of dishonor.” As Cunha argues, police identification pro­cesses in relation to minor crimes such as vagrancy in early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro served as pro­cesses of “public humiliation.” While few p ­ eople w ­ ere convicted, “the ‘stigmas of dishonor’ resulted from the transformation of ‘suspected’ illicit activities into a permanent rec­ord.”37 In the same way, police investigations of reproductive events publicly damaged ­women’s reputations within their communities by creating suspicion surrounding their sexual and social honor. The investigations served as what Joanna Pedro calls “pedagogical pro­cesses,” teaching ­women proper modes of be­hav­ior through the shame and humiliation of ­others.38 Public disgrace rather than jail time was the punishment for illicit sexual activities and fertility control.39 The police questioned entire neighborhoods about when a w ­ oman lost her virginity, the details of her marriage, and the circumstances of her delivery. Although public shaming touched all w ­ omen involved, who was the “typical” w ­ oman in t­ hese cases? Police rec­ords ­were often incomplete, so the available data do not always facilitate a ready answer. For all official witnesses, the police noted age, civil status, nationality, occupation, and literacy, but they did not always include skin color (­unless they conducted a forensic exam).40 The police, moreover, often skipped questioning the w ­ oman if she was not the accused party. An investigation against a midwife, for example, could exclude the statement of the female patient, and thus it lacked her identifying information. If the ­woman died, an autopsy reported physical information including age and skin color. From the available police data, however, we can deduce that the majority of the w ­ omen investigated, like Annita Rodrigues at the beginning of this chapter, w ­ ere of darker skin, involved in some form

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­T A B L E   8  ​Color of ­women as percentage of investigations where skin

color was recorded and of census population for Rio de Janeiro Skin Color

Investigations

1890 Census

1940 Census

Branca (white)

41.3

55.8

69.1

Mestiça/cabocla (1890); Parda (1940) (mixed race)

43.5

28.9

18.1

Preta (black)

15.2

15.3

12.5

Amarela (“yellow” or Asian)

—­

—­

0.1

Undeclared

—­

—­

0.2

source: Appendix A; Republica dos Estados Unidos do Brazil, Recenseamento do Districto Federal, 36, 38–39; IBGE, Recenseamento geral do Brasil, 1, 52.

of low-­paying domestic ser­v ice, illiterate, ­under the age of twenty-­five, and evenly divided between coupled and noncoupled status. Of all the identifying f­actors the police annotated, skin color pre­sents the most complicated category to assess. Only 46 of the 136 investigations included the accused w ­ oman’s skin color (from medical exams).41 Forensic reports described 18 w ­ omen as parda; 19 as branca; and 6 as preta.42 Forensic specialists considered 3 w ­ omen as preta in one medical exam and parda in a second.43 While a small sample size, when compared with the racial makeup of the city of Rio de Janeiro in the 1890 and 1940 censuses, t­ hese numbers establish that the ­women involved ­were disproportionately of color (­Table 8).44 Of course, as scholars have shown, serious methodological issues and omissions surrounded the ways in which census takers both defined or left out color and collected data. The definition of the “mixed race” category, for example, changed over time.45 It is clear that Brazilian racial categories varied, and they could be unrepresentative of the population’s ­actual racial makeup. What is impor­tant ­here, however, is that the classifications in ­these investigations implied ­women of color. Skin color correlated with other markers of poverty, including occupation and literacy. The majority of w ­ omen w ­ ere employed e­ ither in domestic ser­v ice (serviços domésticos) or as h ­ ouse­w ives (domésticas).46 The police employed the category doméstica when ­women reportedly did not work outside the home, but in practice the force often used the term to signify ­women engaged in informal wage work as domestic servants. Officials had the tendency to view unofficial female work as nonprofessional and classify it erroneously.47 Thus, the number of domestic servants was prob­ably higher. Occupation was simi-



Policing Pregnancy 165

larly reflected in education level. Of the w ­ omen for whom the police recorded 48 literacy, 57 ­percent w ­ ere illiterate. Most often, historical scholarship has described the “typical” w ­ oman who 49 practiced infanticide or abortion as young and single. What happens when we expand our view to include other noncriminal reproduction events? In ­t hese investigations, the majority of ­women (72 ­percent) ­were young—­under the age of twenty-­four.50 But t­ here was no significant category in regard to ­women’s marital status, and single and coupled w ­ omen (­those with a male partner in their life) appear in equal numbers.51 ­These numbers contradict the high numbers of single ­women who w ­ ere prosecuted for infanticide and abortion explored in Chapter 7. ­Because many of ­these cases ­were not investigating fertility control practices, the profile of the w ­ omen differs. The investigations contained two main components: witness testimony and medico-­legal exams. As we saw in Chapter 5, witnesses w ­ ere often neighbors, ­family members, doctors, and midwives, and testimony was rich in detail but strictly guided by the police, who placed importance on favorable male testimony.52 ­Because the police also investigated noncriminal reproductive events like pregnancy and delivery, men appear in the investigations as distraught f­ athers hoping to bury their stillborn c­ hildren, anxious husbands worried about their wives’ health ­after difficult deliveries, or scurrilous lovers blaming their girlfriends for their sexual improprieties.53 Men’s testimonies come first in the police investigations, and the police placed more emphasis on their words and actions than on ­t hose of any of the ­women involved. The second component was the medico-­legal exam. The precinct chief had the responsibility to request testing, but the physical exam occurred in another location. ­There ­were four principal exams in reproductive-­related investigations. In cases of suspected abortion or infanticide, the police force’s medico-­legal physicians performed pelvic exams on ­women to determine the existence of a recent birth or criminal abortion. ­These ­were termed supposed birth exams (exames de parto suposto) or criminal or provoked abortion exams (exames de aborto criminoso or provocado).54 Police physicians also conducted bodily exams (corpo de delito) on w ­ omen in domestic vio­lence and miscarriage cases to determine w ­ hether abuse had caused the miscarriage.55 Infanticide autopsies (exames de infanticídio) tried to determine ­whether a newborn was a still or live birth and, if the latter, the cause of death.56 Last, medico-­ legal physicians conducted autopsies on ­women who died from postabortion or postpartum complications.57

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Most ­women underwent t­ hese invasive procedures, although forensic specialists’ dry legalese belies their terrorizing effects. The pelvic exam of twenty-­ seven-­year-­old branca Jurema Lindgren de Araújo, explored in Chapter  2, highlights this point. In 1935, the married Araújo had miscarried a fetus of three months gestational age in a maternity hospital; a­ fter, the hospital physicians reported her to the police for an illegal abortion. The forensic exam noted that Araújo had poor nutrition and a “weak physical constitution.”58 When the physicians squeezed her nipples, they expressed milk. Her cervix was “soft” and her abdomen “flaccid.” But ­women w ­ ere not passive victims of overzealous police action. In 1937, for example, the police arrested the unlicensed midwife Odilia Ferreira Villela for operating an illegal gynecological clinic. The patient she had been attending at the time of the arrest, Cecilia Azevedo, refused to undergo a pelvic exam, precluding the police from using her body as physical evidence against her healthcare provider.59 In the investigations, district police chiefs displayed ­legal and medical confusion over reproductive events. Scholars have argued that early twentieth-­ century police forensic practices often confounded abortion with infanticide.60 Clearly, the l­egal and medico-­legal debates over the two crimes created confused guidelines for police practice. But while jurists and medico-­legal physicians conflated abortion and infanticide in their theoretical discussions, police physicians, trained as medical doctors, ­were very clear on the differences. In fact, more common was police officers’ conflation of infanticide and stillbirth—­and not infanticide and abortion. In infanticide cases, the medico-­ legal ser­v ices employed the hydrostatic test (docimasia pulmonar hydrostatica), colloquially known as the ­water test, which analyzes the fetal lungs as a ­whole and in segments to determine w ­ hether the infant had died in utero or ­a fter birth. Established forensic knowledge purported that floating lungs indicated the infant had breathed, and thus it had been born alive.61 The efficacy of the exam is questionable as all pulmonary tissue typically floats (especially if the cadaver is in a state of decomposition), yet courts relied on such tests for prosecution.62 In Rio de Janeiro, medico-­legal specialists w ­ ere careful in their evaluations, and they almost always cited inconclusive results. As Afrânio Peixoto wrote in 1916, when investigating reproductive crimes, the physician’s “skill must be meticulous to not accept nor recuse, without grounds, a hypothesis, which can cover up a crime or incriminate an accident, which often occurs.”63 Police chiefs, often frustrated by the lack of decisive science, used witness testimony to make up for this lacuna in medical data, citing hearsay,



Policing Pregnancy 167

for example, as proof that a stillbirth was an infanticide. In the city’s police precincts, understanding a w ­ oman’s sexual be­hav­ior, and ­whether it fit into proper definitions of womanhood, was unofficially just as impor­tant as scientific “proof.”

“Forcing Its Delivery”: Criminal Births How exactly did the police become involved with poor ­women’s reproductive lives? As Chapter 5 demonstrated, one point of contact between the police and ­women’s reproductive lives was community denunciation; in t­ hese instances, the police initially acted in their criminal enforcement capacity. The 1911 home delivery of sixteen-­year-­old Angelica de Lourdes highlights the police as criminal enforcer. An illiterate w ­ oman of color from northeast Brazil, Lourdes worked as a live-in nanny near the city center. According to her employer, Dr. João Baptista, one morning Lourdes complained of stomach pains and went to her room. Soon ­a fter, the members of the ­house realized that Lourdes was in ­labor, but by the time the midwife arrived, Lourdes had given birth alone, and the infant was dead. The midwife noticed bruising around the child’s neck and mouth, to her the signs of a violent death, and she voiced her suspicions to Baptista, who then notified the authorities. Perhaps the midwife was shielding herself from any pos­si­ble accusation that she had caused the infant’s death. At a time when public health officials ­were attacking the midwifery profession, the midwife may have allied herself with the police to avoid blame. The police interrogated Lourdes in the precinct mere hours ­later. The medico-­legal physicians also performed a pelvic exam, surely exacerbating an already frightening experience. They squeezed her breasts to show they ­were filled with milk. The physician checked the dilation of her cervix and prodded her stomach, citing that “pressure [on the area] was still painful [for the patient].”64 The police also questioned Baptista and the other ­house­hold servants. Lourdes declared that Baptista’s gardener had “violently raped” her nine months e­ arlier; for his part, the gardener acknowledged he was the f­ ather of the child, but he described the sexual encounter in less violent terms. He had “deflowered” Lourdes and planned to marry her.65 Several months a­ fter the rape, Lourdes noticed changes in her body but b ­ ecause “she did not know the signs of pregnancy, she was unaware that she was pregnant.” Other witnesses corroborated this story. The f­ amily’s cook, for example, “was unaware

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that the minor [Lourdes] was pregnant, judging that the growth of her belly was fat.”66 The autopsy (including the w ­ ater test) detailed that the child had been born alive but died soon ­after. The medico-­legal specialists, however, found no evidence of manual strangulation; rather, a skull fracture and subsequent brain hemorrhage caused the infant’s death. During ­labor, Lourdes had grabbed the child’s head to facilitate its delivery: “In the desperation of pain, she guided her hands to the area to grasp the child . . . ​[forcing] its delivery and let[ting] it fall to the floor.”67 Lourdes fainted and only a­ fter she awoke did she notice that the infant was dead. The district chief investigated Lourdes ­because the midwife had suspected infanticide, and a male authority figure, Baptista, brought t­ hose suspicions to the police. But the chief was more understanding in his paternalistic summary remarks: “A young girl from the North, naïve and ignorant, ignored her [pregnant] state, not knowing what was causing the growth of her belly.” He contended that the autopsy’s conclusion precluded the existence of an infanticide. To the chief, the cause of death was “the force made by the impatient girl to ­free herself.” His sympathetic words described Lourdes as a seduced but innocent d ­ aughter in need of protection. Twenty years ­later, in December 1932, a similar case occurred not far from Lourdes’s neighborhood. A ­ fter a garbage collector found a dead infant in the trash, the police investigated. “­After vari­ous diligences,” they questioned the eighteen-­year-­old, live-in domestic servant Maria Augusta, a literate preta mi­grant from the neighboring state of Minas Gerais. The night before, Augusta had unexpectedly delivered a stillborn infant in the bathroom of her employer’s ­house. “With fear of her bosses knowing that she was a ­mother,” she placed the infant in the trash. Like Lourdes, Augusta had denied her pregnancy. She noticed “her belly was slightly larger but . . . ​[ignored] that she was pregnant.”68 Augusta had had sexual intercourse for the first time in Minas Gerais with a man “whose name she ­can’t remember.”69 ­After arriving in Rio, Augusta met a soldier, and the ­couple “had many carnal relations together in the surrounding empty fields.”70 But by the time Augusta gave birth, she had not seen her boyfriend in months. The autopsy (which included the ­water test) concluded that the infant had been born alive and died from manual strangulation (determined by small markings on the infant’s neck) and asphyxiation (determined from trash residuals in the throat). ­There was, however, a delay of several weeks between when the medico-­legal specialists conducted the autopsy and when the pre-



Policing Pregnancy 169

cinct received the report during which Augusta committed suicide by lighting herself on fire. The district chief concluded that “possibly touched by remorse for the crime . . . ​[Augusta] committed suicide, setting fire to her dresses.”71 ­Here, the chief took on the role of irate ­father, projecting his own views of guilt onto Augusta. We do not know if Augusta felt remorse; perhaps she was terrified of her situation and saw death as her only option. Her actions demonstrate an extreme version of the desperate situation many poor ­women of color confronted in the face of an unwanted pregnancy. In the end, the courts prosecuted neither Lourdes nor Augusta for infanticide. The autopsies on both dead newborns concluded that both women had delivered live c­ hildren who had died from somewhat violent means.72 With Lourdes, the police chief empathized with her case—­she stated she was raped and thus had not engaged in “promiscuous” sexual activity freely—­and he believed she did not commit infanticide. He could have, ­after all, charged her with infanticide by omission. Conversely, the police condemned Augusta for her sexual promiscuity, which they believed subsequently marked her as guilty of infanticide. For Augusta, possibly her frank discussion of her sexual history with several men convinced the district chief that the autopsy was indicative of infanticide. Her violent suicide precluded the ability of the police to press charges, but it seems that the prosecutor would have charged Augusta. Through sympathy or condemnation, the criminal arm of the police solidified the Brazilian state’s definition of proper female sexuality on a day-­to-­day basis.

Part of the Urban “Landscape”: Disposing of the Dead In 1912, cemetery employees discovered a second-­trimester fetus outside a municipal cemetery in the northern suburb of Inhaúma. According to the cemetery administrator, the unlawful disposal was a misdemeanor (contravenção) of “municipal cemetery regulations.”73 This was just one of the many cases of discarded fetuses and infant cadavers that littered the streets of early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro.74 Passersby and the police found fetuses on the streets or in parks, washed up on beaches, floating in the Guanabara Bay, in abandoned yards, or in drainage canals. Cariocas abandoned dead newborns in backyards and empty lots. Sometimes they wrapped the infants in newspapers and fabric; other times they dressed the cadavers in carefully prepared baby clothes. The construction of public works and transportation

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lines facilitated the public’s discovery of fetuses and infant cadavers.75 In 1908, for example, employees of a suburban train line found an infant cadaver that had been strangled to death next to the tracks.76 The conductor hypothesized that one of the passengers had thrown the infant from the win­dow of the train car. A de­cade ­later, in 1919, the municipal government contracted the public waste department to construct a landfill in the suburban district of Méier. While working, the immigrant laborers unearthed a stillborn infant.77 In 1920, crew members of the ferryboat Cantaceira found a stillborn infant u ­ nder a first-­class bench during a Niterói–­R io route.78 Similar to the longstanding vis­i­ble practice of child abandonment in colonial and imperial Brazil, abandoned newborn cadavers ­were part of, in the words of Alcileide Cabral do Nascimento, the urban “landscape.”79 The l­ egal responsibility of the police to administer all municipal cemeteries during the republican and Vargas eras guided their response to t­ hese unlawful disposals.80 In administrative terms, the police, and not the public health department or municipal government, issued the required paperwork for burial in a municipal cemetery. But when a city resident discarded a body in the street, even if the death was natu­ral, the force responded as a criminal enforcement agency; ­after all, the unlawful disposal of dead bodies was a misdemeanor ­under the 1890 Penal Code (Article 364).81 If the police determined an abandoned newborn cadaver a stillbirth, the incident was a misdemeanor (as was most often the case). An infanticide, of course, was a more serious criminal ­matter. In my research, I found forty-­nine investigations of the public disposal of a fetus or newborn. Although most occurred in the first two de­cades of the twentieth ­century, the practice continued into the 1930s (­Table 9).82 ­T A B L E   9  ​Number of police investigations

dealing with public disposals of newborns per de­cade, Rio de Janeiro De­cade

Number of investigations

1900–1909

18

1910–1919

18

1920–1929

7

1930–1939 Total source: Appendix A.

6 49



Policing Pregnancy 171

­T A B L E   1 0  ​Abandoned cadavers found in public, Rio de Janeiro,

1891–1906 Year

Adults

Infants

Total

1891

36

5

41

1892

—­

—­

—

1893

—­

—­

—

1894

56

4

60

1895

84

8

92

1896

58

7

65

1897

71

13

84

1898

—­

—­

110a

1899

38

3

41

1900

37

13

50

1901

—­

—­

58a

1902

—­

—­

29a

1903

26

6

32

1904

41

15

56

1905

33

6

39

1906

—­

—­

76a

source: Brasil, Relatorio, junho 1891, Anexo, 11; Relatorio, abril 1895, 64; Relatorio, abril 1896, 73; Relatorio, março 1897, 132; Relatorio, abril 1898, 247–48; Relatorio, março 1899, 77; Relatorio, março 1900, 168; Relatorio, março 1901, 164; Relatorio, março 1902, 84; Relatorio, abril 1903, 81; Relatorio, março 1904, Anexo, 132; Relatorio, março 1905, Anexo G, 184; Relatorio, março 1906, Anexo E, 14; Relatorio, março 1907, 79. note: This includes cadavers abandoned in the streets and t­ hose that washed up on beaches or ­were found in the Guanabara Bay. a The police did not specify w ­ hether the cadavers w ­ ere adult or newborn in 1898, 1901, 1902, and 1906.

Residents of the city did not restrict public disposals to newborn cadavers, and early twentieth-­century police reports demonstrate that the corpses of both adult and newborn cadavers littered the city’s streets (­Table 10). The contrast between the number of reported public disposals and the number of police investigations further shows that the force only investigated a small minority of cases.83 I contend, however, that it is more impor­tant to understand why the police investigated certain cases. Their decisions depended not only on criminality but also on considerations of gender, race, and class. Whereas we can assume individuals disposed of a murdered infant to avoid punishment, why did Cariocas abandon miscarried fetuses or stillborn

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infants, essentially committing a crime to cover up a natu­ral occurrence? Both working-­class residents’ inability to pay for a proper burial and bureaucratic barriers to receiving public assistance influenced residents’ actions. In 1909, for example, the police investigated the case of a fetus found floating in the ocean. The district police chief questioned neighboring residents for the pos­si­ble motive ­behind the unlawful disposal. The witnesses offered the hypothesis that it was “to avoid o ­ rders and burial expenses” or “to hide some fact.”84 Bureaucratic procedure also frustrated Cariocas intent on following the law. In 1908, city residents found a small trunk containing the cadaver of a newborn outside the Municipal Theater (Teatro Municipal), located on the recently constructed Central Ave­nue (Avenida Central)—­the pride and joy of the Pereira Passos reforms (1902–6).85 ­A fter reading about it in the newspaper, the cobbler Antonio Ferreira Campos went to the district police station. His domestic servant Maria Emilia had given birth to a stillborn infant in his home the previous day. As Emilia did not have the “means for its burial,” Campos enlisted the help of a friend, and the two men put the infant in a trunk and went to the police for “­legal ends.”86 At the precinct, Campos showed the cadaver to officials and received the “respective paperwork [guia] for its burial . . . ​[and] they headed for the Public Morgue.” At this point the two men became separated. Although Campos waited at the morgue for several hours, his friend and the trunk never appeared; he apparently had abandoned the package and went home. The forensic exam (which included the ­water test) determined a stillbirth, and the district chief concluded t­ here was no crime. The testimony of the middle-­class Campos, in which he vouched for Emilia, a poor w ­ oman of color, convinced the police chief. Perhaps if Emilia had publicly discarded the infant, the police would not have been so understanding. Her male employer’s testimony influenced the force’s decision to overlook a single w ­ oman of color’s out-­of-­wedlock pregnancy and shielded Emilia from excessive police intervention. The 1906 infanticide investigation of Etelvina de Aguiar further highlights the importance of employer testimony in determining police action. When the eighteen-­year-­old, live-in domestic servant became pregnant, her employers asked her to give birth somewhere ­else. Aguiar returned to work ­after the delivery, but she never adequately explained the absence of her infant to her employers. Soon a­ fter, an anonymous person notified the police that Aguiar had committed infanticide. Initially, the police looked for the infant’s cadaver. The investigation changed course, however, a­ fter Aguiar’s employer Antonio



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Coelho testified. According to Coelho, “lately” Aguiar had not been sleeping in her domestic servant quarters, and she “did not have honest be­hav­ior.”87 The police took heed of Coelho’s words, and they proceeded to question the other witnesses about Aguiar’s be­hav­ior. The investigation switched from determining the possibility of infanticide based on forensic evidence to judging Aguiar’s guilt based on her overall be­hav­ior. Even Aguiar’s partner hoped to avoid pos­si­ble condemnation. Although “he had relations with the indicated [Aguiar] . . . ​t he pregnancy . . . ​came from another man.” H ­ ere, the only other male witness corroborated the employer’s story of Aguiar’s sexual promiscuity. Aguiar’s male employer initiated the “stigmas of dishonor” when he commented that she was not an honest ­woman.88 For Cariocas hoping to avoid burial expenses or contact with the police, home burials provided another extralegal option. Nosy neighbors, nonetheless, often denounced ­these events to the police, and the force responded with a criminal investigation. In 1904, for example, the police received an anonymous denunciation letter. In it, the writer accused the twenty-­four-­year-­old parda Guilhermina Gonçalves de Assis and her common-­law partner (amasio) João Pinto of burying a fetus in the backyard of their building near the city center. The ­couple, in addition to the unlicensed midwife who attended the birth, testified that Assis had delivered a fetus of six-­months gestational age at home. Pinto, unaware of the proper burial procedures, did not believe a stillbirth needed police attention, so he “got a small wooden box and buried [it] in the backyard.”89 Two female neighbors, hinting at what they believed caused the premature delivery, stated that Assis had fallen down a flight of stairs a month ­earlier. The autopsy, employing the w ­ ater test, confirmed the stillbirth. A similar case occurred in 1911. That year, the city’s chief of police received an anonymous letter describing how a soldier had buried a fetus in his backyard. When the police questioned the soldier, Antonio Ferreira de Oliveira, he told authorities that he had been away on assignment for nine days. Upon his return, his wife, in her “excitement,” had had a miscarriage (he used the term desmancho) of a fetus of roughly three-­months gestational age.90 Oliveira then buried the fetal remains in the backyard of their tenement, which, he told the police, he would not have done if the child had been born to term.91 Nevertheless, the police dug up the backyard and sent the fetal remains to their medico-­legal specialists for forensic testing, which confirmed the miscarriage. In police investigations, ­women (and sometimes their partners) often alleged they had miscarried due to falls, physical altercations, heavy loads,

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emotional distress, or even high heels.92 Both Assis and Oliveira, for example, contended that a fall or strong emotion had caused the miscarriage or premature delivery. This confirms the conclusions of other historians of medicine of twentieth-­century Latin Amer­i­ca, who have found that w ­ omen also explained their miscarriages (or abortions) in this manner. W ­ omen linked external physical stress to pregnancy loss, and they subsequently employed this reasoning to avoid criminal repercussions in the case of alleged abortions. But ­women ­were not simply creating excuses. The French medical tradition of puericulture, influential across the hemi­sphere, purported that sudden and traumatic external physical or emotional events weakened the female body—­ inherently inferior to begin with—­and caused miscarriages.93 ­Women could have both understood their pregnancy losses within this medical framework and used t­ hose understandings to avoid prosecution. ­These investigations also demonstrate a familiarity with home burials in the case of miscarriages and stillbirths. I suggest two pos­si­ble reasons for this. Brazilians’ ac­cep­tance of home burials prob­ably came from Portuguese traditions, reinforced by the arrival of Portuguese immigrants from the country’s rural north, which had a long tradition of churchyard and unofficial burials, and where public cemeteries only arrived in the 1920s and 1930s.94 Additionally, early twentieth-­century Cariocas did not necessarily view miscarriages and stillbirths as the grave events we regard them as t­ oday. Whereas high infant mortality rates in the nineteenth c­ entury mitigated the emotional experience of infant death, by the republican era scientific motherhood and eugenics positioned infant life as impor­tant to the country’s ­f uture, and infant death became a somber affair.95 But throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Brazilians of all classes viewed stillbirth as distinct from and less serious than the death of an infant already part of the f­ amily.96 Perhaps this was due to the lay Catholic view of fetuses as ­free of sin (anjinhos).97 Early twentieth-­century home burials of fetuses and stillborn infants underscore this attitude. In a period of continued elevated stillbirth rates, it appears that many Cariocas held a less serious view of stillbirth. They possibly mourned their loss while si­mul­ta­neously believing it did not require police attention.98 What is impor­tant ­here is how and why the law “reclassified” disposals and home burials as administrative and not criminal ­matters. Although forensic evidence and witness testimony dissipated the criminal circumstances in many of ­t hese cases, unlawful disposals ­were still misdemeanors—­any illegal disposal of a body was a crime—­a nd the public prosecutor could have



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charged residents ­under Article 364. Yet I found only five court cases in which the courts prosecuted Cariocas u ­ nder this law. What is more, only two of ­t hose cases suggest that the public prosecutor charged ­women ­under Article 364 ­because they did not have enough evidence to pursue an infanticide case. Both cases also involved ­women of color. In 1912, Leonor Maria da Conceição, a parda live-in cook who was “around” twenty years old, buried her newborn infant in the backyard of her employer’s home.99 Conceição declared the infant was stillborn. Although putrefaction frustrated the police investigation into infanticide, the prosecutor charged her with a misdemeanor. Conceição, however, ran away. A year ­later, the seventeen-­year-­old, preta Benedicta Ramos de Moraes buried her newborn in the backyard of her employer’s h ­ ouse. Like Conceição, Moraes declared it was a stillbirth, and again, like Conceição, the cadaver’s advanced state of decomposition precluded definitive forensic proof. Once more, the prosecutor charged Moraes with a misdemeanor (she was acquitted).100 When the police investigated twenty-­year-­old preta Guilhermina Theresa da Conceição in 1919, forensic testing found that the newborn the live-in cook had discarded in her employer’s wash tank had been born alive; nevertheless, the medico-­legal specialists found no signs of applied vio­lence. But the prosecutor in this instance refused to press charges for ­either infanticide or Article 364.101 ­These cases confound any sort of coherent policing pattern in relation to public disposals or home burials. What they do show is a police force and criminal justice system as racist and patriarchal as they ­were fickle and overworked.

“Suspect Circumstances” and Bureaucratic Births Most Cariocas, of course, did not leave their dead on the street corner, throw the bodies into the Guanabara Bay, or bury them in the Tijuca Forest (Floresta da Tijuca). Rather, residents went through official channels—­t heir local police precinct—to get a death certificate.102 If a licensed doctor did not attend a death (an unlikely occurrence in the early twentieth c­ entury as most births and deaths occurred outside a hospital) and sign an official death certificate (required by federal and municipal law), two “qualified” persons could attest to the death, stating the cause and ­whether it was natu­ral or violent. For stillbirths, the law only required a declaration of the event.103 ­These lawful statements, however, ­were insufficient to bury mortal remains in a public cemetery. For that, one needed a police-­issued death certificate.

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Thus, if the ­mother or ­father of a stillborn infant could not get a signed death certificate from a private physician, they had to go to the police for burial paperwork (guia) and then bring the cadaver to the morgue. A public health official would then issue a death certificate, and residents could receive access to ­free burial ser ­v ices.104 In theory, this pro­cess was an administrative manner, but, in practice, it proved more complicated as police officers, perhaps suspicious of the case at hand, could open a criminal investigation, as happened with Annita Rodrigues.105 In the cases of burial bureaucracy, precinct officers used individual discretion to decide how to proceed. Police investigations involving death certificates demonstrate how the intersection of the police’s administrative duties with urban poverty resulted in the uneven criminalization of reproductive events. A ­woman’s need to obtain written police permission for burial ser­v ices suggests that she did not have the resources or knowledge to pre­sent her own death certificate, which would have bypassed the required police autopsy and pos­si­ble criminal investigation. Marcos Bretas argues that cases in which residents notified their local police district of miscarriages w ­ ere common, but only ones with “suspect circumstances” merited an investigation.106 Of the 115 police notations of ­women’s reproduction I found for the central parishes (freguesias) of Santana and Espírito Santo between 1905 and 1925, 90 involved p ­ eople bringing miscarriages or stillbirths to the police for l­egal help.107 Clearly, the police did not investigate e­ very miscarriage, but t­ hese “suspect circumstances” w ­ ere not necessarily or even exclusively related to ­actual criminality. In fact, they w ­ ere often police misunderstandings about pregnancy and childbirth. For example, district police chiefs frequently cited the presence of physical marks as the reason ­behind their investigation of an unattended homebirth that resulted in a stillbirth, yet ­children naturally have physical marks ­a fter childbirth.108 Police officers’ subjective understanding influenced their decisions. A 1909 investigation of a pos­si­ble infanticide highlights how police officers misunderstood the medical realities of childbirth. When the unnamed married c­ ouple brought their stillborn infant born with a congenital birth defect to the precinct for a death certificate, the police investigated the stillbirth as a pos­si­ble infanticide.109 The district police chief did not take the ­couple’s testimony. He only ordered an autopsy, which established that the infant had celosomia, or a congenital defect “characterized by a fissure or absence of the sternum and ribs and protrusion of the viscera.”110 The physical state of the cadaver, with a large herniation in the thorax through which the abdominal



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organs protruded, was not typical of an infanticide. Perhaps the striking malformation swayed the police into only requiring an autopsy to confirm their leanings.111 The police never questioned the c­ ouple, so we can assume the district chief felt no need to clarify the facts surrounding the delivery. But it is telling that this case came ­under police jurisdiction and not the auspices of the growing public health system. A birth defect became a criminal m ­ atter ­because of police administrative duties; trained in law and not medicine, the district chief did not understand fetal malformations. Other times, the police criminally investigated fetal malformations due to physicians’ insistence. In 1908, for example, Dr. Platão Cavalcanti de Albuquerque denounced a local curiosa for causing a stillbirth. First the midwife, Olympia Francoso dos Santos, and then Albuquerque had examined the unnamed w ­ oman early in her l­abor. Both then left to attend other deliveries as they deemed the ­woman in the initial stages of ­labor. Santos, however, assisted the ­actual birth. To the midwife, the infant was “a phenomenal case, absolutely nonviable, presenting a malformed head, with the eyes and eyelids almost out of their orbits, with warped ears.”112 Albuquerque came to a similar conclusion, albeit in more technical terms, but instead of correctly identifying a nonviable fetus, he believed “that the death of the fetus was due to the use of surgical instruments or at least due to a g­ reat malpractice from manual maneuvers [on the part of the midwife].” He refused to sign the death certificate and notified the police. The supervising police officer, prob­ably unschooled in the markings of congenital birth defects, investigated the midwife for infanticide. The police forensic specialists, nonetheless, supported the midwife’s statement. The autopsy reported the death as “incontestably a teratalogic case” (an abnormality of the fetus caused by environmental or ge­ne­tic ­factors).113 The unnamed female patient had no prob­lem using both a curiosa and a physician and only paying the one who delivered her child, and thus Santos posed a professional threat to Albuquerque’s livelihood as a private physician. This competition negatively affected the practitioner with less social and po­liti­cal power, for the male physician easily harnessed the punitive powers of the police to investigate a midwife who stood in the way of paying clients. The professional conflict between Santos and Albuquerque alerted the police to a “suspicious” delivery. Yet cases in which midwives and physicians worked together and, more impor­tant, followed proper bureaucratic protocol, did not necessarily assuage police suspicion. In 1912, for instance, the police

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investigated the stillbirth of a Portuguese immigrant ­couple.114 ­A fter Maria Innocencia’s ­water broke, her husband, Bernardo Francisco da Silva, a twenty-­ nine-­year-­old illiterate milk vendor, called a licensed midwife. Twenty-­four hours had passed, but Innocencia was still in the early stages of ­labor, so the midwife summoned a doctor. The physician could not discern fetal heartbeats, and he used forceps to extract the infant. Silva brought the stillborn infant as well as an official death certificate signed by the physician to the local police precinct, hoping to avoid expenses.115 Although the death certificate cited a stillbirth, the police investigated the case as an infanticide. An autopsy determined that the child had died due to a prolonged delivery, which had caused a dislocation of the skull and compression of the brain. The medico-­legal ser­ vices failed to mention that ­t hese injuries ­were prob­ably caused postmortem from the use of the physician’s forceps to extract the infant.116 In d ­ oing so, the police would have blamed the licensed physician rather than the working-­ class ­couple.117 Despite Innocencia’s central role to the investigation—­she was the ­woman who conceived, carried, and delivered the infant—­her words are absent from the police rec­ord, an omission, as in the previous case, that hints at a lesser level of official suspicion. The police only questioned the husband, the licensed midwife, and the attending physician. The district chief neither interrogated Innocencia nor required her to undergo a pelvic exam. No neighborhood gossip about an alleged affair punctuated the testimony. ­Because the investigation was not determining Innocencia’s honor, it does not provide any information on her sexual life. When compared to Lourdes’s painful account of rape or Augusta’s description of her sexual history, we are left wondering why the district chief even suspected infanticide. The police could have issued the needed administrative paperwork for burial, as the signed death certificate was in accordance with federal, municipal, and police law.118 Perhaps this police chief distrusted lower-­class Portuguese immigrants. Scholars have demonstrated how the city’s judicial system held lower-­class men and ­women to higher burdens of proof to prove their honor in the public sphere.119 In this sense, the investigation demonstrates that not only poverty but also nationality mitigated cases in which ­women (and their husbands) adhered to patriarchal understandings of female sexual honor. By the early 1930s, the demarcation between police and public health duties was more pronounced, with health ser­v ices taking over many of the administrative duties previously administered by the police. Nevertheless, a 1933



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abortion investigation highlights how public health ser­v ices could increase rather than reduce police suspicion. When fifty-­t hree-­year-­old pardo Eurico Avelino da Fonseca went to the local police precinct for paperwork to bury a miscarried fetus in the municipal cemetery, the district chief sent Fonseca to the public health commissioner for a death certificate. The official, however, refused to sign anything ­because the fetus “had suffered violent maneuvers, with the head detached from the trunk,” and he sent the case back to the police as a pos­si­ble criminal abortion.120 The police questioned the literate Fonseca, who lived “as if married” with thirty-­four-­year-­old parda Maria Carneiro Dias. They then interrogated the semiliterate Dias, who, while coupled with Fonseca, was still officially married to another man. Both the c­ ouple and Dias’s lay midwife (comadre) contended that Dias fell while washing clothes several days before her miscarriage. The public ambulance arrived ­a fter the miscarriage, during which Dias delivered the fetus in pieces. B ­ ecause Dias never expelled the placenta, she l­ater went to a public hospital where doctors extracted the remaining placental tissue. The autopsy concluded that the fetus was macerated (macerado), a spontaneous fetal demise in utero.121 Due to witness testimony, including that of the two male physicians who extracted the placenta and attested to a miscarriage, the district chief concluded that Dias had not provoked an illegal abortion. It is unclear why the health commissioner did not identify maceration, a condition the autopsy clearly identified and one that the Brazilian medical profession had recognized since the mid-­nineteenth ­century.122 Similar to Innocencia and Silva, the police held lower-­class Dias and Fonseca to a higher burden of proof, perhaps more so ­because of their racial background and unmarried status. The cases of Innocencia and Dias (and Isalina Vieira in the Introduction of the book) also beg the question of the medical profession’s role in the policing of reproduction. As we have seen, physicians aligned themselves with first the republican and then the Vargas-­era governments in their harsh condemnation of abortion. They w ­ ere not official state actors (­unless, of course, they ­were forensic physicians), but as Leslie Reagan argues for the United States, “it may be more accurate to think of the state apparatus not as the government, but as consisting of official agencies that work in conjunction with other semiofficial agencies.” At vari­ous times, the medical profession acted “as an arm of the state.”123 In the case of Innocencia, the physician’s presence did not deter police suspicion. For Dias, the health commissioner possibly viewed her as a

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­ oman who had committed abortion. He described both Dias and Fonseca w as persons of color who used public assistance, and the c­ ouple w ­ ere not married. Dias, in fact, was married to someone ­else. The health commissioner’s actions w ­ ere individual manifestations of the medical profession’s suspicion of w ­ omen who practiced fertility control (poor ­women of color in par­tic­u­lar). Moreover, the police never questioned the physician’s invasive procedure that may have caused the death of Innocencia’s infant. The police never investigated the maternity hospital’s negligence in the case of Isalina Vieira ­either. The cases of Innocencia, Dias, and Vieira thus reveal that police officials ­were unwilling to implicate licensed doctors for wrongdoing often because police action depended upon physicians’ cooperation. • • •

In 1914, the police questioned thirty-­t hree-­year-­old single m ­ other Joaquina Felix ­a fter they found a newborn cadaver near her home. The testimony of her male neighbors and f­amily members convinced the force that she was not the infant’s m ­ other.124 The police reacted to a similar case in 1924, when they found an abandoned parda infant in someone’s backyard. Medico-­legal specialists performed a pelvic exam on one w ­ oman who worked in the home where the infant was found, twenty-­t wo-­year-­old preta Ana Israel da Costa. The results showed that Costa had not given birth (in fact, she was menstruating), so the police then performed a pelvic exam on a twenty-­t hree-­year-­old Portuguese immigrant who also lived in the neighborhood, Maria Candida. Candida also had not given birth; she, like Costa, was menstruating.125 Police suspicion of t­ hese ­women—­a mistrust that resulted in social shame and the violation of their bodily integrity—­was not coincidental. The police created a web of suspicion that encompassed poor ­women who fit the ste­reo­t ype of supposed licentious be­hav­ior. The force acted upon preconceived notions of ­women who engaged in fertility control based on patriarchal and racist notions of female sexuality. Being a single ­woman of color employed as a domestic servant who suffered a miscarriage or stillbirth was cause enough for an investigation. And, of course, it was exactly this type of w ­ oman who would have been most likely to give birth alone, without medical attention. The force’s dual roles of crime control and administration facilitated the state’s increased surveillance of w ­ omen’s bodies. Often forced into the role as medical first responder, police officials in Rio de Janeiro investigated poor health outcomes as pos­si­ble crimes committed by the lower classes. But



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i­ nvestigations that on the surface presented clear-­cut cases of abortion or infanticide w ­ ere more complicated events in which the police conflated fertility control with the poverty-­ridden circumstances surrounding pregnancy and birth. In a period when established gender norms ­were in flux, the police, as stand-in patriarchs, worked to consolidate state control over ­women’s reproduction. The police often acted as overzealous ­fathers in their investigative actions, yet they frequently sympathized with the w ­ omen by the end. And although t­ hese ­women escaped judicial punishment, ­others w ­ ere not as lucky.

7

Prosecuting Honor, Defending Madness Abortion and Infanticide in the Courts

I N 1 9 2 3 , T W E N T Y -­F I V E -­Y E A R -­O L D M A R I A D E J E S U S faced the simultaneous charges of abortion and infanticide. Jesus, an illiterate Portuguese immigrant, gave birth in the latrine in the h ­ otel where she worked as a maid. To dispose of the fetus, Jesus cut off its head, threw it into the ­hotel’s backyard, and flushed the body down the toilet. In her room, the police found a knife stained with blood, a pair of scissors, and a capsule containing a red substance. The medico-­legal specialists performed a pelvic exam on Jesus—­ she had recently given birth. The autopsy on the infant’s head described it as full term. Toxicology testing on the knife and scissors established that neither presented traces of ­human blood. The capsule contained iodine, a non-­ abortive substance. Despite the gruesome evidence of her efforts to conceal the infant’s body, the district police chief believed the case lacked the forensic evidence necessary to prove infanticide. The force never found the infant’s body, and thus they could not perform the ­water test on the lungs. He did not mention ­whether Jesus should be charged with abortion. Notwithstanding ­t hese arguments, and the ­legal discrepancies inherent in charging Jesus with abortion, which implied the expulsion of a dead fetus, and infanticide, which required a live birth and then death, the public prosecutor pressed charges on both counts. (Clearly, l­egal prac­ti­tion­ers continued to conflate the two crimes into the late republican period.) In his denunciation, the prosecutor condemned Jesus for her lack of maternal instincts: “The accused, demonstrating not 182



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to possess any vestiges of maternal sentiment, a­ fter provoking an abortion, killed the fruit of her womb, employing direct methods [to practice] her barbarian crime.”1 In response, Jesus’s defense ­lawyers emphasized her confused ­mental state, arguing she had “lost her reasoning” ­after the birth. In the end, however, t­hese arguments w ­ ere moot; the presiding judge pronounced the prosecutor’s indictment without ­legal basis (improcedente)—­t he courts could not si­mul­ta­neously try Jesus for both abortion and infanticide—­and absolved her of all charges. Maria de Jesus’s absolution exemplifies the per­sis­tent gap that existed between the letter of the law codified in the 1890 Penal Code and its application in fertility control ­trials in Rio de Janeiro, and she was just one of many ­women who walked f­ ree from abortion and infanticide charges. This disconnect worked on both theoretical and practical levels. On the w ­ hole, both positivist ­legal understandings of gendered criminal responsibility and medical views on reproduction influenced jurisprudence. Even though jurists wrote the 1890 code as a classical l­egal doctrine that emphasized f­ ree w ­ ill, its application proved more positivist in nature, and vari­ous ­legal actors individualized their assignment of criminal responsibility.2 Positivist ­legal experts did not see infanticide as simply the killing of a newborn child. Rather, the individual circumstances that led the ­woman (or man) to commit the crime ­were more impor­tant than the act itself. Experts used their “objective” examination of ­mental capacity or previous be­hav­ior to define guilt and ascribe responsibility. Positivism allowed the courts to implement restricted access to citizenship by portraying ­women as incapable of rational thought and ­legal responsibility. Medical theories on w ­ omen’s reproduction also influenced the application of the law. The majority of obstetricians believed that all w ­ omen, regardless of class or race, had the possibility of contributing to the Brazilian nation through reproduction and motherhood. If all ­women had the potential to reproduce respectable citizens, then they all held inherent maternal instincts and thus honor, which they could defend in court. The maternal “defense of honor”—­here the dishonor of an out-­of-­wedlock child—­was an explicit part of abortion and infanticide law in the 1890 code. But ­women prosecuted for fertility control had already lost both their sexual honor (through supposed “illicit” sexuality) and their social honor (through their rejection of motherhood). This clause thus played a secondary role in the courts. Rather, public prosecutors and defense ­lawyers employed medical ideas about postpartum hysteria to argue that ­women who practiced fertility control ­were irrational.

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No w ­ oman, ­a fter all, would voluntarily reject motherhood. In this sense, postpartum “madness,” and not the honor clause, was the ­legal path through which even the most “fallen” ­women, regardless of race or class, regained their honor. Positivist ­legal and medical prac­ti­tion­ers viewed abortion and infanticide as irrational decisions, and thus they believed that the state should not punish the perpetrators. Theoretical understandings of gendered responsibility and motherhood intersected with the practical realities of a modernizing justice system and thus ­were only part of judicial leniency in abortion and infanticide ­trials. In practice, ­women escaped punishment through multiple ave­nues. Acquittals for vari­ous crimes w ­ ere common u ­ nder the 1890 code due to systemic inefficiencies; thus, sentencing trends for reproductive crimes ­were part of the courts’ overall inability to uphold the rule of law in the early twentieth ­century. But the ­legal specificities of how the state prosecuted abortion and infanticide cases further decriminalized ­women’s actions. The disconnect for infanticide operated at the level of the jury. When the prosecution brought a charge of infanticide to court, the case always went before a jury, which came to one of two conclusions. Jury members e­ ither found the w ­ oman not guilty, or they acquitted her for acting in an altered ­mental state during the crime. If—as medical and l­egal writing argued—­women’s true nature was maternal, the male public could only comprehend the murder of a child in terms of irrationality. In abortion cases, the public prosecutor decriminalized w ­ omen’s actions by charging the abortion provider and not the ­woman herself. This was partially due, as we ­will see, to the code’s confusing abortion laws.3 Abortion thus was not solely a “­woman’s crime” as scholars have contended.4 The 1890 Penal Code criminalized abortion, infanticide, and child abandonment regardless of gender; while ­women practiced ­t hese acts with more frequency, men also performed abortions, murdered newborns, and abandoned c­ hildren. Both theoretical and practical ­legal caveats had larger implications for ­women’s rights within the shifting par­a meters of a patriarchal society in transition. Although the medical and ­legal professions harshly condemned abortion and infanticide, and the 1890 Penal Code criminalized w ­ omen for ­t hese practices, the positivist application of the law proved more irregular in its understanding of responsibility. Sentencing trends held ­women irresponsible b ­ ecause the law viewed them as hysterical (explic­itly, in infanticide t­ rials, and implicitly, in abortion ones) and thus as juridical ­children with no ­legal



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personhood.5 ­Here, I argue that judicial pre­ce­dence allowed ­women to avoid punishment while maintaining patriarchal state control over definitions of motherhood, sexual honor, and w ­ omen’s rights. Abortion and infanticide jurisprudence in Rio de Janeiro—­marked by aggressive investigations but lenient sentencing practices—­was not specific to time or place. For instance, during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, courts across much of the western world acquitted w ­ omen for infanticide. In France, juries often acquitted ­women due to insufficient forensic evidence or ­because they felt the punishment, the death penalty, was too harsh for the crime.6 In nineteenth-­century ­England and the British Empire, before infanticide became an offense separate from hom­i­cide, judges and juries showed leniency t­ oward ­women as they also faced the death penalty.7 And as western forensic medicine professionalized, physicians introduced the idea of postpartum insanity into court proceedings, frequently to the benefit of the ­mother on trial.8 For w ­ omen found guilty, courts often commuted or reduced 9 their sentences. Historians of late nineteenth-­and early twentieth-­century Latin Amer­ i­ca have argued that honor, written into the very criminal clauses governing the crimes of abortion and infanticide, was the main ave­nue through which ­women escaped guilty verdicts, although in some peripheral areas of the hemi­sphere, it was a less salient argument.10 It is all the more surprising, then, that in Rio de Janeiro, as Brazil’s capital city and center of judicial decision making, neither sexual nor maternal honor ­were the main ­legal arguments in abortion and infanticide ­trials. The case of Rio de Janeiro highlights that lesser-­k nown ­legal tenets based on gendered understandings of criminal responsibility and the female body ­were more impor­tant than honor clauses. Moreover, the specificities of judicial procedure, with juries deciding infanticide cases and judges ruling in abortion t­ rials, demonstrate that l­egal pro­cess was crucial in determining outcome.11 The application of abortion and infanticide law in the courts established the ­legal trend of gendered in­equality and incapacity in criminal legislation, pre­ce­dents Vargas-­era jurists incorporated into modern l­egal codes that remain in force ­today. The letter of the law, its guardians, and the male public condemned ­women for practicing abortion and infanticide, but they s­ topped short of providing them agency for their actions.

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“A Deprivation of the Senses and Intellect”: The Practical Application of Abortion and Infanticide Law Perhaps scholars of Latin Amer­i­ca have focused on honor b ­ ecause the region’s laws have included it in criminal legislation for centuries. As we saw, Brazilian law had incorporated honor clauses in fertility control legislation since the country’s first criminal code in 1830. The law allowed w ­ omen who practiced abortion or infanticide to invoke honor as the motive for the crime and thus face a reduced sentence. By the 1890 code, however, the positivist application of the law, in par­tic­u ­lar notions of ­women’s inherent irrationality, resulted in a more implicit application of differential responsibility. Moreover, the 1890 code regarded some individuals including ­children, the insane, and w ­ omen as “incapable of exercising ­free ­w ill.” The code incorporated the possibility of leniency based on attenuating circumstances, for instance, if a person convinced the courts they had acted “­under coercion.”12 ­These ­legal devices merged with Brazil’s overall judicial emphasis on positivist doctrine, which, by emphasizing the need to “scientifically” understand each case, enhanced the law’s discretionary power; ­lawyers and judges de­cided who held ­legal responsibility based on a consideration of the individual and her environment.13 In infanticide cases, the applied ­legal justification for reduced responsibility was not the honor clause (Article 298§) but Article 27§4, which outlined ­legal responsibility for all crimes: “The following are not criminals: ­Those who are found to be in a state of complete deprivation of the senses and intellect [privação de sentidos e inteligência] in the act of committing the crime.”14 Article 27§4 was a classical ­legal doctrine in that it only exempted a person who had lost the ability to exercise f­ ree ­w ill (or never had it in the first place) from guilt. In theory, all p ­ eople w ­ ere equal before the law and shared equal responsibility to follow it.15 Yet jurists’ application of the article in the Rio de Janeiro courts enforced the positivist ­legal concept that a crime was not an act already written into law. Rather, criminality depended on the accused person, and the law did not hold certain individuals legally responsible.16 Practically, this ­legal loophole allowed w ­ omen found guilty of infanticide but also found to be acting ­under a disturbance of the senses to walk ­free from criminal charges. The defense’s gendered utilization of this clause for acquittals was not specific to infanticide. Scholars have shown that men, for example, relied on Article 27§4 in “crimes of passion” ­trials (where one spouse killed the other)



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in republican Rio de Janeiro.17 Men’s l­awyers linked their arguments to the defense of social honor, which had been marred by their wife’s infidelity. This supported Italian criminologist Enrico Ferri’s positivist l­ egal view that crimes committed due to “socially useful” passions such as honor should be treated differently.18 But some positivist thinkers believed t­ hese acquittals represented a distortion of Ferri’s view b ­ ecause degenerated passions led to this practice.19 Jurist Antônio Bento de Faria argued in the early twentieth ­century, for example, that the clause’s wording was “absurd” and misconstrued the true meaning of the text, constituting “an open door to the most shameful acquittals.”20 In 1930, jurist Antonio José da Costa e Silva criticized the law as “contrary to the needs of social defense” ­because “the most incorrigible recidivisms ­w ill be found among the individuals favored by this attenuating circumstance.”21 But other leading l­egal and medico-­legal specialists held a more nuanced approach ­toward the article, restricting it to cases involving ­women’s biological reproduction. Costa e Silva argued, for instance, that restricted liability (imputabilidade restrita) should be implemented for some psychological states connected to female sexuality, including menstruation, pregnancy, birth, and menopause. Thus, the article was relevant in infanticide cases, and jurists continued to support this interpretation into the 1930s.22 Other medical and ­legal thinkers contended that “puerperal madness” could cause infanticide, but it was a hereditary condition, and thus it did not affect all w ­ omen.23 Medico-­ legal physicians and obstetricians, initially rejecting the connection between “temporary madness” and infanticide, supported the claim by the 1910s. They argued pregnancy could cause psychic changes that led to ­mental prob­lems during childbirth.24 ­Legal scholar Galdino Siquiera posited in 1932, however, that only infanticide honoris causa could be tried u ­ nder Article 27§4, connecting the defense of one’s honor to a momentary loss of reason.25 The l­egal concept of madness was the sole explanation ­behind the “unthinkable deed” of infanticide, which flew in the face of Brazil’s cult of maternity. The courts applied gendered understandings of classical law in a positivist manner, emphasizing w ­ omen’s “inherent” maternal instincts and their reduced intellectual capabilities. This trend upheld the same ideals as the honor clause without relying on it, thus infantilizing ­women by restricting their ­legal responsibility. In contrast to infanticide, w ­ omen escaped punishment in abortion t­ rials due to the law’s unclear wording. Throughout its fifty years, jurists harshly criticized the 1890 code’s section on abortion as “one of the most defective”

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with “inextricable practical doubts.”26 They specifically disparaged the convoluted meanings of Articles 300 and 301. Only the latter mentioned the ­woman’s consent, “the pregnant w ­ oman that voluntarily gets an abortion,” and jurists agreed that ­because Article 301 specifically mentioned that the abortion occurred with the pregnant w ­ oman’s knowledge, Article 300, by default, implied that the abortion occurred without her knowledge.27 Article 301 did not modify the sentence if the ­woman died or if a licensed medical professional performed the abortion, and thus it was not in proportion to the varying (and stricter) sentences of Article 300§1 and §2—­which increased if the procedure was successful and if the ­woman died.28 If the prosecutor wanted a harsher sentence for the practitioner, he had to forgo prosecuting the w ­ oman. Despite ­these key differences, historical scholarship has overlooked the intricacies of the way in which the judicial system implemented abortion law.29 In the only case in which the courts in Rio de Janeiro prosecuted the postabortive ­woman, the prosecution tried the midwife, the ­woman, and her partner ­under the more lenient Article 301, confirming jurists’ discussions.30 Neither jurists commenting on the penal code nor l­awyers prosecuting abortion mentioned that most ­women purposefully tried to terminate their pregnancies. Abortion law implicitly created the figure of an innocent ­woman who fell prey to seduction, first into premarital sex by an unwitting suitor and then into undergoing an abortion by a conniving doctor or “superstitious” midwife. Thus, as with infanticide, the prosecution of abortion reinforced the infantilizing tendency of criminal law, and the honor clause was irrelevant ­because the state did not prosecute w ­ omen. The judicial system did not try ­women as responsible adults in infanticide ­trials or even prosecute them in abortion cases, reinforcing the idea that all ­women, as inherently maternal beings, had social honor through their potential roles as ­mothers. In this way, the prosecution of abortion and infanticide in early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro presaged l­ater debates over abortion rights, which have focused on ­women as victims in Brazil—­and across the Amer­i­cas.31 Current-­day rhe­toric that defines ­women who undergo abortions as helpless victims exempt from punishment demonstrates the consolidation of this narrative.

Judicial Outcomes The cases’ l­egal outcomes further demonstrate how criminal law treated ­women as second-­class citizens. The twenty infanticide cases ranged from



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1892 to 1930, although the majority (sixteen) occurred between 1900 and 1915. The twelve abortion cases occurred between 1913 and 1939, with the majority (eight) prosecuted ­after 1925.32 If we combine ­t hese court cases with the police investigations examined in Chapter 6, we again see increased judicial attention t­ oward abortion over time. Due to the continuation of high poverty rates and lack of access to contraception in par­tic­u ­lar and healthcare in general, however, infanticide continued to occur into the late twentieth c­ entury across Brazil.33 What ­were the ­legal outcomes in infanticide ­trials? Nine of the infanticide cases never made it to trial due to vari­ous bureaucratic delays or procedural mis­haps.34 Of the eleven cases that went to trial, the jury found the ­woman not guilty of committing infanticide in four cases.35 In five cases, the jury found the ­woman guilty of infanticide but absolved her for acting in a mentally altered state.36 The jury found the ­woman guilty of infanticide and not acting in a mentally altered state in only two ­trials. In both cases, the prosecutor charged the ­women ­under the honor clause (Article 298§) and asked for the minimum sentence (three years in prison). Seventeen-­year-­old parda Helena Teixeira Pinto served her full time.37 Maria de Lima, a twenty-­year-­old indigenous w ­ oman (india) from the state of Mato Grosso, died from pneumonia in the prison’s infirmary before completing her sentence.38 If we compare this trend to the twenty-­five infanticide cases de­cided by a judge that Kristin Ruggiero examines for late nineteenth-­century Buenos Aires, we see the importance of a jury in deciding ­women’s innocence; Ruggiero found that the judge ­ ere less convicted w ­ omen in twenty instances.39 It appears l­ egal prac­ti­tion­ers w willing than juries to absolve ­women of murdering their newborn c­ hildren. How do the l­ egal outcomes of infanticide cases compare to abortion t­ rials, which, except for one, went before a judge and not a jury?40 Of the eleven judge-­decided abortion cases, most ­were found improcedente ­because inconclusive forensic evidence never distinguished between a miscarriage and a provoked abortion.41 The courts closed one case a­ fter lengthy bureaucratic delays, and the judge never deliberated on a sentence.42 For the ten that received judicial sentences, the judge de­cided seven ­were improcedente and absolved the provider in an eighth case.43 Judges found only two providers guilty, and of t­ hose, one was eventually de facto acquitted ­after the statute of limitations expired.44 In the second guilty decision, the midwife appealed, and the appellate court issued a stay on the sentence; the courts closed the case nine years ­later due to bureaucratic delay.45 In the only jury trial for an abortion-­related

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charge, the jury found the two midwives not guilty in both the original and appeals trial.46 Undoubtedly, bureaucratic delay played a central role in criminal ­trials, working in f­ avor of accused w ­ omen and abortion providers. Republican Brazil hoped to erase its history of slavery and monarchic rule by modernizing its ­legal system, but overworked and understaffed courts often frustrated this goal, and high rates of acquittals ­were common for all crimes.47 But the actions of witnesses in fertility control t­ rials also stymied the courts. In almost all cases, at least one witness acted in contempt of court. While it is tempting to read ­these absences as popu­lar re­sis­tance ­toward elite ­legal control, a more plausible explanation lies in witnesses’ ­limited time and resources.48 When the police lacked the l­egal number of witnesses, for instance, they often forced neighbors to testify. Perhaps when an officer wrangled Jane Doe (Fulana de tal) into the neighboring precinct, she had no knowledge of her neighbor’s supposed abortion and had to work as a laundress the day of her court testimony. Her absence in court was less an act of concerted re­sis­tance than one of daily life. This hypothesis holds up when we consider the actions of other court attendees such as jurors. In the 1910 trial of Joaquina Gonçalves, her defense ­lawyer complained that Gonçalves had presented herself in court four days in a row for sentencing, but the required number of jury members had not appeared, so the judge repeatedly postponed the trial.49 Surely the jurors ­were not actively resisting the judicial system to assist a ­woman they had never met. In fact, judicial officials themselves caused prob­lems. In the 1937 trial of Ondina Constantino Neves, in which the prosecutor charged her for operating an illegal gynecological clinic, the three main witnesses—­t he police officers who stormed the clinic and arrested her—­repeatedly failed to testify in the trial, causing a delay of three months.50 By the time the case appeared before a judge, the statute of limitations had expired. This contempt of court even reached the level of the prosecutor. In Gonçalves’s trial, for instance, the prosecutor himself failed to appear in court the day of the jury decision.51 Rio de Janeiro’s criminal justice system did not have a sufficient number of employees to adequately perform the courts’ daily tasks.52 Bureaucratic delays hampered the law’s own crusade against fertility control, making the police investigation and public shaming its most invasive aspect. As in police investigations, ­women actively negotiated shortcomings in court procedures. Their actions show the “re­sis­tance” that scholars have pinpointed for other, more mundane, events. In court cases, for example, ­women



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evaded punishment by disappearing. In an 1892 infanticide trial, the presiding judge issued an arrest warrant for Celina de Souza, but the police never found her. Souza had told her neighbors that “if the police w ­ ere to arrest her, she 53 would flee.” It seems she did just that. When Isolina Ribeiro de Aguiar was brought to trial for infanticide in 1900, she ran away with her young child.54 In abortion ­trials, ­women also vanished, even though they ­were not the accused party.55 Their absence, however, hints at their unwillingness to witness the public trial of their personal reproductive lives.

Who Was Brought to Court for Fertility Control? Scholars have lumped together ­women who practiced abortion and infanticide in Brazil.56 A careful examination, however, demonstrates a difference between w ­ omen accused of infanticide and t­ hose who sought out abortions. While working-­and middle-­class w ­ omen had access to abortion, infanticide remained the recourse of the extremely poor; in other words, it was a function of poverty. I found that ­women brought to trial for infanticide ­were most likely to be young, nonwhite, and illiterate.57 They w ­ ere overwhelmingly employed as live-in domestic servants and had migrated or immigrated to the city. Most ­were single, thus extramarital relations, ­whether through consensual sex or rape, ­were common. Four of the ­women had ­children, ­either living with them or not. Two more had ­children who had died, one from neonatal tetanus, and the second allegedly killed by the w ­ oman’s former employer.58 Despite their previous pregnancies, many of t­ hese w ­ omen e­ ither subconsciously or consciously denied their pregnancies and hid their deliveries, a trend scholars have found for Argentina and Ireland during the same time period.59 My findings thus stand in contrast to what other historians have contended for Brazil. Joanna Pedro argues that in twentieth-­century Florianópolis, single ­women did not participate in married ­women’s “webs of solidarity,” where they exchanged information on contraception and abortion, and thus they committed infanticide as “an effort of last resort.”60 In the cases I examined, single w ­ omen, especially domestic servants without a familial network, also ­were unable to share in abortion knowledge. But ­women’s lack of knowledge about their bodies and their pregnancies most often resulted in infanticide as the first method ­women employed to control their fertility—­not the last. Was t­ here a difference between ­women brought to trial for infanticide and ­women who sought out abortions? The s­ imple answer is yes, although the

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small number of judicial cases does not allow us to extend ­t hese comparisons beyond the ­women studied ­here. ­Women involved in abortion cases ­were also young and single, and three ­women mentioned they had ­children. But they ­were more likely to be white and literate. ­These ­women also needed to work for their survival, but in professions such as actress, bank teller, teacher, and dancer.61 ­Women in abortion cases actively acknowledged they ­were pregnant. They also had the financial resources to pay for an abortion and the social network to access this knowledge.62 In 1931, for example, the courts prosecuted two abortion providers for performing a procedure on branca Lia Navarro. The twenty-­year-­old Navarro had obtained an abortion for financial reasons, “predicting the difficulties that she would . . . ​have a­ fter having a child, she sought to f­ ree herself, no ­matter the cost.”63 She first sought out a physician who charged her 200$000 milréis of which she paid half as a deposit. This was something well beyond most working ­women’s salaries, as Navarro’s initial payment was nearly ten times the monthly price of foodstuffs for that year, making the entire abortion twenty times that cost.64 Compare Navarro’s situation to that of eighteen-­year-­old preta Emilia Faustina. In 1903, Faustina was earning only 8$000 milréis monthly as a live-in domestic servant when she committed infanticide. More impor­tant, she had not received her salary for several months.65 In 1930, Faustina’s salary, adjusted for inflation, would have been a ­little over 33$000 milréis, making the abortion nearly six times her monthly wages.66

“The Minimum Sense of Maternal Love”: Prosecuting Honor Although social class divided the practice of abortion and infanticide, jurisprudence for both crimes ultimately allowed all ­women, regardless of class or color, to escape punishment. The criminal justice system’s control over ­women’s errant actions made it another realm in which an expanding state took over the role of f­ amily patriarch. But dif­fer­ent l­egal actors enforced the judicial par­ameters of patriarchy to varying degrees. Perhaps unsurprisingly, prosecutors w ­ ere harshest in their condemnation of the crimes. A ­ fter all, they represented state interests, and the burden of proof lay on their shoulders. In infanticide t­ rials, prosecutorial action vacillated between a rhetorical underscoring of ­women’s aberrant nature and a ­legal use of the honor clause to



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ameliorate culpability.67 In this sense, the prosecution of infanticide ­under the 1890 Penal Code incorporated both Brazil’s deeply ingrained colonial Catholic view on sexuality, which condemned the extramarital relations that led to the practices, and a twentieth-­century emphasis on the brutality of the crime itself.68 Prosecutorial teams ­were undecided over ­whether ­women should be punished for sexual misconduct or for the murder of their child. In line with this shifting position, the prosecution relied on the honor clause (Article 298§) in eight of the eleven cases that went to trial, and they almost always asked for the medium prison sentence.69 The justice system wanted to prosecute the crime of infanticide, just not too severely. Prosecutorial teams’ utilization of the honor clause often coexisted with a condemnation of infanticidal w ­ omen’s “aberrant” nature. For example, in 1908 the twenty-­seven-­year-­old illiterate Portuguese immigrant Gloria Lourenço da Silva confessed to decapitating and dismembering her newborn child (Image 13). In response, both the police chief and the public prosecutor condemned her lack of maternal instincts. The district police chief claimed Silva possessed “bestial feelings . . . ​presenting to the world the type of ­mother that mercilessly strangles and hacks [to pieces] the body of their own child.”70 The prosecutor reiterated ­t hese words, arguing that Silva demonstrated “an unforeseen ferocity.” The defense countered t­hese words with its own witnesses, who testified that Silva demonstrated “maternal instincts” when caring for their own ­children, “for whom she had ­great fondness,” and she had been a dedicated ­daughter, taking care of her ­father in Portugal ­until his death. In Rio de Janeiro, Silva lived with her b ­ rothers, who had exerted patriarchal control over her life. She considered her eldest ­brother “like a ­father” and further mentioned that she only went out into the streets on Sunday to buy provisions. More impor­tant than Silva’s own words, however, w ­ ere her ­brothers’ testimonies. They stated that she stayed at home and took care of the ­house, putting themselves in the role of patriarchal protector. Silva had become pregnant in Portugal, and thus she was not ­under her b ­ rothers’ watch when she had strayed. Her argument that she had acted out of shame—­she wanted her ­brothers to think that she was still a virgin (donzela)—­influenced the prosecutor, who charged her ­under the honor clause. But he also charged Lourenço with aggravating circumstances (Article 39§5, §9) to give her the maximum prison sentence, nine years.71 The prosecutor was convinced both of Silva’s violent nature and of her feelings of shame.

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I M AG E 13  ​Location where Gloria Lourenço da Silva disposed of her newborn’s

head

source: (AN) CA.CT4.492 (1908).

But the prosecution denied some ­women the right to sexual honor, seemingly without much reason. Of the three w ­ omen who ­were not prosecuted ­under the honor clause, two ­were single and one was married. In ­t hese cases, the prosecution focused solely on their “depraved” nature. In May 1892, for example, eighteen-­year-­old Celina de Souza—­a parda domestic servant from the rural interior of the state—­gave birth to an infant boy alone in a tenement



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in the city center. Souza declared that the infant was stillborn, but the German midwife who removed the retained placenta believed that the newborn presented with bruising and scratching around the neck. She, along with Souza’s common-­law partner, José Ferreira da Silva Lima, reported the alleged crime to the police. Souza already had two ­children with Lima, but the child she had just delivered was not his. The police autopsy determined the cause of death as strangulation, and the prosecutor charged Souza with infanticide without the honor clause, arguing that the infant “had been assassinated by this cruel, barbarous and inhumane ­woman, who robbed the life of her own newborn son.”72 In the 1910 infanticide case of married Joaquina Gonçalves, both the district police chief and the public prosecutor refuted Gonçalves’s claim to honor. To the district police chief, Gonçalves had “not only ­v iolated the laws of society but also [­v iolated] the sacred laws of nature.”73 The prosecutor, contending Gonçalves “[did not] possess the minimum sense of maternal love,” prosecuted her without the honor clause. While honor influenced how the state chose to prosecute infanticide, it played a lesser role in abortion t­ rials. To be sure, the prosecution viewed ­women who sought out abortions as acting to hide their dishonor, but prosecutors sympathized with ­women’s plight by prosecuting the abortion provider. Its prosecution of providers demonstrated that ­women should be protected and educated, not condemned. Both the police and prosecutors underscored ­women’s relative poverty and inferior intellectual capabilities as the reason not to prosecute. The state still condemned abortion through the criminalization of its prac­ti­tion­ers, but its emphasis on the helplessness of the ­women who sought the procedure painted w ­ omen as juridical c­ hildren, incapable of 74 ­legal responsibility. The abortion cases in which “honor” explic­itly made it into the court rec­ ords involved both deflowering and abortion, yet even then, the prosecution only relied on implicit notions of lost honor.75 In 1914, for example, Paulo Ferreira das Chagas deflowered his eighteen-­year-­old cousin Maria Ferreira da Mendonça and then persuaded her to get an abortion.76 Chagas had promised to marry Mendonça before he took her virginity, but when she became pregnant he forced her to take Pulsatilla, a plant that ­causes contractions, a­ fter which she miscarried the fetus.77 For his part, Chagas denied he had had sexual relations with Mendonça, arguing that he had been sleeping in Mendonça’s home at the behest of her traveling f­ather, who had given Chagas the task of guarding his ­family from the dangers of the street. It was Chagas himself, nonetheless, who

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proved most dangerous to the ­family’s honor within the home. The courts, in prosecuting Chagas and not Mendonça, took over the role of patriarchal protector where her ­father failed. In the only abortion case in which the prosecution charged the ­woman, the widowed twenty-­seven-­year-­old Alcinda Ferreira de Souza, he did not employ the honor clause.78 Apparently, her status as a ­w idow did not confer upon her the same access to honor as a virgin. By bringing her to trial, the prosecution gave Souza more juridical responsibility, as it treated her as a ­woman who had actively sought out an abortion. Most often, however, the prosecution condemned abortion without accusing the ­woman. The courts positioned ­women as irrational actors by placing all ­legal responsibility on the abortion provider.79 One consequence of the prosecution of abortion providers was the creation of an environment in which medical prac­ti­tion­ers refused to help w ­ omen presenting with postabortion complications for fear of ­legal reprisal.80 In 1913, for example, the nineteen-­year-­old Portuguese immigrant Odilia da Conceição found herself pregnant.81 She went to a physician who inserted a rubber probe into her cervix to cause contractions, and she l­ater aborted. Conceição then fell ill from an infection, so she went to two other physicians for medical care. The first refused to see her, and the second treated Conceição only a­ fter she first reported the crime to the police. Although Conceição survived the botched procedure, physicians’ fear of pos­si­ble ­legal repercussions meant she only received the necessary medical care once the judicial system had become involved.

“The Psychic Sufferings That the Poor Girl Suffered”: Defending Madness Whereas the prosecution in infanticide ­trials most often employed the honor clause, defense teams relied on the l­egal concept of temporary postpartum insanity.82 ­These arguments, nonetheless, reinforced the same under­lying argument about ­women’s irrationality and, ultimately, civil personhood. When defense l­awyers argued that their clients had committed infanticide due to postpartum madness, and thus had no ­legal responsibility (Article 27§4), they infantilized w ­ omen u ­ nder the protection of a patriarchal l­egal system. Moreover, temporary insanity defenses further cemented the idea that w ­ omen w ­ ere inherently motherly as no ­woman “in her right mind” would kill her own



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child. Paradoxically, this created the rhetorical space for ­women to retain their social honor through their identities as ­mothers even as they actively rejected that role. Defense l­awyers w ­ ere both public and private actors depending on the financial circumstances and age of the accused ­woman. With the passage of the 1890 Penal Code, f­ ree public defense became enshrined, at least on paper, within Rio de Janeiro’s criminal justice system.83 In the 1915 trial of twenty-­ one-­year-­old Claudina Faria, in which she abandoned her two-­month-­old infant in a wooded area, Faria received ­free ­legal aid “for being poor and miserable [pobre e miserável].”84 But its application occurred in fits and starts. ­Until 1930, however, when ­free l­egal aid became an obligation enforced through fines, the system was ad hoc and based on the goodwill of practicing ­lawyers. And it was not u ­ ntil 1934 that Vargas protected the right to f­ ree ­legal defense in the Constitution.85 But other laws governed the provision of l­ egal repre­sen­ta­tion. If the w ­ oman was a minor (­under the age of twenty-­one at the time of the crime), she automatically received a special state defense attorney (curador).86 Although both minors and adult poor defendants had been guaranteed a defense l­awyer in Rio de Janeiro since 1890, it is difficult to determine how many poor adult ­women accessed f­ree ser­v ices. In infanticide cases, most w ­ omen over the age of twenty-­one in infanticide ­trials had defense ­lawyers, but it is unclear ­whether t­ hese ­women—­mostly illiterate and impoverished—­hired their defense teams or the l­ awyers w ­ ere working pro bono. ­W hether a state-­appointed curador for a minor, a private attorney, or a public defense l­awyer acting out of charity, defense teams relied on the “deprivation of the senses” clause (Article 27§4) to convince juries to acquit their clients. In d ­ oing so, they reinforced both the positivist idea that w ­ omen who practiced infanticide lacked ­free ­w ill during the crime and the patriarchal ­legal understanding that w ­ omen did not hold juridical responsibility and l­ egal personhood. In twenty-­six-­year-­old preta Laura Sobral’s 1902 infanticide trial, for example, her ­lawyer declared that Sobral should be tried ­under Article 27§4. Sobral had lost consciousness during the birth, and when she awoke, she found the dead infant next to her. Her attorney argued that she “was . . . ​unable to provide aid to the newborn, b ­ ecause she was alone and ‘out of her right mind’ [fora de sua razão].”87 The defense l­ awyer in the 1908 infanticide case of Gloria Lourenço da Silva had the difficult position of defending a ­woman who had allegedly decapitated

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and dismembered her newborn infant. Her l­awyer contended that Silva only mutilated the infant ­after its death when she acted ­under “a complete perturbation, or even, a privation of the senses and intellect.”88 He argued that Silva’s past be­hav­ior, in which she showed affection for c­ hildren, demonstrated she was not a born criminal, and thus she did not “voluntarily and consciously practice such a violent crime.” Silva was a w ­ oman possessing a childlike nature—­one who had succumbed to irrational be­hav­ior in a specific moment. She still held the natu­ral maternal instincts inherent to all w ­ omen. ­Because Article 27§4 defined irresponsibility as a temporary state, defense ­lawyers’ emphasis on the momentary was crucial. In fact, juries rejected ­legal arguments that purported permanent states of ­mental instability and subsequent criminal irresponsibility. In 1915, the curador of the india Maria de Lima asked the jury to recognize that Lima, “due to the imbecility of a native” (por imbecilidade de nativa), was unable to hold criminal responsibility.89 The jury rejected this reasoning, convicting Lima of infanticide. While the defense could have been referring to a “native” or inherent state, the preposition “of” (de) makes it more likely he was referring to Lima’s indigenous background. It seems juries ­were more likely to agree with temporary insanity pleas than with the idea of innate or permanent states of irresponsibility, even when linked to racist ideologies. A ­ fter all, the country’s civil code explic­itly defined “savages” as incapable of legal responsibility.90 The jury, however, remained unconvinced. The prosecution tried, to some degree, to preempt t­ hese tactics. For example, the police chief asked the medico-­legal specialists who conducted a pelvic exam on Laura Sobral ­whether or not a ­woman, immediately a­ fter giving birth, could enter into a “­mental state” in which she unconsciously killed her child. The specialists replied that a ­woman “could never be in a state of unconsciousness to the point of being able to practice [such] vio­lence.”91 The jury disagreed, however, and acquitted Sobral. In fact, most members of the ­legal and medical professions as well as the public at large believed in a connection between irrationality and fertility control.92 In the 1930 infanticide trial of Jovelina Pereira dos Santos, explored in Chapter 1, for instance, the police chief questioned Santos’s ex-­employer about the crime. A ­ fter the crime, Santos had “responded to the questions that w ­ ere asked of her disconnectedly, seeming to have, then, lost her use of reason [perdido o uso da razão].”93 To preempt any prob­lems with ­a woman making this testimony, the police chief added that “the female employer was of a calm manner [genio calmo].”



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It is unsurprising, then, that the association between momentary lapses of reason and fertility control was not exclusive to infanticide. We see this in one 1926 abortion complaint. In a petition to a judge, João Morrot accused a midwife of performing an abortion on his estranged wife, Idalina Faria Morrot. João Morrot’s ­lawyer argued that the abortion had mentally disturbed Idalina and caused her to legally separate from her husband. The petition, moreover, purported that abortion caused psychological prob­lems in all ­women but particularly married ones. In this reasoning, married ­women ­were supposed to have c­ hildren, and abortion went against this “natu­ral” order. The l­ awyer concluded that João “attributes his wife’s current state of ­mental anarchy to the artificial and premature expulsion of that fetus.”94 João and his male ­lawyer associated abortion with hysteria, and their argument underscored the popu­ lar medical idea that pregnancy and birth could alter a ­woman’s already fragile psychological state and that any intervention in ­women’s genital organs could produce ­mental prob­lems.95 By connecting fertility control to temporary bouts of ­mental illness, ­legal practice reinforced the idea that ­women ­were temporarily irrational when they de­cided to impede their fertility, further naturalizing their supposedly inherent maternal nature.

“For Fear of Being Fired”: Understanding ­ Women’s Decisions Often hidden in dense ­legal codes, scripted jail­house confessions, and formal courtroom strategies are ­women’s own understandings and subjectivities. When accused of infanticide or abortion, how did w ­ omen discuss their alleged crimes? Did their reasoning coincide with or contradict the justice system’s ­legal rhe­toric and practical strategies? ­Women in both abortion and infanticide cases explic­itly emphasized the dishonor of an out-­of-­wedlock child. This fell in line with the letter of the law—­t he honor clause. In infanticide cases ­women also mention experiencing momentary losses of reason, supporting defense strategies. Yet the financial hardship of raising a child underlies both abortion and infanticide t­ rials. W ­ hether a poor domestic servant or a middle-­class dancer, many of ­t hese ­women frequently mentioned the fear of losing their job or the inability to provide for existing c­ hildren. L ­ egal prac­ ti­tion­ers, however, never included explicit economic reasoning, showing an unwillingness to acknowledge w ­ omen’s perhaps logical responses to structural inequalities.

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In infanticide cases, ­women explained their actions in three stages. ­Women first denied their pregnancies and insisted that the delivery of their child had been a complete surprise.96 In 1907, for example, eighteen-­year-­old preta Delmira Maria da Conceição “denied that she was pregnant,” even though her employers noticed her growing abdomen.97 Second, w ­ omen contended that the child had been stillborn or had died immediately a­ fter birth from natu­ral ­causes.98 In 1930, Jovelina Pereira dos Santos told the police her child had died immediately ­after birth, and “she did not do anything that could have caused the infant’s death.”99 But, third, w ­ omen also claimed that they had acted in a temporary “deprivation of the senses.” Emilia Faustina testified to the police in 1903 that when she buried her child alive, she had “lost all reason.”100 Some ­women specifically mentioned how shock and pain had influenced their ­mental state.101 The fact that most w ­ omen stated this to the police before they had been assigned l­awyers suggests that perhaps they felt that was the case. While most ­women relied on ­these three strategies to deny infanticide, they defended their subsequent actions of mutilation or public disposal in terms of shame and dishonor.102 Gloria Lourenço da Silva had acted in “fear and shame of her ­brothers” when she cut her newborn into pieces and threw the head into the neighboring yard.103 Joaquina Gonçalves hid her dead newborn from her neighbors and husband b ­ ecause “she was ashamed.”104 In 1915, Maria de Lima never notified the child’s ­father—­the son of a neighboring “Baron” (Barão)—­t hat she was pregnant b ­ ecause she was “embarrassed and ­because she knew the distance that separated him from the declarant [Lima], distance, that is, of [social] position.”105 ­Women in abortion cases also mentioned shame. In the 1935 abortion trial of Alcinda Ferreira de Souza (the only one in which the state prosecuted the ­woman, along with the midwife and Souza’s partner), Souza felt an illegitimate child would have brought dishonor to her ­family: “In the face of her civil status [widowed], she could not conceive a child as such an action would cause a scandal and sadness for her parents.”106 Abortion cases, more prevalent in the 1920s and 1930s, demonstrate that notions of impropriety surrounding w ­ omen’s out-­of-­wedlock sexual relations continued into the Vargas era. Despite the prominent role honor and shame played in both written law and ­women’s verbal reasoning, poverty remained a power­f ul impetus ­behind infanticide and abortion. Yet neither w ­ omen nor the judicial system placed much emphasis on economic reasons. Perhaps ­women did not understand or articulate impoverishment as a legitimate excuse. Thus, ­women knowingly



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put forth the argument that the justice system would most likely accept—­ shame or madness. A lack of resources, time, or emotional capacity w ­ ere null reasons when maternity was naturalized. Conversely, the police questioners and judges who took down witness testimony may not have asked about or recorded mentions of economic influences. While w ­ omen did not explic­itly remark on their economic vulnerability, a careful reading of the cases underscores how low wages, job instability, and sexual vio­lence influenced ­women’s actions, particularly for domestic servants. Sandra Lauderdale Graham argues that live-in domestic servants blurred the division between private and public on which turn-­of-­the-­century urban Brazilian society was based. The feminine space of the ­house represented safety and privacy; the masculine street, on the other hand, signified danger and disease. For employers, domestic servants brought the “dangers” of the street into the home.107 Yet, as Graham argues, ­these divisions “quickly dissolve into less tidy, more complex, and more illuminating zones of action, strategy, or negotiation.”108 Infanticides that occurred within the home of a domestic servant’s employer represent this muddled status. The home represented danger and (sexual) vio­lence for the poor w ­ omen of color who labored informally inside its doors. Although their employers, neighbors, and the law viewed domestic servants as sexually promiscuous whenever they left the home, they often faced sexual vio­lence inside the home.109 In this way, sexual relations before marriage, seen as a danger of the street, often occurred violently in the home, perpetrated by the very men tasked with defending this private realm. This division also blurred for employers. Infanticide t­ rials exposed the inner privacies of their homes to their neighbors and the city at large as newspapers lasciviously covered the crimes.110 In 1904, for example, a­ fter twenty-­four-­ year-­old preta Olivia Nogueira da Gama stabbed her newborn infant in the neck in the home where she worked as a live-in domestic servant, the Jornal do Brasil printed the following headline: “Murderous ­mother. Heinous crime. An imposter who kills. Degenerate. Five Ax Strikes. Strangulation. The discovery of the crime on the Rua da Luz. Delirious.”111 This certainly brought unwanted attention to Gama’s employer. Whole neighborhoods became aware of the crime, and a f­amily’s social reputation was jeopardized.112 For both domestic servants and their employers, sexual vio­lence and infanticide tore down the bound­aries between ­house and street. Sixteen of the twenty infanticide cases occurred on or before 1915, and ten of ­t hose sixteen cases dealt with live-in domestic servants (two more involved

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domestic servants who lived outside their employers’ homes). Of the ten livein domestic servants, seven ­were w ­ omen of color. ­These cases demonstrate the low wages and adverse working conditions that many poor young ­women of color faced in early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro. In many ways, their lives mirrored ­t hose of both enslaved and f­ ree(d) w ­ omen of color before abolition. Like the overwhelming majority of working ­women of color in the nineteenth century (regardless of ­legal status), ­t hese ­women ­were domestic servants.113 Moreover, like many enslaved w ­ omen before them, live-in domestic servants held l­ittle recourse in the face of rape and mistreatment. And, both before and ­after abolition, authorities often viewed working w ­ omen (­either enslaved or freed) as more inclined to sexual impropriety.114 Working conditions for ­women of color also had not improved in the early twentieth ­century. While domestic servants w ­ ere not enslaved, their wages w ­ ere low, and the possibility of l­ abor exploitation was high, for domestic ser­v ice fell outside the purview of ­labor laws enacted throughout the 1920s and 1930s.115 Far from f­ amily, working as low-­paid, unskilled workers in middle-­or upper-­class homes, live-in domestic servants lacked guaranteed rights ­under new ­labor legislation. They relied on their employers for housing, and an unplanned pregnancy threatened not only their honor but also their economic survival. Th ­ ese w ­ omen ­were still part of patriarchalist structures, reliant on the h ­ ouse­hold in which they worked to support them.116 The ability to access social networks also affected w ­ omen’s actions. Scholars studying child circulation and adoption practices in nineteenth-­and early twentieth-­century Latin Amer­i­ca have underscored the importance of kinship networks, both familial and social, in the generational and social reproduction of families and communities.117 In early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro, the ability to informally foster a child with extended ­family could provide an alternative to infanticide. Employers’ attitudes ­toward domestic servants with ­children confirms the importance of friends and relatives in helping poor ­women raise ­children.118 In 1893, for example, the twenty-­two-­year-­old Spanish immigrant Joanna Concha gave her newborn to her neighbor, Dolores de Andres, so she could take up work as a live-in wet nurse. Soon a­ fter taking in the newborn, however, Andres was forced to return the child to Concha as “her [Andres’s] boss [patrão] did not want her to keep the child, telling her that ‘it does not suit him by any means [to have] a domestic servant with a child.’ ”119 This was not the first child Concha informally fostered to find work. Before migrating to Rio de Janeiro, she had left another child with a f­ amily in



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the interior of the state. Similarly, in 1915 the twenty-­year-­old preta Anna de Carvalho left her five-­month-­old son at its f­ ather’s door. Carvalho was “employed, [and] cannot have the child in her com­pany, b ­ ecause a newborn child displeased her employers, and . . . ​she would not be able to find a job.”120 The insecurity and vio­lence of live-in domestic servants’ daily lives further helps contextualize their actions. In 1900, nineteen-­year-­old w ­ idow Isolina Ribeiro de Aguiar was brought to trial for infanticide. A ­ fter migrating from the state of Minas Gerais, Aguiar found work as a live-in domestic servant in the city. ­After giving birth to a stillborn infant, she buried it in the open lot next to her employer’s home for “fear of being fired . . . ​and [already] having a small child of two years of age, and not having anywhere to go.”121 Other ­women faced the constant threat of sexual vio­lence and the subsequent loss of employment.122 In the infanticide trial of Helena Teixeira Pinto, in which she gave birth in her employer’s home and suffocated her infant, Pinto had been working in the home of “Maria so and so [de tal]” during Carnaval of 1912 when Maria’s son had come over. Pinto was alone, and the man “deflowered” her.123 Pinto notified her employer of the rape, but Maria did not believe her, “­because [according to Maria] her son was married and rarely came over.” Soon a­ fter, Pinto began working in the home of another f­ amily where she l­ ater committed infanticide. In 1911, twenty-­one-­year-­old Faustina Brasilina was fired ­a fter she gave birth in the home where she worked as a live-in domestic servant. Her female employer initially sent Brasilina to give the infant to the orphanage at the Santa Casa, but when the police refused to help the domestic servant, she returned to her employer’s home with her newborn. That after­noon, her employer told Brasilina to leave, as the room that she shared with another domestic servant was too “small” for both of them.124 Soon a­ fter, Brasilina choked her newborn to death. When Isolina Ribeiro de Aguiar, Helena Teixeira Pinto, and Faustina Brasilina violently killed their newborn infants, it was the culmination of a series of traumatic events in their personal lives. Current-­day lit­er­a­ture on pregnancy denial demonstrates that ­women who experience extreme physical and sexual trauma can deny their pregnancies, which itself is correlated with increased rates of infanticide. Th ­ ese w ­ omen often have brief dissociative episodes during delivery, resulting from their understanding of the intolerability of having a child, which can be so strong that the w ­ omen kill their c­ hildren 125 immediately a­ fter birth. ­These psychological explanations mirror many of the situations found in early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro. ­Here, I am not

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arguing that ­t hese w ­ omen definitively experienced psychosis, but it was a possibility. And although this discussion appears to lend support to the idea that only a ­woman in a state of postpartum “hysteria” committed infanticide, the experience of trauma reinforces the idea that not wanting a child could be a very rational decision that—in conjunction with psychological triggers—­ could result in violent, often unthinkable acts.

The Madness of Maternity: Rewriting Law In infanticide ­trials, both the defense’s reliance on Article 27§4 of the 1890 Penal Code and the jury’s ac­cep­tance of this argument influenced ­later ­legal changes. ­After Vargas took power in 1930, reforming criminal law became a central concern to his regime, and he saw the institutionalization of positivist practice into written doctrine as the panacea for the criminal justice system’s inefficiencies. Jurists began writing a new penal code in 1932, approving it in 1940, and promulgating it into law in 1942. With its passage, the positivist individualization of determining guilt and punishment became formalized in Brazilian criminal law.126 In relation to infanticide, the definition of the crime changed to include the concept of postpartum madness as the sole circumstance ­under which it could be committed. Article 123 read: “To kill, ­under the influence of the postpartum state, one’s own child, during or immediately ­after the birth,” with a sentence of one to six years in prison.127 ­After 1940, only a ­mother acting in a “puerperal state”—­postpartum madness—­could commit infanticide. The crime was now individualized to apply to certain w ­ omen acting in specific states of mind. Scholars have argued that the 1940 redefinition of infanticide reduced the crime to a m ­ other acting in a state of postpartum irrationality, but they have not demonstrated the jurisprudence b ­ ehind that change.128 By redefining the crime of infanticide as occurring only in a postpartum state, jurists eliminated the main caveat that defense l­awyers had used to acquit their clients over the past fifty years. This is telling when we consider that code’s incorporation of postpartum hysteria was paralleled by its erasure of “emotion or passion” as a reason for criminal irresponsibility in all other crimes.129 Infanticide ­u nder the 1940 code reinforced the idea that only temporarily “mad” ­mothers practiced infanticide, both emphasizing motherhood as inherent to ­women’s nature and increasing punishment for ­women who strayed from that identity.130



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The 1940 code also did away with the honor clause for both infanticide and abortion. But ­under the 1890 Penal Code, honor was less impor­tant than the idea of postpartum irrationality in determining infanticide convictions. This change reflected the lesser role honor played in the courts. Although the honor clause reduced pos­si­ble prison time ­under the 1890 code, infanticide cases rarely arrived at guilty verdicts. Its omission from the 1940 Penal Code reflects the lesser position it played in judicial decisions u ­ nder its pre­de­ces­sor. For abortion, the erasure of the honor clause in 1940 also did not result in a drastic change in ­legal jurisprudence. U ­ nder the 1890 code, the criminal justice system rarely prosecuted w ­ omen; thus, the existence of the honor clause was moot. In the 1940 code, the five articles pertaining to abortion clarified its criminality, stating when a ­woman or third party performed the procedure, with or without a ­woman’s consent, and increased the sentence if the ­woman died or suffered injuries.131 It also specifically allowed for doctors to provide therapeutic abortions if the pregnancy was the result of a rape or if the ­mother’s life was in danger, which jurists had supported throughout the debates over the new code.132 The 1940 code omitted the honor clause, while also providing clearer l­egal language that allowed for the increased prosecution of w ­ omen who had abortions. Yet the 1940 code did not erase the l­egal tendency to view fertility control as an illogical act. The continued ­legal equation of infanticide with irrationality preserved the juridical view of ­women as ­children before the law, not-­quite-­citizens, who needed the protection of a patriarchal state to help them make the decisions best for themselves, their ­children, and the nation. • • •

The famous chronicler of early twentieth-­century Carioca life, João do Rio, in his iconic novel A alma encantadora das ruas (1908), presented infanticide as the antithesis of motherhood. In his discussion of female prisoners, João do Rio pre­sents the reader with Olivia, a fifteen-­year-­old girl sentenced to prison for infanticide: “[Olivia] killed her own son at birth, but before she must have killed o ­ thers, as she w ­ ill kill her ­f uture [­children]. . . . ​Upon seeing her, we are reminded of the theories of the criminologists of the past, principally the ideas of Maudsley about crime and madness.”133 The narrator asks Olivia, “You d ­ on’t like c­ hildren?” To which she shakes her head no. He continues, “Before[,] you already tried to take medicine to abort, right?” to which she bends her head in agreement. “What­ever she is asked about her dread of

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motherhood, Olivia is incapable of negating. She should not be in this jail infirmary, but in the courtyard of an asylum.”134 João do Rio’s description both encapsulates and misrepresents the prosecution of fertility control in the early twentieth c­ entury. On the one hand, Olivia was young, common for w ­ omen who ­were prosecuted for infanticide. João do Rio also alludes to the perceived psychological disturbances surrounding infanticide in his reference to Henry Maudsley, a leading nineteenth-­century British psychiatrist who championed degenerational definitions of insanity and whose theories ­were popu­lar in Brazil.135 As I have argued, postpartum madness played a crucial role in the adjudication of infanticide u ­ nder the 1890 code, and the 1940 Penal Code included it in its changed definition of the crime. On the other hand, João do Rio pre­sents Olivia as an innate killer who rejected motherhood by any means pos­si­ble, including abortion. W ­ omen who committed infanticide denied and ignored their pregnancies, and most ­women never mentioned seeking out an abortion before resorting to infanticide. In fact, w ­ omen who had abortions w ­ ere more knowledgeable about their sexuality and bodies. Most importantly, fertility control was not necessarily the antithesis of motherhood. The desire to have c­ hildren and the decision not to have them ­were not mutually exclusive. As we saw, many ­women sought out abortions or committed infanticide in order to provide for their living c­ hildren.136 In 1919, for example, Maria Vieira da Silva’s two and a half-­year-­old son was with her when she underwent the abortion procedure that eventually killed her.137 Alcinda Ferreira de Souza asked for the trial to be postponed in her 1935 abortion trial, as she had moved in with her common-­law partner and had given birth to a baby girl.138 Perhaps the court case, in making her illicit relationship public, had dissipated the stigma that first led her to seek out an abortion. Souza no longer needed to hide her relationship (or its consequences), and thus she chose to m ­ other her child. Moreover, unlike João do Rio’s fictional prisoner Olivia, the law never fully condemned w ­ omen for fertility control. The criminal justice system’s adjudication of fertility control u ­ nder the 1890 Penal Code provided w ­ omen the l­egal space to walk ­free from charges while si­mul­ta­neously upholding patriarchal beliefs about gender and sexuality. In infanticide t­rials, the jury’s acquittal of ­women for committing the crime ­under a “momentary lapse of reason” infantilized them ­under the law, as their “irrational” act negated their ­legal responsibility. In abortion t­rials, the prosecution punished providers



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and not ­women by portraying the latter as incapable of making rational decisions. Both approaches restricted ­women’s ­legal personhood; the practice of the law defined fertility control as an irrational decision, upholding the belief that ­women ­were naturally maternal. ­Women’s own decisions demonstrate, conversely, a more nuanced experience of motherhood and fertility control, one in which the desire not to have a child could coexist with motherly love.139



Conclusion

And what had to happen happened. . . . ​In the ­middle of the coffee field that she was g­ oing to tidy up, Maria, who had already been suffering since the eve­ ning before, suddenly felt an acute pain in her bowels, as if from a violent stab . . . ​her first movement was to seek refuge in the h ­ ouse and t­ here, in the shelter of the home, await the unfolding of the crisis. She was, nevertheless, afraid to raise the wrath of her employers [patrões] . . . ​[so] she resisted and continued to strug­gle ­under the coffee trees, alone, in the silence of the day. . . . She knew well that any help from her masters [amos] would amount to an increase in the torture, the humiliation, and certainly an immediate expulsion from that unhappy home, but still a home. . . . Nothing moved in the solitude except a herd of pigs that came from afar, rooting and digging in the dirt. . . . Her screams ­were thin and shrill and at times they resounded coarsely, like strangled hysterical laughter. . . . Suddenly, she fell, exhausted, letting go of the tree. . . . ​A child’s cry mingled with the grunts of the animals. . . . ​The ­woman made a tired gesture to pick up the child, but feeble, weak, her arm died upon her body. . . . When she opened her eyes, she leapt to her feet, wan, erect, wild, and she saw her fallen son, shared by the pigs, who fled across the field. The d ­ aughter of her employers, in search of Maria, arrived at that moment, and taking in the frightening scene, without inquiring anything, returned to

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the h ­ ouse, alarmed, screaming in a spontaneous and evil message that the maid had killed her son. Two days ­later, Maria was in the Cachoeiro jail.1

In 1902, Brazilian author Graça Aranha published Canaã, a novel about German immigrants in Espírito Santo, a state to the north of Rio de Janeiro. In it, Maria, a poor domestic servant, is “seduced” by her employer’s son and becomes pregnant. Fearful of losing her job, Maria gives birth outside, alone. A group of pigs soon surrounds her and eats her newborn, as Maria, exhausted and unable to move, cannot stop them. Her employers find her, and she is imprisoned. Soon, the protagonist Milkau, a sympathetic male figure, rescues Maria, and together they escape to the promised land, Canaan. Maria’s fictional plight—­raped by someone in her employer’s f­ amily, forced to give birth alone in unsafe conditions, jailed and then “set f­ ree” by a stand-in patriarch—­captures the reproductive experiences of poor ­women across early twentieth-­century Brazil. Although the vio­lence of this artistic depiction is shocking, A Miscarriage of Justice has shown that perhaps Aranha’s imagination was not that fantastical. Employers often fired domestic servants for becoming pregnant, so ­t hese ­women hid their pregnancies and tried to conceal their deliveries. Poor ­women, moreover, often relied on the patriarchal good ­w ill of men to escape punishment. This book has argued that w ­ omen’s reproductive lives became a focus of an expanding state ­after the abolition of slavery, the onset of republicanism, and the strengthening of the federal government in early twentieth-­century Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. As bureaucratic institutions began focusing on ­women’s reproduction, they co-­opted patriarchal control from the ­family. The criminal justice system—­first the police and then the courts—­initially mediated ­women’s reproductive life in the republican period. As the state expanded and federalized u ­ nder Getúlio Vargas in the 1930s, however, ­women’s reproduction moved ­under the auspices of the public health system, whose prac­ti­tion­ ers expanded access to clinical care and, at the same time, extended the reach of the law. The state restricted access to citizenship by reinforcing gendered and racialized hierarchies. But the condemnation of fertility control was not ­limited to elite power structures. It circulated throughout society, where the lower classes articulated dominant understandings of gender and race by denouncing fertility control.

210 Conclusion

The increased criminalization of abortion and infanticide, as well as the heightened police and medical attention t­oward pregnancy and childbirth, ­shaped the ways in which w ­ omen experienced their reproductive lives. ­Women’s deaths from illegal abortions or their fear of being investigated for a miscarriage shrouded the practices in secrecy. This, in turn, made them more dangerous. Yet despite t­ hese structural limitations, w ­ omen and their partners continued to challenge state and societal prescriptions. A ­ fter all, ­women in Brazil had been giving birth, having abortions, and killing their babies long before medical and ­legal apparatuses took concerted notice in the early twentieth ­century. ­Women (and men) had sex out of wedlock. They bore ­children at home in unhygienic conditions. They drank herbal teas to provoke abortions. They murdered their infants. And they raised their living ­children notwithstanding structural inequalities. Over the fifty years of the 1890 Penal Code, bureaucratic expansion changed how w ­ omen negotiated their reproductive lives. Initially, the police ­were the first line in the state’s reproductive surveillance mandate. But intrusive investigative practices rarely led to guilty sentences. Take the case of thirty-­t wo-­year-­old Italian immigrant Philomena Gentil, who, early one morning in 1898, gave birth to an infant girl in her tenement. A female neighbor who had “­g reat practice” delivered the child.2 The widowed Gentil did not have “the means for her child,” so she paid a neighboring w ­ oman to abandon the infant anonymously at the turnstile (roda) of the orphanage at the Santa Casa de Misericórdia. In the early morning, the neighbor carried the newborn infant wrapped in a blanket to the roda. But before she arrived, a suspicious police officer arrested her for child abandonment; then he arrested Gentil. Both ­women testified that they ­were only taking the child to the orphanage—­itself not an illegal act. The prosecutor believed their story and closed the case. Gendered contours of interpersonal relationships and patriarchal power also defined w ­ omen’s interactions with the state. In 1908, for instance, nineteen-­year-­old Lucinda Pinto Braga and her boyfriend Gustavo Saturnino da Silva got into a heated argument over their cat. The discussion soon turned physical, as had many before, and Silva and Braga came to blows. Braga was nine months pregnant, and two days ­later she gave birth to a stillborn infant. A neighbor notified the police that Braga had aborted an infant that presented bruising, and so the precinct chief investigated. The c­ ouple had fought constantly, and several times Braga herself had hit her own stomach and yelled,

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“All of this is b ­ ecause of this crap [porcaria] that I carry in my belly.”3 According to Silva, Braga had an “irascible” temper b ­ ecause she had received an inheritance—­which she was not sharing with him. Neighbors told stories of loud fights, physical abuse, and tempers on both sides. The autopsy determined a stillbirth, although with bruising on the head and around the spleen, kidneys, and liver, injuries the medico-­legal physicians could not definitively link to physical abuse. The police chief believed that both Braga and Silva w ­ ere responsible for the stillbirth, but the public prosecutor disagreed and closed the case. As with Gentil, Braga faced no charges. The police, however, seemed less concerned with the allegations of domestic vio­lence. As the public health system developed, physicians slowly took over from the police the role of first responder. Three de­cades ­after Braga’s stillbirth, the equally tragic 1938 abortion case of Mariath Lemos highlights how patriarchal relationships intersected with expanding medical authority.4 The sixteen-­ year-­old Portuguese immigrant tried to kill herself by jumping out a win­ dow a­ fter her lover, twenty-­eight-­year-­old physician Oswaldo Nazareth, had forcibly performed an abortion on Lemos in the clinic in which he worked. Nazareth used laminaria to dilate her cervix, and then he forcefully anesthetized her using ethyl chloride (cloretila) and performed a curettage abortion. The procedure was not without complications—­Lemos hemorrhaged and had a high fever, and she remained in the clinic for eight days. When she got out, Nazareth refused to see her, so she attempted suicide. Her efforts broke her vertebrae, pelvis, and both ankles. While forensic specialists noted that Lemos had recently under­gone an abortion, the police could not link the procedure to Nazareth and the prosecution closed the case. In the years between when Gentil abandoned her child and Lemos underwent an abortion, w ­ omen’s reproductive healthcare slowly began to move into a hospital setting. This trend, however, did not necessarily make childbirth safer for ­mother or child. In fact, excessive medical intervention could increase risk in a period before antibiotics and blood transfusions. In 1922, for example, an unnamed twenty-­year-­old preta ­woman went to Laranjeiras to give birth to her first child. Fernando Magalhães de­cided to perform a cesarean section ­because of the ­woman’s small pelvis and the “voluminous fetus.”5 But the procedure proved deadly—­t he ­woman died from peritonitis. When Magalhães performed an autopsy, he found that the uterine suture was open and infected. His clinical notes made no mention of medical malpractice or physician responsibility.

212 Conclusion

Homebirths, nevertheless, could also be dangerous. When eighteen-­year-­ old parda Agricola de Araujo Gomes was nearing her due date in 1938, her husband fetched a licensed midwife, who accompanied Gomes’s ­labor throughout the morning and into the after­noon. Gomes eventually gave birth to a stillborn girl, who had the umbilical cord wrapped several times around her neck. Gomes did not expel the placenta, so the midwife called a doctor, who performed the placental extraction. Gomes’s husband, perhaps distraught at the stillbirth of his first child, reported the midwife to the police, who found no evidence of wrongdoing.6 And w ­ omen continued to experience the loss of wanted c­ hildren. In the same year that Magalhães performed that deadly cesarean section, twenty-­six-­ year-­old preta ­Virginia Maria da Conceição went to the same hospital to give birth to her fifth child. But Conceição would not be ­going home with her new baby. The child was a macerated stillbirth. The cause of death—­hereditary syphilis.7 Several years l­ater, in 1925, an unnamed w ­ oman brought her stillborn infant to the local police precinct for burial assistance. She told the police her “­children always are born unviable” ­because of her poor health.8 In an era before antibiotics, syphilis negatively affected the reproductive health of ­women and their c­ hildren. ­W hether in 1898 or 1938, w ­ omen in the city of Rio de Janeiro negotiated restrictions to their reproductive lives. Criminalized for legally giving up a child, a survivor of domestic vio­lence, forced to undergo an abortion, or faced with the loss of a wanted child, ­t hese ­women physically embodied the theoretical and practical implementations of a patriarchal society intent on controlling ­women’s reproduction. Yet they also defied ­t hese prescriptions. Lemos had sex before marriage. Braga controlled her own finances (to the chagrin of her male partner). Perhaps Gomes ­later conceived and gave birth to a healthy child. And even in the most unequal of situations, w ­ omen continued to exert control. Of the nearly 3,000 patients who entered Laranjeiras to give birth in the mid-1920s, for example, physicians annotated that 223 left the hospital on their own volition (“discharge upon request” [alta a pedido])—­t hus supposedly before the on-­call obstetrician deemed appropriate.9 One nineteen-­year-­ old parda ­woman, a­ fter giving birth to her first child, a healthy baby girl, was discharged “upon insistent request.”10 ­These w ­ omen de­cided what was best for themselves and their families. In the mid-­t wentieth c­ entury, Brazilian w ­ omen continued to experience the medical and ­legal conditions explored throughout this book. In 1958, for

Conclusion 213

example, Carolina Maria de Jesus, the impoverished black chronicler of favela life in São Paulo, observed in her diary that “­today the Welfare ­people w ­ ere ­here twice, ­because Aparecida had an abortion.”11 Jesus’s brief recollections demonstrate state officials’ sustained efforts to regulate poor ­women’s fertility control, this time through expanding social welfare agencies. ­Later, Jesus recorded that “a northeastern [nortista] ­woman went to the hospital to have a baby and the child was born dead. She is taking transfusions. Her ­mother is crying b ­ ecause she is the only d ­ aughter.”12 Poor w ­ omen’s reproductive health outcomes, ­here the stillbirth of a wanted child, remained precarious—­a nd emotionally painful. Several years l­ater in 1965, Nancy Scheper-­Hughes, working as a peace corps volunteer in the northeastern state of Pernambuco, recalled the day a ­woman was imprisoned for infanticide: I was drawn one day by curiosity to the jail cell of a young ­woman . . . ​who had just been apprehended for the murder of her infant son and her one-­year-­old ­daughter. The infant had been smothered, and the l­ittle girl had been hacked with a machete. Rosa, the m ­ other, became for a brief period a central attraction in Bom Jesus, as both rich and poor passed by her barred win­dow, which opened to a side street, to rain down invectives on her head: “Animal . . . ​ unnatural creature, shameless ­woman” . . . ​“Why did you do it?” She replied as she must have for the hundredth time, “To stop them from crying for milk.”13

Into the mid-­t wentieth ­century, impoverished ­women continued to face the untenable situation of raising both wanted and unwanted c­ hildren in adverse structural conditions. And public opinion reinforced the idea that abortion and infanticide ­were aberrant deviations from ­women’s maternal nature rather than responses to their socioeconomic and cultural contexts. Yet Jesus herself had three c­ hildren of whom she wrote with both fondness and exasperation. And other ­women Scheper-­Hughes interviewed loved and laughed despite their poverty. In the twenty-­first ­century, issues surrounding fertility control, reproductive health, and ­women’s rights still have many of ­t hese same characteristics. But ­t here have been significant changes. The realm of childbirth has shifted most dramatically. By the late twentieth c­ entury, prob­ably to the delight of Fernando Magalhães, ­labor and delivery had been fully hospitalized and hypermedicalized.14 ­Today, in fact, Brazil is a world leader in cesarean section rates. “Birth in Brazil,” a comprehensive, nationwide study published in 2014,

214 Conclusion

documents what many researchers are calling Brazil’s cesarean “epidemic.”15 In 2014, 52 ­percent of all births in Brazil ended in cesarean sections. For births that occurred in public hospitals, ­under the national Unified Healthcare System (Sistema Único de Saúde, SUS), 46 ­percent ­were cesarean sections. In private hospitals, the number reached 88 ­percent. The study concludes that more than one million Brazilian w ­ omen undergo non-­medically indicated cesareans each year.16 Even during vaginal births, a technologically driven model that values medical intervention over h ­ uman relations and patient need dominates clin17 ical practice. In 2014, only 5 ­percent of Brazilian w ­ omen experienced deliveries without excessive medical interventions. ­These include the high use of oxytocin to induce l­abor, episiotomies (a cut between the vagina and the anus), and the Kristeller maneuver, in which the pregnant ­woman lies on her back while a birth attendant presses on her belly. When t­ hese methods are used without clinical indication, they cause unnecessary pain and suffering.18 This standard of care is prevalent throughout all geographic regions in both private and public hospitals; the study thus concludes that “the medicalization of birth is a practice disseminated throughout the entire country.”19 But as Okezi Otovo has pointed out, ­t hese interventions are not race-­or class-­ blind. Black w ­ omen who rely on public healthcare for their l­abor and deliveries face the least amount of choice and the most humiliating experiences when it comes to childbirth, creating what Otovo calls the “abject devaluation of black reproduction.”20 Studies demonstrate that 70 ­percent of Brazilian w ­ omen desire a vaginal birth at the beginning of their pregnancy (a percentage that varies depending on the w ­ oman’s reproductive history and w ­ hether her healthcare is public or private). Nonetheless, t­ here is a gradual shift in preference throughout the course of gestation for all w ­ omen. Researchers suggest that clinicians are influencing w ­ omen’s decisions to opt for medically unnecessary cesarean sections. The same study found that in­de­pen­dent of the type of healthcare (public or private) or reproductive history (primi-­or multipara), physicians did not support or encourage w ­ omen’s preferences for vaginal births.21 The healthcare system has overmedicalized childbirth, and it appears that many physicians still disregard ­women’s own preferences. The medical profession also continues to have close ties with the justice system. In 2014, a judge in the southern state of Rio Grande do Sul forced twenty-­nine-­year-­old Adelir Carmen Lemos de Góes to undergo a cesarean

Conclusion 215

section. Góes wanted to have a normal childbirth at home, but the fetus was in breech position. ­After she left the hospital against doctors’ ­orders, police officers showed up at her home and escorted her back to the hospital, where physicians performed the surgery.22 Perhaps a cesarean section was best practice in this scenario, but the ease with which the hospital resorted to the criminal justice system should give us pause. While obstetricians have overmedicalized childbirth, demonstrating distinct changes from their frustrated efforts in the early twentieth ­century, abortion, for its part, remains criminalized, stigmatized, and dangerous. The continued repression of abortion in Brazil thus requires a rethinking of our con­temporary understanding of ­women’s rights and bodily integrity. As Matthieu de Castelbajac contends, past scholarship on abortion has posited a “repressive hypothesis,” which contrasts an oppressive history with the current liberal “right” to terminate a pregnancy.23 Following this line of thinking, scholars of Brazil now argue for a more nuanced view of the history of the criminalization of fertility control, which is far from a repressive past that has transformed itself into an “emancipated” pre­sent.24 ­Women’s deaths from clandestine procedures t­ oday show more of a connection with the past than any pro­gress t­ oward ­women’s reproductive autonomy. In 2014, for example, two w ­ omen’s deaths resulting from clandestine abortions made headlines in Rio de Janeiro. In August of that year, twenty-­seven-­ year-­old Jandira Magdalena dos Santos Cruz died during an illegal abortion procedure. The police l­ater found her body—­burned and dismembered to avoid identification. She left two ­daughters ­behind. The following month in the nearby city of Niterói, thirty-­t wo-­year-­old Elizângela Barbosa died from a botched illegal abortion. The abortion provider dropped her in front of a local hospital ­after complications arose, but Barbosa did not survive.25 She had three ­children with her husband. The public’s response to Cruz’s and Barbosa’s deaths parallels early twentieth-­century attitudes. Public opinion remains galvanized against abortion—­a nd opposition is growing. A 2018 poll found that 80 ­percent of Brazilians are against legalizing abortion, up 2 ­percent from 2010.26 Cruz’s ­family, members of Brazil’s growing evangelical movement, oppose the decriminalization of the procedure. As Cruz’s ­sister told reporters: “Many ­people have been criticizing her and saying she deserved to die. I’m against abortion too, but she paid the price. Now ­t hose who did this to her have to pay too.”27 In August 2018, the providers who performed the abortion on Cruz ­were sentenced, with prison times varying from fifteen to thirty-­five

216 Conclusion

years. Cruz’s ­sister was satisfied, “Jandira [Cruz] made a ­mistake and paid with the death penalty. I hoped that they [the providers] would get a fair punishment. And I feel that this happened.”28 ­Women continue to die from unsafe procedures, which is even less acceptable when safe abortion practices are well established. Despite this public condemnation of w ­ omen, law enforcement, as in the early twentieth ­century, continues to primarily target abortion providers. A 2014 police raid on a network of illegal abortion clinics in Rio, dubbed “Operation Herod,” arrested over fifty-­five ­people involved with the ­running of abortion clinics. Police action and media reports of the raid focused on illegal clinics, but they remained s­ ilent on the w ­ omen who sought out clandestine 29 abortion ser­vices. Researchers, however, have found that in the past de­cade the state has begun targeting ­women. For example, Rio de Janeiro police handcuffed one young teenager to a hospital bed when she was admitted a­ fter presenting with postabortion complications. Much as they did a hundred years ago, medical professionals in Brazil ­today often denounce ­women to the police.30 Recent data from the public defender’s office in Rio de Janeiro have found that abortion investigations continue to focus on poor, black m ­ others.31 The public’s vocal condemnation of abortion and the law’s prosecution of providers and now w ­ omen have created a stigmatized environment in which millions of ­women seek abortions u ­ nder dangerous conditions.32 Research estimates that one in five ­women in Brazil ­w ill have an abortion during her lifetime, currently estimated at nearly one million procedures per year. One national survey found that nearly half of ­women who underwent an illegal abortion in 2010 went to the hospital for postabortion complications, and abortion is between the third and fourth highest cause of maternal death in the country.33 But recent public health developments have opened up space to rethink the criminalization of abortion. In 2015, reports surfaced of infants born in northeast Brazil with microcephaly, a condition in which an infant’s head is smaller than normal due to abnormal brain development in the womb. It was not long before scientists linked the newly surfaced Zika arbovirus to fetal birth defects, prompting scholars to call the virus the new rubella (German measles).34 As with rubella, when a pregnant w ­ oman contracts Zika, she normally experiences mild symptoms of fever and rash. And similar to rubella, Zika also wreaks havoc on the developing fetus. The association of Zika with congenital Zika syndrome (CZS, or microcephaly and other fetal malformations associated with the virus) has catalyzed discussions of abortion law and

Conclusion 217

­ omen’s autonomy across Latin Amer­i­ca.35 In the United States, the rubella w epidemic of the mid-1960s foregrounded the issue of abortion. Middle-­class white w ­ omen who contracted rubella during pregnancy began to discuss the issue of abortion openly. ­These discussions changed the debate around illicit abortions, and the public began to support the “respectable” married ­woman who wanted an abortion (in consultation with her husband and physician). Yet in real­ity, it was still difficult even for middle-­class w ­ omen to get therapeutic abortions insofar as the procedure’s illegality affected its availability across the country.36 In short, the public began supporting abortion, yet it remained inaccessible to most w ­ omen. So, is the Zika virus changing the debate around abortion access in Brazil and across Latin Amer­i­ca? Initially, the answer seemed negative. In 2015, a top health official advised Brazilian w ­ omen: “­Don’t get pregnant now.”37 Health officers in many other affected Latin American nations did the same.38 This is an in­ter­est­ing proposition in Latin Amer­i­ca, a predominantly Catholic (and increasingly evangelical) region where birth control can be difficult to obtain, more than 50 ­percent of pregnancies are unplanned, and rates of teen pregnancy and sexual vio­lence are high.39 Moreover, the penal code that rewrote Brazil’s abortion laws in 1940 still regulates ­women’s access to l­egal abortions. T ­ oday, as then, abortion is only ­legal in cases of rape, to save the m ­ other’s life, and, since 2012, in cases of fetal anencephaly (a birth defect in which the infant is born without parts of the brain and skull and w ­ ill not survive outside the womb). In 2004, a group of ­lawyers and activists filed a motion with the Brazilian Supreme Court (Supremo Tribunal Federal, STF) to allow for abortion in the case of anencephaly. Eight years ­later, the STF de­cided in f­avor of this provision.40 Now that same team has filed another plea to authorize abortion in microcephaly cases, diagnosable in utero. The petition has five demands that, in addition to legalizing abortion for pregnant w ­ omen who have been infected with Zika and who are in ­mental distress, advocate for better f­ amily planning methods and expanded health information for ­women of reproductive age.41 The group argues that Brazilian w ­ omen should not be punished for the government’s complete failure to control the Aedes aegypti mosquito that transmits the Zika virus. Whereas public health efforts previously prioritized mosquito control over reproductive healthcare, now it seems the state has receded from both arenas.42 The advocates have couched the petition in a larger reproductive justice framework. They acknowledge that upper-­class ­women have access to safe,

218 Conclusion

if illegal, abortions b ­ ecause they can pay reputable physicians to perform the procedure discreetly and safely; in contrast, poor w ­ omen, often of color, have to resort to life-­t hreatening illegal procedures. Of course, it is poor w ­ omen who live in the urban slums that lack ­running ­water and basic sanitation—­ hotspots for the mosquitos that leave their larvae on the ­cracked water tanks and open sewage littering the neighborhoods.43 In fact, the most effective approach ­toward combating mosquito-­borne diseases is not increasing the use of insecticides and larvicides, whose effects on h ­ umans at best is unknown and at worst carcinogenic, but expanding basic sanitation and reliable treated ­running w ­ ater sources to poor urban neighborhoods across the country.44 Reducing structural inequalities would go a long way. Yet the petition also raises ethical questions in the field of disability studies, termed “expressivist objection.” Beginning in the 1980s and 1990s, disability-­rights activists, critiquing neoliberal concepts of productivity, contended that allowing abortion in cases of fetal malformations rendered the lives of t­ hose who lived with disabilities worthless.45 What does selective abortion mean for the families that decide to raise ­children affected by the virus in utero—­not to mention ­t hose ­people themselves? Other scholars, however, have critiqued this position, arguing that it flattens all disabilities into one homogeneous category and neglects the question of care—­which often falls to the m ­ other.46 Debora Diniz, one of the group’s leading members, reminds us, however, that the petition is not only about abortion. It also calls for guaranteed rights for c­ hildren with microcephalic symptoms, including transportation to specialized healthcare ser­v ices and cash benefit transfers ­ omen may to all affected families.47 But Zika can be asymptomatic—­t hat is, w not know they ­were infected early in the pregnancy, and the proportion of infected w ­ omen who give birth to c­ hildren with CZS is not very high, in real numbers.48 Moreover, Diniz has criticized health experts who have called for an expansion of abortion rights tied to fetal birth defects (and not a mother’s state of mind, on which she bases her petition).49 All this is to say that efforts to tie abortion legislation only to specific diseases or reasons again diverts attention away from w ­ omen’s overall bodily rights and the broader goals of reproductive justice: to ensure that w ­ omen can choose when and how to have ­children—or not—­a nd have the ability to raise the c­ hildren they do have within an equal and just society.50 Moreover, new understandings of causality have thrown into question the petition’s sole focus on the virus. Scientists have also linked the virus to

Conclusion 219

Guillain-­Barré syndrome (GBS), a neurological disorder. The initial spike in Zika incidence in northeast Brazil was followed by a spike first in GBS and then in CZS. A second resurgence of Zika, however, saw another surge in GBS but not in CZS cases. Scientists have hypothesized that the initial surge in reported Zika cases was perhaps higher than the ­actual number, with experts conflating other arboviruses (dengue or chikungunya, for example) with Zika.51 The changing definition of microcephaly and CZS might also account for the high initial number, as Brazil only standardized definitions in March 2016.52 Another hypothesis is that Zika infections are a necessary but not sufficient condition for CZS—or that another cofactor is required for CZS to occur.53 And some scientists have argued that ­women’s actions—­increased reliance on abortion, delayed pregnancies, and even higher rates of miscarriage—­may have caused this discrepancy.54 Our understandings of the effects of Zika on fetal development are in flux. Tying abortion access to a static definition of causality not only opens up the petition to legitimate criticism but also diverts attention away from the overall issue of abortion rights for all w ­ omen. Brazil was not the only Latin American nation to experience a Zika outbreak, and its abortion laws are lenient when compared to other countries that have had similar outbreaks, including El Salvador, Haiti, Honduras, and Nicaragua, where renewed church-­state alliances have resulted in the complete criminalization of abortion without exception.55 In El Salvador, a country that imprisons ­women for miscarriages, the idea that Zika ­w ill open up a debate about abortion is almost unimaginable.56 Clearly, debate is vital if twenty-­first-­century governments truly want to include ­women as full citizens and not as a sum of their reproductive parts. But although many countries have recriminalized abortion in the region, ­t here is some hope for advocates of reproductive justice. Mexico City (2007) and Uruguay (2012), for example, both legalized abortion in the first twelve weeks of pregnancy.57 ­After its own Zika outbreak, Colombia decriminalized abortion for w ­ omen who contracted 58 the virus during pregnancy. As t­ hese developments highlight, the fight to advance ­women’s bodily rights is neither linear nor uniform, and it occurs within larger structural inequalities that constrain the choice of all ­women, but especially the poor. • • •

The real consequences of structural inequities in ­women’s reproductive lives brings us back to the death of Isalina Vieira’s newborn on the sidewalk

220 Conclusion

in front of the Maternidade Laranjeiras in 1912. The subsequent infanticide investigation further underscores how the Brazilian state chose to address ­t hese inequities in the early twentieth c­ entury: through punitive and not prophylactic mea­sures. Although the criminal justice system s­ topped short of criminalizing Vieira for being the victim of medical neglect, it neither investigated the hospital nor supported her as a m ­ other. But Vieira was not alone. Her friend advocated for her during the emergency. Another public hospital admitted Vieira ­after the birth, and other police officers spoke up in her defense. We do not know what happened to Vieira following the investigation, but her previous actions—­conceiving out of wedlock, seeking out ­free medical assistance, forming social networks—­show us she carved out a space for herself despite the unequal society in which she lived. She, like the other w ­ omen featured in this book, negotiated their reproductive lives against all odds. Isalina Vieira reminds us that w ­ omen in Brazil, and across the globe, w ­ ill continue to do so, no ­matter the consequences.

Notes on Sources

Judicial Sources The police investigations and court cases (232 total) that make up the book’s source base are ­housed in the Arquivo Nacional, Rio de Janeiro (AN), the Museu da Justiça do Rio de Janeiro (MJ), and the Tribunal de Justiça do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (TJRJ), all located in Rio de Janeiro. The majority reside in the AN, and researchers can locate them through the AN’s database (SIAN).1 However, when I conducted the majority of the book’s research (2012–13), the sixth, seventh, and tenth criminal courts (varas criminais) ­were only available through card cata­log. The court cases in the MJ and TJRJ prob­ably come from the holdings of the now-­defunct Arquivo do 1o Tribunal do Júri.2 I transcribed in full 136 police investigations and 57 court cases for the city of Rio de Janeiro ­under the 1890 Penal Code. For the remaining thirty-­nine court cases from the state of Rio de Janeiro or Supreme Court decisions de­cided in Rio de Janeiro but initiated in another state, I read the cases in their entirety and noted key characteristics, but I did not transcribe them in full. Unlike honor-­related crimes like deflowering or slander—­which the 1890 Penal Code defined as private offenses to be tried in a public court but initiated and sustained on behalf of the private victim—­abortion and infanticide ­were crimes against persons, to be prosecuted by the state.3 The public prosecutor, and not an injured party, de­cided which abortion and infanticide cases to pursue, and the onus was on their prosecutorial actions. That being said, 221

222

Notes on Sources

the criminal justice system became aware of an alleged abortion or infanticide or the illegal practice of medicine through three main channels: police response to criminal events, including a homebirth that ended in infanticide, a maternal death from an illegal abortion, or the illegal public disposal of an infant cadaver (­whether the cause of death was natu­ral or other­w ise); verbal or written denunciations to the police of men and ­women for allegedly practicing abortion and infanticide; and the public’s reliance on the administrative capacity of the police to address health and burial issues. Upon the investigation’s completion, the district police chief would send his report to the presiding public prosecutor, who, ­after reviewing the case, de­ cided ­whether to press charges (denunciar) or to close the case without further action (arquivar).4 In the 136 police investigations, the prosecutor, representing the state, did not press charges, and the investigation never went to trial.5 For the 57 court cases, the prosecutor pressed charges. Thus, a court case comprises a complete police investigation plus the subsequent court proceedings.6 In infanticide investigations and t­ rials, e­ ither the district police chief, the public prosecutor, or the presiding judge could issue arrest warrants (mandado de prisão) for preventive custody (prisão preventiva) at any time during ­either the investigation or the trial, without further ­legal justification.7 Infanticide cases ­were a variant of hom­i­cide, and they w ­ ere ineligible for bail (inafiançável).8 The police asked for preventive custody in three ongoing infanticide investigations, although most ­women ­were imprisoned only ­a fter the public prosecutor formally pressed charges.9 Abortion prosecutions ­were bail-­eligible (afiançável), and thus the police chief or public prosecutor could only issue an arrest warrant before the trial if the person had already spent time in prison or did not have a fixed residence or employment.10 However, if the police arrested the defendant “in the act” (em flagrante), often the case for midwives or physicians practicing illegally, no warrant was needed.11 For the most part, officials did not issue arrest warrants during abortion investigations or t­ rials.12 For the crime of abortion, if neither the district police chief nor the public prosecutor requested custody, the judge only issued a warrant if he de­cided the case had ­legal basis.13 ­A fter the police chief sent his final report to the public prosecutor, and if the prosecutor de­cided to press charges, he would issue a formal denunciation, which initiated the first of the trial’s three stages, the hearings phase (sumário). The denunciation briefly explained the circumstances surrounding the event, the crime, and a list of the witnesses to testify in court.14 Hearings occurred in the intermediate criminal courts, and a supervising judge



Notes on Sources 223

oversaw the formal questioning of the prosecution’s witnesses, the identification (qualificação) of the accused, and, if the accused had a formal defense, the defense’s argument and witnesses. The judge initiated all inquiries when questioning both witnesses and the accused; only a­ fter this could l­awyers ask their own questions.15 The prosecutor and the defense ­lawyer (or the accused herself if she did not have a l­ awyer) could then cross-­examine the witnesses.16 When the summary proceedings ­were complete, the trial went into its second phase in which the presiding judge decreed the case ­either with l­egal basis (procedente) or without ­legal basis (improcedente). Judges only declared cases lapsed (prescrito or extinto) if the statute of limitations had expired.17 If declared improcedente, the case was closed, and the accused was absolved and freed if imprisoned. If declared procedente, the case moved forward to the sentencing phase. Sentencing procedures differed in relation to the severity of the crime. In the case of any homicide—­whether an abortion-­related death or an infanticide—­t he case went before a jury. (In 1923 this changed, and abortion-­ related deaths went before a judge.) A judge always de­cided abortion-­related cases that did not end in the death of the ­woman.18 In infanticide and abortion cases that made it to a jury trial (Tribunal do Júri), the prosecutor issued the formal bill of indictment (libelo crime), with the questions on which the jury would deliberate. The jury was chosen out of a pool of eligible citizens. U ­ ntil 1911, the pool consisted of forty-­eight voting, literate, and employed (male) citizens of which twelve made up the jury.19 ­After 1911, this pool was reduced to twenty-­two potential members with seven making up the final jury. At least fifteen potential jurors had to show up in court for the lottery (sorteio) to occur. The defense and the public prosecutor could each refuse up to four jurors. The jury decision only needed to be a s­ imple majority, not unan­i­mous.20 In the bill of indictment, the public prosecutor determined not only the questions but also the sentence. Defense l­awyers could add their own question to the bill before it went to the jury. The judge did not question the accused or the witnesses in front of the jury; rather, a scribe read the entire case out loud.21 ­After ­either the jury’s decision (in infanticide cases) or the judge’s decision (in abortion cases), the defendant or the prosecutor had the option of appealing the decision. In appeals cases, the case went before the appellate court (Corte de Apelação), where appeal judges de­cided the case’s validity. If the court de­cided in the affirmative, it ­either went before another jury (infanticide) or judge (abortion). If the court denied the appeal, the original decision remained. If appealed again, the case followed a similar procedure in the supreme court (Supremo Tribunal).22

224

Notes on Sources

Medical Sources I base my discussion of the obstetric profession’s beliefs about and clinical approach ­toward ­women’s reproductive health on the judicial rec­ords detailed above and a comprehensive investigation of nearly 300 medical dissertations from the Rio de Janeiro Medical School (Faculdade de Medicina do Rio de Janeiro) published between 1830 and 1940, public health rec­ords, over 2,500 clinical reports from the Maternidade Laranjeiras between 1923 and 1925, and articles from leading obstetrics journals and textbooks. The majority of medical dissertations are held at the Biblioteca do Centro de Ciências da Saúde, Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro, Fundão (CCS-­UFRJ). A smaller number of dissertations are h ­ oused at the Maternidade Escola (ME-­UFRJ), previously Maternidade Laranjeiras. The Arquivo Público Mineiro (APM) has a digitized collection of nineteenth-­century medical dissertations for all Mineiro physicians graduating from both the Rio de Janeiro and Bahian medical schools. Unfortunately, the library of the National Acad­emy of Medicine (Academia Nacional de Medicina, ANM), located in Rio de Janeiro and housing a rich collection of medical sources, has been closed during the research and writing of this book. From 1830 ­until around 1932, dissertations ­were required for graduation from the medical schools in Rio de Janeiro and Bahia.23 Early nineteenth-­ century ­t heses, however, often regurgitated Eu­ro­pean (particularly French) techniques without clinical observations.24 Nevertheless, ­because clinical medicine in Brazil was the most advanced branch of scientific research in the late nineteenth ­century, selected dissertations provide original arguments.25 In Rio de Janeiro, for example, the medical school had competitive entry and attracted the brightest minds. Nineteenth-­century Brazilian-­trained physicians thus created new medical and scientific theories and actively debated and enforced professional standards.26 By the turn-­of-­t he-­t wentieth ­century, as both clinical and scientific training improved, medical students produced original dissertations with clinical notes, experimentation results, and sophisticated arguments. In the fields of obstetrics and gynecol­ogy, topics included contraception, eugenics, and induced (and often criminal) abortion and infanticide; pregnancy, childbirth, and pediatrics; and obstetric techniques such as cesarean sections and the use of forceps. I supplement t­ hese dissertations with medical journals and obstetric textbooks. The premier obstetrics and gynecol­ogy journal in the country, the



Notes on Sources 225

Revista de Gynecologia e d’Obstetricia e da Pediatria (RGOP) was associated with the ANM and the Brazilian Society of Obstetrics and Gynecol­ogy (Sociedade de Obstetricia e Gynecologia do Brasil), both based in Rio de Janeiro.27 The journal published obstetricians’ and gynecologists’ clinical observations, analyses of new surgical techniques, and ANM proceedings. The journal is held at the Biblioteca Nacional (BN), the Maternidade Escola, Rio de Janeiro (ME-­UFRJ), and the Biblioteca de Biomedicina-­A, Universidade Estadual do Rio de Janeiro (BBA-­UERJ), all in Rio de Janeiro. Between June 1922 and May 1926, the RGOP also published the monthly clinical reports of all w ­ omen treated at the Maternidade Laranjeiras.28 At first glance, ­t hese brief reports seem nothing more than a series of sterile patient numbers, delivery statistics, and fetal and maternal outcomes. However, when carefully analyzed, they demonstrate a ­great deal about clinical practice in the country’s premier obstetrics and gynecol­ogy teaching hospital. In the initial months of publication, the reports included more complete information, for instance, l­abor time or detailed descriptions of surgical procedures. Over time, clinical notes became streamlined. Some individual reports included detailed notes on a cesarean section or the transcription of fetal autopsies, but most omitted information like antisepsis and asepsis practices and length of hospital stay. Thus, we cannot trace changes in certain aspects of clinical practice over time (for example, if obstetricians changed handwashing techniques or the most common drug employed during anesthesia). We also do not know if physicians practiced certain techniques more frequently with specific demographic profiles. Did they believe that black ­women had a higher pain tolerance and thus employed anesthesia with less frequency during the deliveries of w ­ omen of color? The data are incomplete in this aspect. However, we can deduce other clinical trends: the most common cesarean section techniques, maternal mortality and stillbirth rates within the clinic, the rate of postpartum infection, and which physicians practiced surgical interventions most frequently. When physicians manually intervened in birth, which I define as a nonsurgical procedure including forceps, version, or the Mauriceau maneuver (interventionist) or surgically delivered the infant by cesarean section or embryotomy (surgical), the notes included the type of intervention, the indication, and the obstetrician. For ­t hese points, the data are complete, and reports show, for example, obstetricians’ preference for Simpson Barnes forceps and Fernando Magalhães’s complete control over cesarean procedures within the clinic.

226

Notes on Sources

Most frustrating, however, is that t­ hese rec­ords do not include the ­women’s names. Each patient is a five-­digit number. We know if she was primi-­, secundi-­, or multipara; her color, age, and nationality; and her previous reproductive history. The report includes her pelvic mea­sure­ments, the type of delivery (natu­ral, interventionist, or surgical), the details of the placental delivery, and her vital statistics during the postpartum period. It also includes the sex, weight, and length of her newborn and when the ­woman was discharged (alta) from the hospital. The only w ­ oman’s name we know, V ­ irginia Maria da Conceição, is due to tragedy. Conceição delivered a macerated stillborn infant (syphilis) ­under the supervision of Fernando Magalhães. For what­ever reason, Magalhães included the autopsy report (with Conceiçã­o’s name) in his clinical notes. Conceição had already delivered four ­children (one of which was premature). How did she feel about the stillbirth she just experienced? Did she know her name was included in ­t hese clinical reports? ­These are unanswerable questions. Despite this impersonal (and often violent) effacing of the patient as person (although anonymity was standard practice for the publication of clinical reports), I have recorded the following information for all 2,823 patients: patient number, gravidity and parity, skin color, age, nationality, type of delivery (normal, interventionist, surgical), maternal outcome (including rates of puerperal infection), fetal outcome (miscarriage, stillbirth, live birth, or neonatal death, sex, weight, length), and previous reproductive history.29 Fi­nally, as I have shown, public health statistics for Rio de Janeiro ­were few and far between for the period ­under study. But acknowledging irregularities does not preclude gathering and analyzing the data that are available. This book is the first to explore statistics related to childbirth in a comprehensive manner, even if just in a descriptive sense, and it is a starting point for other scholars with more sophisticated tools of analy­sis. The majority of the data come from published reports from the civil registry and the public health department and clinical reports from maternity hospitals. The Instituto Brasileiro de Geografia e Estatística (IBGE), the Casa de Oswaldo Cruz, Fundação Oswaldo Cruz (COC-­Fiocruz), the online repository at the Memória Estatística do Brasil, Biblioteca do Ministério da Fazenda, Rio de Janeiro (MEB) and the vari­ous libraries and archives mentioned in the above section on medical dissertations and journals all ­house separate reports that comprise this data set.

Appendix A: Reproductive-­R elated Police Investigations by Archive and Criminal Court (Pretoria or Vara), City of Rio de Janeiro Total = 136

I have or­ga­nized t­hese cases by criminal court, date, and case number, respectively. Many of t­ hese cases spanned several years, even de­cades. The date given h ­ ere refers to that which corresponds to its archival classification or the date on the cover. The dif­fer­ent criminal courts are or­ga­nized by type (pretoria or vara) and then number. The total includes one habeas corpus case, (AN) CS.0.HCO.1602 (1915).

Arquivo Nacional, Rio de Janeiro (AN) Pretoria do Rio de Janeiro, 3 (6Z) (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.105 (1912) (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.9981 (1927) (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.16784 (1932) (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.19277 (1936) (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.22570 (1938) Pretoria do Rio de Janeiro, 5 (0I) (AN) 0I.0.IQP.2872 (1902) Pretoria do Rio de Janeiro, 7 (72) (AN) 72.0.IQP.90 (1912) (AN) 72.0.IQP.1042 (1914) (AN) 72.0.IQP.1043 (1914) 227

228

Appendix A

(AN) 72.0.IQP.1407 (1915) (AN) 72.0.IQP.1412 (1915) Pretoria do Rio de Janeiro, 8 (0R) (AN) 0R.0.IQP.1578 (1901) (AN) 0R.0.IQP.1647 (1901) (AN) 0R.0.IQP.3065 (1904) (AN) 0R.0.IQP.8747 (1906) (AN) 0R.0.IQP.4460 (1906) (AN) 0R.0.IQP.6132 (1908) (AN) 0R.0.IQP.7729 (1910) (AN) 0R.0.IQP.8181 (1911) Pretoria do Rio de Janeiro, 9 (T7) (AN) T7.0.IQP.403 (1904) (AN) T7.0.IQP.809 (1908) (AN) T7.0.IQP.837 (1908) (AN) T7.0.IQP.1922 (1908) (AN) T7.0.IQP.1142 (1909) Pretoria do Rio de Janeiro, 10 (7C) (AN) 7C.0.IQP.306 (1900) (AN) 7C.0.IQP.495 (1902) (AN) 7C.0.IQP.1278 (1907) Pretoria do Rio de Janeiro, 11 (T8) (AN) T8.0.IQP.1408 (1904) (AN) T8.0.IQP.1773 (1905) (AN) T8.0.IQP.1986 (1906) (AN) T8.0.IQP.2682 (1908) (AN) T8.0.IQP.2697 (1908) (AN) T8.0.IQP.2701 (1908) (AN) T8.0.IQP.2727 (1908) (AN) T8.0.IQP.3239 (1909) (AN) T8.0.IQP.3254 (1909) (AN) T8.0.IQP.3280 (1909) (AN) T8.0.IQP.3600 (1910) (AN) T8.0.IQP.3623 (1910) (AN) T8.0.IQP.3834 (1911)



Pretoria do Rio de Janeiro, 12 (7E) (AN) 7E.0.IQP.1626 (1908) Pretoria do Rio de Janeiro, 13 (MW) (AN) MW.0.IQP.440 (1902) (AN) MW.0.IQP.737 (1903) (AN) MW.0.IQP.905 (1904) (AN) MW.0.IQP.1493 (1907) (AN) MW.0.IQP.1852 (1908) (AN) MW.0.IQP.2162 (1908) (AN) MW.0.IQP.2273 (1909) (AN) MW.0.IQP.2634 (1910) Pretoria do Rio de Janeiro, 14 (7G) (AN) 7G.0.IQP.1172 (1909) (AN) 7G.0.IQP.1311 (1910) Pretoria do Rio de Janeiro, 15 (7H) (AN) 7H.0.IQP.671 (1906) (AN) 7H.0.IQP.821 (1907) Pretoria Criminal do Rio de Janeiro, 5 (70) (AN) 70.0.IQP.1056 (1914) (AN) 70.0.IQP.1074 (1914) (AN) 70.0.IQP.1517 (1915) (AN) 70.0.IQP.3005 (1919) (AN) 70.0.IQP.9291 (1929) (AN) 70.0.IQP.10555 (1930) Vara Criminal do Rio de Janeiro, 3 (CQ) (AN) CQ.0.IQP.626 (1909) Vara Criminal do Rio de Janeiro, 4 (CR) (AN) CR.0.IQP.188 (1908) (AN) CR.0.IQP.466 (1911) (AN) CR.0.IQP.566 (1912) (AN) CR.0.IQP.654 (1912) (AN) CR.0.IQP.674 (1912)

Appendix A 229

230

Appendix A

Vara Criminal do Rio de Janeiro, 5 (CS) (AN) CS.0.IQP.127 (1907) (AN) CS.0.IQP.139 (1907) (AN) CS.0.IQP.237 (1908) (AN) CS.0.IQP.359 (1909) (AN) CS.0.IQP.488 (1910) (AN) CS.0.IQP.2204 (1912) (AN) CS.0.IQP.2225 (1912) (AN) CS.0.IQP.2230 (1912) (AN) CS.0.IQP.1154 (1914) (AN) CS.0.HCO.1602 (1915) (AN) CS.0.IQP.1740 (1916) (AN) CS.0.IQP.1918 (1917) (AN) CS.0.IQP.2323 (1918) (AN) CS.0.IQP.2352 (1918) (AN) CS.0.IQP.2375 (1918) (AN) CS.0.IQP.2691 (1919) (AN) CS.0.IQP.2819 (1919) (AN) CS.0.IQP.2883 (1919) (AN) CS.0.IQP.3019 (1920) (AN) CS.0.IQP.3191 (1922) (AN) CS.0.IQP.3426 (1923) (AN) CS.0.IQP.3693 (1925) (AN) CS.0.IQP.3881 (1926) (AN) CS.0.IQP.6040 (1930) (AN) CS.0.IQP.6622 (1930) (AN) CS.0.IQP.6612 (1931) (AN) CS.0.IQP.6819 (1933) (AN) CS.0.IQP.6967 (1933) (AN) CS.0.IQP.7229 (1935) (AN) CS.0.IQP.7444 (1936) (AN) CS.0.IQP.7592 (1936) (AN) CS.0.IQP.7759 (1937) (AN) CS.0.IQP.8241 (1938) (AN) CS.0.IQP.8559 (1938)



Vara Criminal do Rio de Janeiro, 6 (CT) (AN) CT, Cx.1956 N.587 (1898) (AN) CT, Cx.2017 N.1233 (1902) (AN) CT, Cx.1909 N.1776 (1909) (AN) CT, Cx.2007 N.1975 (1910) (AN) CT, Cx.2008 N.1570 (1910) (AN) CT, Cx.1737 N.1914 (1911) (AN) CT, Cx.1806 N.360 (1912) (AN) CT, Cx.2008 N.698 (1914) (AN) CT, Cx.2009 N.1388 (1921) (AN) CT, Cx.2009 N.1411 (1921) (AN) CT, Cx.2009 N.1523 (1921) (AN) CT, Cx.2009 N.90 (1922) (AN) CT, Cx.2009 N.93 (1922) (AN) CT, Cx.2009 N.297 (1922) (AN) CT, Cx.2009 N.1219 (1924) (AN) CT, Cx.2006 N.2008 (1926) (AN) CT, Cx.1950 N.118 (1929) (AN) CT, Cx.2009 N.120 (1929) (AN) CT, Cx.2009 N.233 (1929) (AN) CT, Cx.1928 N.60 (1931) (AN) CT, Cx.2010 N.148 (1931) (AN) CT, Cx.1845 N.67 (1932) (AN) CT, Cx.1999 N.302 (1932) (AN) CT, Cx.2010 N.328 (1933) (AN) CT, Cx.2010 N.535 (1933) (AN) CT, Cx.1740 N.1072 (1935) (AN) CT, Cx.1815 N.1250 (1936) (AN) CT, Cx.1830 N.1313 (1936) (AN) CT, Cx.1803 N.2816 (1940) Vara Criminal do Rio de Janeiro, 7 (CU) (AN) CU, M.32 N.252 (1928) (AN) CU, M.41 N.32 (1931) Vara Criminal do Rio de Janeiro, 10 (CX) (AN) CX, Cx.154 N.4714 (1937)

Appendix A 231

232

Appendix A

Sem Fundo (SF) (AN) SF, Cx. 2317 N.28 (1897) (AN) SF, Cx.2314 N.798 (1902)

Tribunal de Justiça do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (TJRJ) (TJRJ) Carmen Maria de Faria (1919) (TJRJ) Maria Adelaide da Conceição Pinto Montenegro (1923) (TJRJ) Maria da Glória Gonçalves (1928)

Appendix B: Reproductive-­R elated Court Cases by Archive and Criminal Court (Pretoria or Vara), City of Rio de Janeiro Total = 57

Arquivo Nacional (AN) Pretoria do Rio de Janeiro, 3 (6Z) (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.8809 (1925) (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.20528 (1937) (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.20879 (1937) (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.22279 (1938) (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.21018 (1938) Pretoria do Rio de Janeiro, 5 (0I) (AN) 0I.0.PCR.3075 (1892) Pretoria do Rio de Janeiro, 7 (72) (AN) 72.0.PCR.1804 (1916) Pretoria do Rio de Janeiro, 11 (T8) (AN) T8.0.PCR.825 (1901) (AN) T8.0.PCR.2480 (1907) (AN) T8.0.PCR.4135 (1912) Pretoria do Rio de Janeiro, 12 (T9) (AN) T9.0.PCR.28 (1893)

233

234

Appendix B

Pretoria do Rio de Janeiro, 18 (7J) (AN) 7J.0.PCR.09 (1892) (AN) 7J.0.PCR.10 (1892) Pretoria Criminal do Rio de Janeiro, 5 (70) (AN) 70.0.PCR.570 (1912) (AN) 70.0.PCR.766 (1913) Pretoria Criminal do Rio de Janeiro, 14 (MV) (AN) MV.0.PCR.22 (1892) Tribunal Civil e Criminal (CA) (AN) CA.CT4.376 (1907) (AN) CA.CT4.492 (1908) Vara Criminal do Rio de Janeiro, 5 (CS) (AN) CS.0.PCR.1350 (1915) (AN) CS.0.PCR.1373 (1915) (AN) CS.0.PCR.1877 (1917) (AN) CS.0.PCR.2059 (1918) (AN) CS.0.PCR.3046 (1921) (AN) CS.0.PCR.4670 (1927) (AN) CS.0.PCR.4940 (1930) (AN) CS.0.PCR.5608 (1930) (AN) CS.0.PCR.5883 (1931) (AN) CS.0.PCR.6998 (1934) (AN) CS.0.PCR.7613 (1935) (AN) CS.0.PCR.7644 (1935) (AN) CS.0.PCR.9275 (1941) Vara Criminal do Rio de Janeiro, 6 (CT) (AN) CT, Cx.2000 N.1 (1900) (AN) CT, Cx.1824, SN (1905) (AN) CT, Cx.1872 N.652 (1914) (AN) CT, Cx.1978 N.1036 (1924) (AN) CT, Cx.1860 N.1692 (1926) (AN) CT, Cx.1838 N.249 (1928) (AN) CT, Cx.1821 N.224 (1930) (AN) CT, Cx.1830 N.1386 (1937)



Appendix B 235

(AN) CT, Cx.1934, N.2105 (1939) (AN) CT, Cx.1732 N.2703 (1940) (AN) CT, Cx.1803 N.2816 (1940) Supremo Tribunal (BV) (AN) BV.0.RMI.1271 (1896)

Tribunal de Justiça do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (TJRJ) (TJRJ) Isolina Ribeiro de Aguiar (1900) (TJRJ) Alcina Ephygenia Mendonça (1911) (TJRJ) Gracinda de Medeiros (1911) (TJRJ) Faustina Brasilina (1912) (TJRJ) Helena Teixeira Pinto (1914) (TJRJ) Maria de Lima (1916) (TJRJ) Philomena Francisca de Sousa Korff, Maria Albuquerque Fróes e Silva (1921) (TJRJ) Lydia de Carvalho (1922) (TJRJ) Jovelina Pereira dos Santos (1931)

Museu da Justiça (MJ) (MJ) RG.13242 Cx.1403 (1902) (MJ) RG.13243 Cx.1403 (1902) (MJ) RG.13244 Cx.1403 (1903) (MJ) RG.13245 Cx.1403 (1904) (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910)

Appendix C: Reproductive-­R elated Police Investigations and Court Cases by Archive and Vara (State of Rio de Janeiro and Supreme Court) Total = 39

Arquivo Nacional (AN) Supremo Tribunal (BV) (AN) BV.0.RMI.1063 (1899) Pará (AN) BV.0.RMI.459 (1905) São Paulo (AN) BV.0.RMI.458 (1905) Rio Grande do Sul (AN) BV.0.RMI.660 (1905) Rio Grande do Sul (AN) BV.0.RMI.207 (1906) Rio Grande do Sul (AN) BV.0.RMI.153 (1907) Rio de Janeiro (AN) BV.0.HCO.1442 (1913) São Paulo (AN) BV.0.HCO.1197 (1916) Rio Grande do Sul (AN) BV.0.HCO.3512 (1916) Paraíba do Norte

Museu da Justiça (MJ) (MJ) RG.18107 Cx.1876 (1890) Cabo Frio (MJ) RG.18200 Cx.1884 (1925) Cabo Frio

Tribunal de Justiça do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (TJRJ) (TJRJ) Francisca Jorge (1896) Petrópolis (TJRJ) Antonio José de Moraes (1897) Rio Bonito 236



Appendix C 237

(TJRJ) Anna de Aguiar Barboza (1898) Sumidouro (TJRJ) Maria Gertrudes dos Santos (1899) São Pedro da Aldeia (TJRJ) Rosa Clemente (1900) Petrópolis (TJRJ) Henrique Schanuel (1900) Petrópolis (TJRJ) Eugenia de Souza e Silva (1901) Petrópolis (TJRJ) Luiza Rosa de Jesus (1904) Capivari (TJRJ) Theodoro Calixto de Oliveira, Rosa Alves de Souza, Candida Alves de Souza (1904) Cantagalo (TJRJ) Amelia Lyra da Conceição et al. (1905) Santo Antônio de Pádua (TJRJ) João Martins de Souza, Cariode Paulina de Souza (1907) Paraty (TJRJ) Cezarina Antonia da Conceição (1911) Petrópolis (TJRJ) Maria Ferreira de Abreu (1911) Cantagalo (TJRJ) Thereza Paes (1914) Barra do Piraí (TJRJ) Maria Soares (1915) Petrópolis (TJRJ) Olivia Maria da Conceição (1915) Sumidouro (TJRJ) Honorata Pires (1916) Sumidouro (TJRJ) Maria da Conceição (1917) Itaguaí (TJRJ) Adalvina Maria Romana de Nazareth (1919) Saquarema (TJRJ) Donario Gómes Soares (1921) Petrópolis (TJRJ) Leonor Alves (1922) Nova Friburgo (TJRJ) Altina Virtulina Maria da Conceição (1925) Rio Bonito (TJRJ) Rosa Maria da Conceição (1926) Petrópolis (TJRJ) Maria José Honorato, Antonia Rita de Jesus (1928) São Francisco de Paula (TJRJ) Maria da Conceição (1931) Macaé (TJRJ) Maria da Conceição (1931) Niterói (TJRJ) Maria Julia, Alexandrina Juliana Ferreira (1938) São Francisco de Paula (TJRJ) Antonieta da Silva (1939) Santa Maria Madalena

Appendix D: Reproductive-­R elated Police Investigations and Court Cases by Archive and Vara (1830 Criminal Code) Total = 11

City of Rio de Janeiro Arquivo Nacional (AN) Relação do Rio de Janeiro (84) (AN) 84, Cx.110 N.126 (1842) (AN) 84, M.6 N.980 (1842) Sem Fundo (SF) (AN) SF, M.2266 N.709 (1884)

State of Rio de Janeiro Arquivo Nacional (AN) Relação do Rio de Janeiro (84) (AN) 84, Cx.117 N.1047, N.1048 (1859) Laguna (AN) 84, M.190 N.1990 (1861) Campanha (AN) 84, M.96 N.1732 (1866) Caçapava (AN) 84, Cx.105 N.994 (1890) Magé1

238



Appendix D 239

Tribunal de Justiça do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (TJRJ) (TJRJ) Catharina Rablais, Catharina Rablais Filha (1881) Petrópolis (TJRJ) Nuno Francisco Carneiro (1881) Petrópolis (TJRJ) Seraphina de tal (1890) Nova Friburgo (TJRJ) Francisco Augusto Marques Froideraux, Maria Hortencia, Amelia de Moraes (1890) Nova Friburgo

Appendix E: Midwives

240

Source

Year

Name

Nationalitya

Age

Civil Statusb

Skin Color

Occupationc

Literacy

Medical Intervention

Definitiond

(AN) CT, Cx.1956 N.587

1898

Thereza Jorge

IT

60

W

Domestic ser ­v ice

Illiterate

Assisted birth

Lay

(AN) 0R.0.IQP.3065

1904

Escarlatina Lina Teixeira

RJ

50

S

—­

Illiterate

Assisted birth and alleged infanticide

Lay

(AN) T8.0.IQP.1773

1905

Constancia Maria Caetano

MG

48

S

Preta

Domestic ser­v ice (cook)

Literate

Assisted birth and alleged infanticide

Lay

(AN) T7.0.IQP.1922

1908

Maria José

RJ

—­

M

—­

Domestic ser ­v ice

Literate

Assisted birth that resulted in maternal death from hemorrhage

Lay

(AN) CS.0.IQP.237

1908

Maria Piedade Borges

PT

37

M

Brancae

Domestic ser ­v ice

Literate

Ran illegal abortion clinic

Unlicensed

(AN) T8.0.IQP.2682

1908

Olympia Francoso dos Santos

RJ

42

W

—­

House­w ife (doméstica)

Literate

Assisted teratologic birth

Curiosa

(AN) CQ.0.IQP.626

1909

Maria Preciosa Pinto

PT

—­

—­

Brancae

Parteira (curiosa)

—­

Ran illegal abortion clinic

Unlicensed (diploma from Portugal)

(AN) T8.0.IQP.3623

1910

Govinda Semola

IT

29

M

Brancae

Parteira

Literate

Assisted miscarriage and extracted placenta

Curiosa

(AN) CR.0.IQP.566

1912

Emilia Sesiu

“Arab”

40

M

—­

House­w ife

Illiterate

Treated ­woman with unknown ec­topic pregnancy that ended in maternal death

Curiosa

(AN) CS.0.IQP.2323

1918

Silvana Maria da Conceição

BR

65

S

—­

Domestic ser­v ice (“in the past assisted childbirth”)

Illiterate

Assisted birth that resulted in maternal death from infection

Curiosa

Branca

e

—­

(continued)

Age

Civil Statusb

RJ

31

M

RJ

34

RJ State

Paula Rodrigues

1923

(AN) CT, Cx.2006 N.2008

Source

Year

Name

Nationalitya

(AN) CS.0.PCR.3046

1921

Ambrosina Magalhães Delgado

(TJRJ) Philomena Francisca de Sousa Korff, Maria Albuquerque Fróes e Silva

1921

Philomena Francisca de Souza Korff Maria Albuquerque Fróes e Silva

(AN) CS.0.IQP.3426

1923

(TJRJ) Maria Adelaide da Conceição Pinto Montenegro

Skin Color

Medical Intervention

Occupationc

Literacy

—­

House­w ife

Literate

Practiced alleged abortion that resulted in maternal death

Curiosa

M

—­

Seamstress

Literate

Curiosa

47

W

—­

“Personal assistant or lady-­in-­waiting” (Dama de companhia)

Literate

Practiced alleged abortion that resulted in maternal death Practiced alleged abortion that resulted in maternal death

RJ

29

S

—­

House­w ife

Illiterate

Assisted birth of second twin

Lay

Maria Adelaide da Conceição Pinto Montenegro

BR f

34

W

—­

Laundress

Illiterate

Ran illegal abortion clinic; assisted deliveries in the neighborhood

Curiosa

1926

Jacintha de Mello

PT

80

W

Branca

House­w ife

—­

Assisted birth that ended in maternal death from hemorrhage

Curiosa

(AN) CT, Cx.1860 N.1692

1926

Bertha Vieira da Rocha

GE

50

W

Brancae

Nurse/midwife’s assistant

Practiced alleged abortion

Unlicensed

(AN) CT, Cx.1950 N.118

1929

52

"

"

(AN) CS.0.PCR.4940

1930

Maria da Gloria Amorim

RJ state

43

W

Branca

(AN) CS.0.PCR.5608

1930

Elly Waeger

SW

55

M

Brancae

"

"

House­w ife/midwife

Literate

Definitiond

Curiosa

"

Practiced alleged abortion that resulted in maternal death

"

Licensed midwife

Literate

Practiced alleged abortion that resulted in maternal death

Licensed

Midwife

Literate

Practiced alleged abortion that resulted in maternal death; ran midwifery clinic

Licensed

(AN) CT, Cx.1821 N.224

1930

Deonilia Santos “Madame Odette”

BA

34

S

Parda

Licensed nurse

Literate

Practiced alleged abortion that resulted in maternal death

Licensed (Brazilian Red Cross)

(AN) CS.0.IQP.6612

1931

Jovita Tavares

RJ State

63

M

Branca

House­w ife

Literate

Assisted birth that resulted in maternal death from toxemia

Curiosa

(AN) CT, Cx.1928 N.60

1931

Eurydice Dantas

RJ

33

M

Branca

Midwife

Literate

Practiced alleged abortion

Unlicensed

(AN) CT, Cx.1845 N.67

1932

Isabel Maximiana de Britto

RJ

38

M

Morena

House­w ife

Literate

Practiced alleged abortion that resulted in maternal death

Curiosa

(AN) CS.0.PCR.6998

1934

Arminda Palmyra Teixeira

PT

60

W

Branca

Unlicensed midwife

Literate

Practiced alleged abortion that resulted in maternal death

Unlicensed

(AN) CS.0.PCR.6998

1934

Maria do Espirito Santo

PT

60

M

Branca

Seamstress

Literate

Practiced alleged abortion that resulted in maternal death

Curiosa

(AN) CS.0.PCR.7613

1935

Maria do Rosario

RJ State

38

—­

Preta

Matriculated midwife in Health Post

Illiterate

Assisted birth

Unlicensed

(AN) CS.0.IQP.7592

1936

Heronita de Oliveira Cavas, “Madame Pereira”

PE

38

W

Branca

House­w ife

Literate

Practiced alleged abortion

Unlicensed

(AN) CT, Cx.1830 N.1313

1936

Maria Francisca de Jesus

PT

50

M

Branca

House­w ife

Illiterate

Assisted birth and buried stillborn infant

Curiosa

(AN) CT, Cx.1815 N.1250

1936

Conceição de Oliveira

MG

40

W

Preta

Laundress

Illiterate

Assisted breech birth that resulted in stillbirth

Curiosa

(AN) CT, Cx.1830 N.1386

1937

Maria Berlimont

GE

49

S

Brancae

Licensed nurse

Literate

Ran illegal gynecological clinic

Unlicensed (continued)

Source

Year

Name

Nationalitya

Age

Civil Statusb

(AN) CS.0.IQP.7759

1937

Maria Luiza de Oliveira

RJ State

45

M

(AN) 6Z.0.PCR.20528

1937

Odilia Ferreira Villela

RJ

28

M

(AN) CS.0.IQP.8559

1938

Aurora Bastos de Araujo

RJ

42

W

(AN) 6Z.0.IQP.22570

1938

Maria Pavlak

SC

46

S

(AN) 6Z.0.PCR.22279

1938

Ondina Constantino Neves

RG

35

M

(AN) 6Z.0.PCR.21018

1938

Honorina Constantino

RJ

42

M

(AN) CT, Cx.1732 N.2703

1940

Maria da Gloria Lopes Vieira

RJ

51

M

(AN) CT, Cx.1803 N.2816

1940

Adelina Machado Freitas, “Dininha Freitas”

SP

31

M

Skin Color

Occupationc

Literacy

Medical Intervention

Definitiond

—­

Matriculated midwife in Health Post

Literate

Assisted stillbirth

Licensed

—­

House­w ife

Literate

Ran illegal gynecological clinic

Unlicensed

Licensed nurse/ midwife

Literate

Practiced alleged abortion that resulted in maternal death

Licensed (Pro-­Matre)

House­w ife

Literate

Practiced alleged abortion that resulted in maternal death

Unlicensed

Licensed midwife

Literate

Ran illegal gynecological clinic

Licensed (Never proven)

Obstetric nurse

Literate

Ran illegal gynecological clinic

Unlicensed

Licensed obstetric nurse

Literate

Ran gynecological clinic

Licensed

Obstetric nurse

Literate

Ran gynecological clinic

Licensed

Branca

—­

Branca

—­ Branca —­

BR = Brazilian, state unspecified; BA = Bahia; MG = Minas Gerais; PE = Pernambuco; RG = Rio Grande do Sul; RJ = city of Rio de Janeiro; RJ state = state of Rio de Janeiro; SC = Santa Catarina; SP = São Paulo; GE = German; IT = Italian; PT = Portuguese; SW = Swedish. b Civil status (M = married; S = single; W = widowed). c Stated by defendant. d Author’s classification. e Skin color taken from nationality. f The midwife stated that she was originally from Portugal, but she also reported her nationality as Brazilian. a

Appendix F: W ­ omen in Infanticide, Child Abandonment, and Abortion T ­ rials

245

Age

Civil Skin Statusb Color

Source

Year

Name

Nationalitya

Occupationc

(AN) 0I.0.PCR.3075

1892

Celina de Souza

RJ state

18

A

Literacy

Crime

Outcome

­Children

Pardad

Domestic ser ­v ice

Literate

Infanticide

Incomplete

Two living ­children

(AN) T9.0.PCR.28

1893

Joanna Concha

SP

22

S

Brancad

Domestic ser­v ice (wet nurse)

Illiterate

Child abandonment

Incomplete

Two living ­children, including the infant she tried to foster

(TJRJ) Isolina Ribeiro de Aguiar

1900

Isolina Ribeiro de Aguiar

MG

19

V

—­

Domestic ser ­v ice

Literate

Infanticide

Incomplete

One living child

(AN) T8.0.PCR.825

1901

Bella Pereira Thiller

RJ state

24

Mf

Literate

Child abandonment

Incomplete

—

(MJ) RG.13242 Cx.1403

1902

Alice do Espirito Santo

BR

18

S

—­

Domestic ser ­v ice

Illiterate

Infanticide

Incomplete

—

(MJ) RG.13243 Cx.1403

1902

Laura Sobral

BA

26

S

Preta

Domestic ser ­v ice

Literate

Infanticide

Not guilty

—

(MJ) RG.13244 Cx.1403

1903

Emilia Faustina

RJ state

18

S

Pretad

Domestic ser ­v ice

Illiterate

Infanticide

Not guilty

—

(MJ) RG.13245 Cx.1403

1904

Olivia Nogueira da Gama

MG

22/24

S

Parda

Domestic ser ­v ice

Illiterate

Infanticide

Guilty (298§); Appeals trial: guilty (298§), acquitted (27§4)

—

(AN) CA.CT4.376

1907

Rosa Chrispim

RJ

21/22

S

Brancad

Domestic ser ­v ice

Literate

Infanticide

Not Guilty

—

(AN) T8.0.PCR.2480

1907

Delmira Maria da Conceição

BR

18

S

Preta

—­

Illiterate

Infanticide

Incomplete

—

(AN) CA.CT4.492

1908

Gloria Lourenço da Silva

PT

27

S

Brancad

House­w ife (Doméstica)

Illiterate

Infanticide

Guilty (298§), acquitted (27§4)

—

Branca

—­

(MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577

1910

Joaquina Gonçalves

PT

35/36

M

Branca

Domestic ser ­v ice

Illiterate

Infanticide

Not guilty

One living child

(TJRJ) Alcina Ephygenia Mendonça

1911

Alcina Ephygenia Mendonça

MG

20/22

S

Preta

Domestic ser ­v ice

Illiterate

Infanticide

Guilty (298), acquitted (27§4)

One child who died from tetanus

(TJRJ) Gracinda de Medeiros

1911

Gracinda de Medeiros

RJ state

16

S

Preta

Domestic ser­v ice (laundress)

Illiterate

Infanticide

Guilty (298§), acquitted (27§4)

—

(TJRJ) Faustina Brasilina

1912

Faustina Brasilina

RJ state

21

S

—­

Domestic ser­v ice (cook)

Illiterate

Infanticide

Guilty (298), acquitted (27§4)

—

(TJRJ) Helena Teixeira Pinto

1914

Helena Teixeira Pinto

RJ

17

S

Parda

Domestic ser­v ice (cook)

Illiterate

Infanticide

Guilty (298§)

—

(AN) CT, Cx.1872 N.652

1914

Odilia da Conceição

PT

19

S

Branca

Actress

Illiterate

Abortion

Not charged

—

(AN) CS.0.PCR.1350

1914

Maria Ferreira da Mendonça

RJ

18

S

Branca

—

Literate

Abortion

Not charged

—

(AN) CS.0.PCR.1373

1915

Claudina Faria

MG

21

S

Domestic ser­v ice (cook)

Illiterate

Child abandonment

Without basis (improcedente)

(TJRJ) Maria de Lima

1916

Maria de Lima

MaGr

20

S

Branca (india)

Domestic ser ­v ice

Illiterate

Infanticide

Guilty (298§)

(AN) CS.0.PCR.1877

1917

Anna de Carvalho

RJ state

20

S

Preta

Domestic ser ­v ice

Literate

Child abandonment

Statute of limitations (prescrita)

—­

One living child (four years of age) in addition to two-­month-­ old infant she abandoned — Infant she abandoned was six months old (continued)

Nationalitya

Age

Civil Statusb

PT

19

S

Maria Vieira da Silva

RJ state

30

1921

Nalvina Angel dos Santos

BR

(TJRJ) Lydia de Carvalho

1922

Lydia de Carvalho

(AN) CT, Cx.1978 N.1036

1924

(AN) CT, Cx.1860 N.1692

Source

Year

Name

(AN) CS.0.PCR.2059

1918

Palmyra Ferreira da Silva

(AN) CS.0.PCR.3046

1921

(TJRJ) Philomena Francisca de Sousa Korff, Maria Albuquerque Fróes e Silva

Skin Color

Occupationc

Literacy

Crime

Outcome

­Children

Branca

Domestic service

Literate

Infanticide

Not charged

Victim of incest

A

Preta

Domestic ser ­v ice

Illiterate

Abortion

Not charged (died)

Two living ­children

28

M

Parda

House­w ife

—­

Abortion

Not charged (died)

—

RJ state

34

S

Pardad

Domestic ser ­v ice

Illiterate

Infanticide

Incomplete

—

Maria de Jesus

PT

25

S

Branca

­Hotel maid

Illiterate

Infanticide/ abortion

Without basis (improcedente)

—

1926

Idalina Faria Morrot

BR

—­

M

House­w ife, property owner

—­

Abortion

Not charged

(AN) CS.0.PCR.4940

1930

Philomena Almeida Figueiredo

RJ

22

S

Branca

Teacher

Literate

Abortion

Not charged (died)

(AN) CT, Cx.1838, N.249

1928

Emilia da Silva Vianna

RJ

20

M

Branca

House­w ife

Literate

Child abandonment

Without basis (improcedente)

One living child

(AN) CS.0.PCR.5608

1930

Celeste de Carvalho

BRe

28

Mf

Branca

House­w ife

—­

Abortion

Not charged (died)

Living ­children

—­

Two living ­children

(AN) CT, Cx.1821 N.224

1930

Maria Augusta

BR

19

S

Parda

House­w ife

—­

(TJRJ) Jovelina Pereira dos Santos

1931

Jovelina Pereira dos Santos

RJ state

19

Mf

Preta

Domestic ser­v ice (cook)

(AN) CS.0.PCR.5883

1931

Philomena Temponi

RJ

20

S

Branca

Dancer

(AN) CS.0.PCR.6998

1934

Maria Rosa Martins

—­

45

Mf

Branca

—­

(AN) CS.0.PCR.7644

1935

Alcinda Ferreira de Souza

PT

27

W

Branca

(AN) CT, Cx.1934 N.2105

1939

Anna Mendes

RJ

15

S

Branca

Abortion

Not charged (died)

—

Illiterate

Infanticide

Statute of limitations (extinta)

Literate

Abortion

Not charged

—

—­

Abortion

Not charged (died)

—

House­w ife

Literate

Abortion

Without basis (improcedente)

Gives birth to child during abortion trial

Domestic ser ­v ice

Literate

Abortion

Not charged

Victim of incest

One living child

BR = Brazilian, state unspecified; BA = Bahia; MaGr = Mato Grosso; MG = Minas Gerais; RJ = city of Rio de Janeiro; RJ state = state of Rio de Janeiro; IT = Italian; PT = Portuguese; SP = Spanish. b Civil status (A = amasiada; M = married; S = single; W = widowed). c Stated by defendant. d Skin color taken from nationality or witness statements. e From “the North.” f Separated from her husband. a

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Notes

Introduction 1.  In 1763, Rio de Janeiro became the capital of Brazil, and it remained so throughout the period covered in this book. In 1960, Brasília, the current capital, was inaugurated. The city of Rio de Janeiro is located in the state bearing the same name. In the text, I use the term “Rio de Janeiro” to refer to the city. If I am discussing the state of Rio de Janeiro, I identify it as such. Vieira’s full name was Isalina Vieira da Costa, but I use a shortened version in the text for clarity. Arquivo Nacional, Rio de Janeiro, hereafter (AN), CR.0.IQP.674 (1912). 2. For other hospitals in Rio de Janeiro turning away patients, see (AN) CS.0.IQP.3426 (1923); (AN) CT, Cx.1950 N.118 (1929). See also Adamo, “Broken Promise,” 116–17; Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 100, 157. 3.  (AN) CR.0.IQP.674 (1912). See also “O caso da Maternidade,” A Noticia, October 26–27, 1912, 3; “Perversidade? Casos que depõem contra a Maternidade,” A Noticia, October 24–25, 1912, 2. 4.  (AN) CR.0.IQP.674 (1912). 5.  For the sake of clarity, throughout this book I use the term “obstetrician” to refer to physicians who practiced both obstetrics and gynecol­ogy. For most of nineteenth-­century Brazil, the field of gynecol­ogy was subsumed within the obstetric profession. By the turn of the twentieth ­century, however, the two fields became increasingly specialized. But, as with t­ oday, practicing obstetrician-­g ynecologists w ­ ere trained and practiced in both fields. On the development of Brazilian obstetrics and gynecol­ogy, see Martins, Visões do feminino, 142–54. 6.  (AN) CR.0.IQP.674 (1912). 7.  M. Abreu, “Slave M ­ others”; Chalhoub, Machado de Assis; Cowling, Conceiving Freedom; M.  H. Machado, “Between Two Beneditos”; Roth, “From ­Free 251

252

Notes to Introduction

Womb to Criminalized W ­ oman”; M. Santos, “Mothering Slaves”; M. Santos, “Slave ­Mothers.” 8.  Fausto, “Brazil,” 787–811. 9. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy; Gormley, “Motherhood as National Ser­v ice”; Maes, “Progeny of Pro­gress”; Otovo, Progressive ­Mothers. 10. Gordon, Moral Property; Petchesky, Abortion and W ­ oman’s Choice; Reagan, When Abortion Was a Crime. 11.  For just a small sample of works that explore the centrality of ­women’s reproduction to po­liti­cal regime change and consolidation, see Klausen, Abortion ­Under Apartheid; Kanaaneh, Birthing the Nation; Kligman, Politics of Duplicity; Thomas, Politics of the Womb. 12. Camiscioli, Reproducing the French Race; Lovett, Conceiving the F ­ uture. 13.  Kashani-­Sabet, Conceiving Citizens; Pieper Mooney, Politics of Motherhood. 14.  Koven and Michel, “Womanly Duties.” 15. Connelly, Fatal Misconception; Solinger and Nakachi, Reproductive States. 16. López, History of ­Family; Takeuchi-­Demirci, Contraceptive Diplomacy. 17. Bashford, Global Population. 18.  See the foundational edited volume by Ginsburg and Rapp, Conceiving the New World Order. See also Andaya, Conceiving Cuba; Browner and Sargent, Reproduction, Globalization, and the State; Maternowska, Reproducing Inequities. For an excellent overview of ethnographic lit­er­a­ture on reproduction u ­ ntil 2006, see Inhorn, “Defining W ­ omen’s Health.” 19. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy; Freire, Mulheres, mães e médicos; Gormley, “Motherhood as National Ser­v ice”; Maes, “Progeny of Pro­gress”; Martins, Visões do feminino; Otovo, Progressive ­Mothers; Rohden, Uma ciência. 20.  Atayde, “Mulheres infanticidas”; Hentz, “A honra”; Pedro, Práticas proibidas; G. Ramos, “Entre ‘o sublime nome’ ”; F. Rodrigues, “Os crimes”; Rohden, A arte de enganar; M. S. Silva, “Reprodução, sexualidade.” 21.  Monica Green also makes this point. “Gendering the History,” 488, 500. 22.  This term comes from Joseph and Nugent, Everyday Forms. 23.  For just a small slice of the rich historiography on gender, reproduction, and slavery in the Atlantic world, see Beckles, Natu­ral Rebels; Berry, Price for Their Pound of Flesh; Bush, Slave ­Women; Cooper Owens, Medical Bondage; Fuentes, Dispossessed Lives; Morgan, Laboring ­Women; Paugh, Politics of Reproduction; Schwartz, Birthing a Slave; Turner, Contested Bodies; D. White, Ar’n’t I a ­Woman? On abolition and post-­abolition, see Barros, Reproducing the British Ca­r ib­be­an; Cowling, Conceiving Freedom; Findlay, Imposing Decency; Paton, No Bond but the Law. For gender and slavery in Brazil, see Dias, Power and Everyday Life; Figueiredo, O avesso da memória; S. Graham, Caetana Says No; Karasch, Slave Life; Slenes, Na senzala, uma flor; Xavier, Farias, and Gomes, Mulheres negras. 24.  This phrase comes from Stoler, Carnal Knowledge. 25.  On Jim Crow, see Haley, No Mercy ­Here. On sterilization, see Kluchin, Fit to Be Tied; Roberts, Killing the Black Body; Schoen, Choice and Coercion. Coerced steril-



Notes to Introduction 253

ization policies also affected Puerto Rican, Native American, and Mexican American ­women. See Briggs, Reproducing Empire; Lawrence, “Indian Health Ser­v ice”; A. Stern, Eugenic Nation. 26.  Fausto, “Brazil,” 789; Love, “Po­liti­c al Participation in Brazil”; Weinstein, Color of Modernity, 19–20. 27.  For education, see Dávila, Diploma of Whiteness. For race and the constitution, see Alberto, Terms of Inclusion, esp. 12, 24–25. For voting restrictions, see J. Carvalho, Os bestializados; Love, “Po­liti­cal Participation.” 28. Alberto, Terms of Inclusion, 24–25. 29.  For nineteenth-­century patronage networks, see R. Graham, Patronage and Politics. 30.  On formal l­abor strikes, see ­Meade, “Civilizing” Rio, 121–76. On the continuation of informal ­labor practices, see Acerbi, Street Occupations; S. Graham, House and Street. 31. Hahner, Emancipating the Female Sex, 73–75; Karawejczyk, “As Filhas de Eva,” 79–126. 32. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 61, 81, 140; Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 26–30. 33.  For Brazil, see Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy; Hahner, Emancipating the Female Sex. For other Latin American countries, see Ehrick, Shield of the Weak; Hammond, ­Women’s Suffrage; Lavrin, ­Women, Feminism; Olcott, Revolutionary ­Women; Rosemblatt, Gendered Compromises. 34.  For regional uprisings, see Weinstein, Color of Modernity. 35. Fischer, Poverty of Rights, esp. 56–58. 36.  J. Carvalho, Os bestializados, 16; Fausto, “Brazil,” 785; Klein, “Social and Economic Integration of Portuguese.” 37. Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 23. 38.  Instituto Brasileiro de Geografia e Estatística, hereafter IBGE, Recenseamento geral de 1940, 1. 39.  On the 1872 population, see Chalhoub, Visões, 232–33. On enslaved w ­ omen and population, see Cowling, Conceiving Freedom, 31. On domestic ­labor, see S. Graham, House and Street, 185–87; Hahner, Poverty and Politics, 21–23. 40.  M. A. Abreu, Evolução urbana; Adamo, “Broken Promise”; Benchimol, Pereira Passos; B. Carvalho, Porous City; Fischer, Poverty of Rights; ­Meade, “Civilizing” Rio. 41. Alberto, Terms of Inclusion, 71–72; ­Meade, “Civilizing” Rio, 43; Seigel, Uneven Encounters, 98. 42. Benchimol, Dos micróbios aos mosquitos; Hochman, A era do saneamento; Stepan, Beginnings of Brazilian. 43. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy; Caulfield, In Defense of Honor; Esteves, Meninas perdidas; Soihet, Condição feminina. 44.  See Guy, “Parents Before the Tribunals,” 173. I have also found the essays in Dore and Molyneux, Hidden Histories, helpful in thinking through state patriarchy in twentieth-­century Latin Amer­i­ca.

254

Notes to Introduction

45. Pateman, Sexual Contract; Scott, Fantasy, 91–116; Stepan, “Race, Gender, Science.” 46.  W. Brown, “Finding the Man,” 8. 47.  W. Brown, 12. 48.  For sexual honor, see “Master Abuses.” For claims-­making, see Cowling, Conceiving Freedom. For black motherhood, see Ariza, “Bad ­Mothers, Labouring ­Children”; Otovo, “From Mãe Preta.” For a general discussion of slaves and honor, see S. Graham, “Honor Among Slaves.” 49.  Del Priore, Ao sul do corpo; Nazzari, “Urgent Need.” 50. Esteves, Meninas perdidas, 25–32. 51.  For the colonial period, see Nazzari, “Urgent Need.” For the early twentieth c­ entury, see Caulfield, In Defense of Honor; Esteves, Meninas perdidas. For two excellent volumes on honor and gender across Latin Amer­i­c a, see Caulfield, Chambers, and Putnam, Honor, Status, and the Law; L. Johnson and Lipsett-­R ivera, ­Faces of Honor. 52. Esteves, Meninas perdidas, 40. 53. Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 4. 54.  This quote comes from Caulfield, Chambers, and Putnam, Honor, Status, and the Law, 2. 55.  Caulfield, “Getting into Trou­ble,” 162. 56. Alvarez, Bacharéis, criminologistas; Fischer, Poverty of Rights. 57. Fischer, Poverty of Rights. 58.  This term comes from Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy. 59. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy; Freire, “ ‘Ser mãe é uma ciência’ ”; Freire, Mulheres, mães e médicos; Martins, “ ‘Vamos criar seu filho’ ”; Otovo, Progressive ­Mothers; Wadsworth, “Moncorvo Filho.” 60. Htun, Sex and the State, 30–36. 61.  This phrase is from Schwarcz, O espetáculo das raças, 18, 244–45. But other scholars make the same point. See Corrêa, As ilusões da liberdade; Cunha, Intenção e gesto; Skidmore, Black into White; Stepan, Hour of Eugenics. 62. Briggs, Reproducing Empire; Bronfman, Mea­sures of Equality; Findlay, Imposing Decency; Stepan, Hour of Eugenics; Zulawski, Unequal Cures. 63. Stepan, Hour of Eugenics. 64. Alberto, Terms of Inclusion, esp. 10–11, 115–16. 65. Stepan, Hour of Eugenics. For Latin Amer­i­ca’s only sterilization law in Veracruz, Mexico, see A. M. Stern, “ ‘Hour of Eugenics.’ ” 66. Otovo, Progressive ­Mothers. 67. Lesser, Negotiating National Identity; Weinstein, Color of Modernity. 68. Corrêa, As ilusões da liberdade, 180–81. 69.  Stepan, “Race, Gender, Science,” 30. 70.  McClintock, “No Longer in a F ­ uture Heaven,” 90. 71.  Yuval-­Davis and Anthias, Woman-­Nation-­State, 7. 72.  The concept of a “livable life” comes from Butler, Frames of War, 21–23.



Notes to Introduction 255

73.  In 1994, a group of black feminists in the United States coined the term “reproductive justice” to push back against the middle-­class, white feminist rhe­toric of “choice.” ­These feminists argued that the h ­ uman right not to have a child was as impor­tant as the right to have c­ hildren and raise them outside of poverty. They located access to reproductive healthcare, including abortion, within a larger social justice framework. See Luna and Luker, “Reproductive Justice”; Price, “What Is Reproductive Justice?”; Ross and Solinger, Reproductive Justice. 74. Reagan, When Abortion Was a Crime, 1. 75.  On scales of inquiry, see Brewer, “Microhistory”; Ginzburg, “Microhistory”; Levi, “On Microhistory”; Struck, Ferris, and Revel, “Space and Scale.” 76.  On the embeddedness of abortion within ­women’s larger reproductive lives, see Ginsburg, Contested Lives; Luker, Abortion. 77. Fuchs, Poor and Pregnant in Paris; Ross, Love and Toil. 78.  See Appendixes A through D and “Notes on Sources.” 79.  See Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 195–97; Chazkel, Laws of Chance, 128–29, 212–13; Cunha, Intenção e gesto, 171n7; Esteves, Meninas perdidas, 30–32. 80.  Sedgh et al., “Induced Abortion.” 81. Appendix D. 82. Ginzburg, Cheese and the Worms. For Rio de Janeiro, see Caulfield, In Defense of Honor; Chalhoub, Trabalho, lar e botequim; Esteves, Meninas perdidas; Giumbelli, O cuidado dos mortos; Soihet, Condição feminina. For this technique in relation to the crime of infanticide, see Schulte, Village in Court, 79–118. 83.  See Porter, “Patient’s View.” 84.  See, for example, Davis, Fiction in the Archives; Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?” 85. Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 167–69; S. Graham, “Honor Among Slaves,” 206–7. In other Latin American contexts, an active courtroom per­for­mance proved pivotal to a case’s l­egal outcome. Findlay, “Courtroom Tales of Sex”; Shelton, “Bodies of Evidence.” 86. Cowling, Conceiving Freedom, 14. See also Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 13–15. 87.  On constrained choice in relation to gender and health, see Bird and Rieker, Gender and Health, 63–75. 88.  Historians have begun to focus on ­women’s embodied experiences as central to the history of motherhood and reproduction. See, for example, Cooper Owens, Medical Bondage; Doyle, Maternal Bodies; Fissell, Vernacular Bodies; Gowing, Common Bodies; Klepp, Revolutionary Conceptions; Turner, Contested Bodies. 89.  Ruggiero, “Honor, Maternity,” 366. 90. Fisher, Birth Control, Sex; Kelly, “Birth Control Practices”; Kimball, “Open Secret”; Kluchin, “Locating the Voices”; Martins, “Memórias maternas”; Pedro et al., “Mulheres, memórias.” 91.  Canning, “Body as Method?” 92.  Kimball, “Open Secret”; Petchesky, Abortion and W ­ oman’s Choice.

256

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93. Einarsdóttir, Tired of Weeping; Scheper-­Hughes, Death Without Weeping. 94.  Mohanty, “Us and Them.” 95.  Scheper-­Hughes, Death Without Weeping, 22. 96.  Scheper-­Hughes. 97.  On structural vio­lence, see Farmer, “Anthropology.” 98.  This idea comes from Scanlon, “Taking ­Women Seriously.” 99. Dias, Power and Everyday Life, 125–27; S. Graham, House and Street, 78–84; Milanich, ­Children of Fate; Putnam, Com­pany They Kept, 112–38; Windler, “Honor Among Orphans.” 100. Putnam, Com­pany They Kept, 7. 101.  Flemming, “Adoption, Exposure.” 102. Alberto, Terms of Inclusion, 22.

Chapter 1 1.  Tribunal de Justiça do Estado do Rio de Janeiro, hereafter (TJRJ), Jovelina Pereira dos Santos (1931). “Mosquito Brigade” is a nonliteral translation of “Polícia de Focos.” See “Brazil: Method and Means,” 387. Thank you to Daniel Franken for help on this translation. 2.  (TJRJ) Jovelina Pereira dos Santos (1931). 3.  F. Rodrigues, “Os crimes,” 136–37. 4.  Grinberg, “Slavery, Liberalism,” 122. 5.  For positivism in other Latin American countries, see Aguirre, The Criminals of Lima; Buffington, Criminal and Citizen; Piccato, City of Suspects; Rodriguez, Civilizing Argentina; Ruggiero, Modernity in the Flesh. 6. Alvarez, Bacharéis, criminologistas; Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 153–95, 375–76n14. 7. Stepan, Hour of Eugenics, 37–44. On positivism during the First Republic, see J. Carvalho, A formação das almas; Diacon, Stringing Together a Nation, 5, 79–99; Skidmore, Black into White, 10–14. 8. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy; Freire, Mulheres, mães e médicos; Martins, Visões do feminino; Otovo, Progressive ­Mothers. 9.  See, for example, Magalhães, Clinica obstetrica, 345. 10. Stepan, Hour of Eugenics, 127; Wegner and Souza, “Eugenia ‘negativa.’ ” 11.  Lugt, “Formed Fetuses,” 167–72. The quote is from page 169. 12.  Coriden, “Church Law and Abortion,” 191–92. 13. Htun, Sex and the State, 33–34. 14.  Coriden, “Church Law and Abortion,” 192–94; Htun, Sex and the State, 34. 15.  For infanticide in the west, see Bechtold and Graves, Killing Infants; Donovan, “Infanticide and the Juries”; Farrell, “Most Diabolical Deed”; Gowing, “Secret Births and Infanticide”; Jackson, New-­Born Child Murder; Jackson, Infanticide; Prosperi, Dar a alma; Rattigan, “What Else Could I Do?”; Schulte, Village in Court, 79–118. Scholars have approached the history of infanticide in China and India through the lens of sex-­



Notes to Chapter 1 257

selective practices, although historians now demonstrate that this approach is a relic of selective historical memory based on Eurocentric colonial rec­ords. Grey, “Creating the ‘Prob­lem Hindu’ ”; King, Between Birth and Death; Sen, “Savage F ­ amily.” 16.  Title 73§4, Almeida, Codigo Philippino, 1:167. This legislation came from a 1570 promulgation by D. Sebastião that referenced movedeiras or ­women accused of “making ­others move with drinks, or by what­ever means.” Quoted in I. Sá, “Abandono de crianças,” 84. 17.  I. Sá, “Abandono de crianças,” 83–84. 18.  P. Camara, O duello e o infanticídio, 84. For the original hom­i­cide law, see Title 35, Almeida, Codigo Philippino, 5:1184–87. 19. Htun, Sex and the State, 54. 20.  Castelbajac, “Aborto l­ egal”; Priore, Ao sul do corpo. For the Portuguese Inquisition in Brazil, see Mello e Souza, Devil and the Land, 124–25, 229–30, 257. For debates in Portugal, see I. Sá, “Abandono de crianças.” On criminal enforcement in the Portuguese empire, see Coates, Convict ­Labor, 69–117. 21. Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 213–14n22; Chazkel, Laws of Chance, 83. For an overview of civil law, see Merryman and Pérez-­Perdomo, Civil Law Tradition. 22.  Donovan, “Abortion, the Law”; I. Sá, “Abandono de crianças.” 23.  Beisel and Kay, “Abortion, Race, and Gender”; Brodie, Contraception and Abortion; Reagan, When Abortion Was a Crime; Smith-­Rosenberg, Disorderly Conduct. 24.  V. Pessoa, Codigo Criminal, 358–65. 25. Carey, I Ask for Justice; Hentz, “A honra”; Htun, Sex and the State; Jaffary, Reproduction and Its Discontents; López, History of ­Family; Rohden, A arte de enganar; Ruggiero, “Honor, Maternity”; Ruggiero, “Not Guilty”; Shelton, “Bodies of Evidence.” 26.  For the classical tradition of the 1830 Criminal Code, see Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 21–22; Chazkel, Laws of Chance, 84; Dutra, Literatura jurídica, 45; Peres and Nery Filho, “A doença m ­ ental,” 336–38. 27.  For the gendered in­equality of Enlightenment princi­ples, see Pateman, Sexual Contract; Scott, Fantasy. 28.  Article 16§6, V. Pessoa, Codigo Criminal, 62, 71. 29.  Article 45§1, V. Pessoa, 116–17. 30.  Article 43, V. Pessoa, 113–14. 31.  T. Barreto, Menores e loucos, 31. 32.  For Beviláqua, see Naves, “Coleção História do Direito,” viii. For l­ater disciples, see Gameiro, “O sexo femenino,” 25. 33.  V. Pessoa, Codigo Criminal, 358–60. 34.  V. Pessoa, 361. 35. Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 23. 36.  P. Camara, O duello e o infanticídio, 91. In the 1830 Criminal Code, Articles 192 and 193 (hom­i­cide) had sentences ranging from six years in prison to the death penalty depending on the circumstances outlined in Articles 16§2, 7, 10–14, 17. V. Pessoa, Codigo Criminal, 62, 64–66, 72–73, 76–78, 335–51.

258

Notes to Chapter 1

37. Bitencourt, Do infantecidio, 1; Brasiel, Breves considerações, 2; Neves, Dissertação medico-­legal, 1–6; Sequeira, Do infanticidio, 4–5. 38.  Rego Filho, “Considerações”; J. Souza, Considerações, 10–15. 39.  V. Pessoa, Codigo Criminal, 361–62. 40.  V. Pessoa, 363–64. 41.  V. Pessoa, 364. 42.  V. Pessoa, 364–65. 43. Tinôco, Codigo Criminal, 379–80. 44.  Castelbajac, “Aborto l­egal,” 43. 45.  Jaffary, “Reconceiving Motherhood”; Ruggiero, “Not Guilty.” 46. Reagan, When Abortion Was a Crime, 2. 47.  Otovo, “Marrying ‘Well,’ ” 710. 48.  S. Graham, “Slavery’s Impasse”; Roth, “From F ­ ree Womb to Criminalized ­Woman.” 49.  See Appendix D. 50. Alvarez, Bacharéis, criminologistas, 17–19, 66–72; Chazkel, Laws of Chance, 84; Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 156–57. 51. Alvarez, Bacharéis, criminologistas, 18, 43, 50; Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 156–57, 378n24; Peres and Nery Filho, “A doença m ­ ental,” 345. 52.  In 1932, as jurists began the pro­cess of writing a new penal code ­u nder the Vargas administration, appellate court judge Vicente Piragibe published an updated version of the 1890 code. This became law ­u ntil the 1940 code was promulgated in 1942. Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 377–78n23. The 1932 code did not modify the crimes of abortion or infanticide, however. Piragibe, Consolidação, 141–42. 53. Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 2:2. 54.  Hentz, “A honra,” 41; F. Rodrigues, “Os crimes,” 84. In the 1890 Penal Code, Article 294 (hom­i­cide) had a sentence ranging from six to thirty years, depending on the aggravating circumstances outlined in Articles 39§2, 3, 6–13, 16–19 and Article 41§2. O. Soares, Codigo Penal, 598–601. 55. Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 2:2. 56.  A. J. Lima, “Infanticidio.” For the article’s influence in the 1880s, see B. Barros, Do infanticidio, 15–19; P. Machado, Definição, 16–20. 57.  “Apostillas academicas”; Barcellos, Do infanticidio, 9–12; Lopes Filho, Do infanticidio, 8–9; J. T. Oliveira, Do infanticidio, 6–11; Pacheco, Do infanticidio, 3–4. 58.  O. Soares, Codigo Penal, 617–22. 59. Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 2:54–55. 60.  This was the same sentence as hom­i­cide, Article 294§2. Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 2:60; Siqueira, Direito Penal, 2:598. In practice, the police investigated only one abortion-­related death as manslaughter (Article 297). See (AN) CT, Cx.1845 N.67 (1932). 61. Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 2:55. 62.  Article 39§5, O. Soares, Codigo Penal, 101, 106. 63.  For Brazil, see Bitencourt, Do infantecidio, 2. For France, see Devergie, “Observations,” 88. 64.  A. J. Lima, “Infanticidio,” 5.



Notes to Chapter 1 259

65. Jorge, Do infanticidio, 29–33. 66.  Some leading scholars continued to reject it as a requisite of infanticide. See Siqueira, Direito Penal, 2:586–87. 67.  On Roman and canon law, see J. M. Fonseca, “O nascituro,” 151. 68.  A. C. Antunes, “O aborto,” 483; J. M. Fonseca, “O nascituro,” 151; Picanço, “O nascituro,” 162; Siqueira, Direito Penal, 2:593–95. The distinction between “feticide” and “abortion” would also mark jurists’ debate over the 1940 penal code. F. Mattos, “O aborto criminoso.” 69.  A. J. Lima, “Infanticidio,” 2; Pires, Do aborto, 16. 70. Campos, Aborto criminoso, 66, 119–20; A. Costa, Abôrto criminozo, 61–62; A. Mattos, Aborto criminoso, 17–20. 71. Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 2:54. 72.  Araujo, 2:60. 73.  A. O. Antunes, Contribuição, 22–23. 74.  A. J. Lima, “Infanticidio,” 2. See also C. Barreto, “O aborto,” 327; J. Camara, Do aborto, 19; Campos, Aborto criminoso, 71–76; A. Costa, Abôrto criminoso, 62. 75.  A. J. Lima, “Objectividade jurídica,” 89. 76. Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 2:11. 77.  For medico-­legal discussions of obstetric definitions, see E. Azevedo, Do aborto, 19; Cavalcanti, Contribuição, 3; Rezende, Considerações, 5. For l­egal discussions, see Siqueira, Direito Penal, 2:592. 78.  A. J. Lima, “Objectividade jurídica,” 89. 79.  J. Azevedo, Aborto obstetrico, 4. 80. Peixoto, Elementos, 228; Peixoto, Medicina ­legal, 86. 81. Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 1:192–200. 82.  Borges, “Healing and Mischief,” 183, 186. 83. Sampaio, Nas trincheiras da cura. 84. Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 1:192. 85.  Araujo, 1:193. For this comparison with hom­i­cide, see O. Soares, Codigo Penal, 309–15. 86.  Title 4, Section 2, Article 72§24, Constituição da Republica, 27. For debates, see O. Soares, Codigo Penal, 309–11. 87.  Part 4, Articles 250–278, Decree 5156, March 8, 1904, Collecção das Leis, 1904, 1, Part 2:267–74. 88.  O. Soares, Codigo Penal, 315–16, 328. 89.  O. Soares, 309, 330. Articles 159 and 160 further regulated the practice of prescribing medi­cations, although legislation in Rio de Janeiro ­later modified ­t hese articles. Siqueira, Direito Penal, 2:166–69, 177–89. 90.  For the conflation of healing, religion, and witchcraft, see Siqueira, Direito Penal, 2:165–77; O. Soares, Codigo Penal, 309–30. See also Borges, “Healing and Mischief,” 185–94. 91.  Of the 113 police investigations and court cases that I researched for ­these three crimes u ­ nder the 1890 code, 15 involved reproductive healthcare. 92.  Borges, “Healing and Mischief,” 190.

260

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93.  “O que disse o Sr. Chefe de Policia,” Jornal do Commercio, August 15, 1931, 4. 94. For midwifery clinics, see (AN) CT, Cx.1830  N.1386 (1936); (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.20528 (1937); (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.22570 (1938); (AN) CS.0.IQP.8559 (1938); (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.22279 (1938); (AN) CT, Cx.1732 N.2703 (1940). 95.  Title 4, Section 1, Article 70, Constituição da Republica, 24. For interpretations of this law, see Hahner, Emancipating the Female Sex, 73–75; Karawejczyk, “As Filhas de Eva,” 79–126. 96. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 164–98; Hahner, Emancipating the Female Sex, 121–80; Marino, Feminism for the Amer­i­cas, 26–34. 97. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 170–71; Hahner, Emancipating the Female Sex, 170; Marino, Feminism for the Amer­i­cas, 97–99. 98. Marino, Feminism for the Amer­i­cas, 98. 99.  For working-­class w ­ omen’s organ­izing, see Fraccaro, “Uma história social.” For ­union leadership and w ­ omen, see Wolfe, Working W ­ omen, Working Men, 57–58. 100. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 174. 101. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 70, 96; Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 189. 102. Htun, Sex and the State, 46–50. 103.  Grinberg, “Slavery, Liberalism.” 104.  On nineteenth-­century legislation, see Lewin, Surprise Heirs II. 105. Beviláqua, Codigo Civil de 1916, 20–59. For initial debates, see Marques, “A mulher casada.” 106. Beviláqua, Codigo Civil de 1916, 179. 107. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 54–56; Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 26–30; Grinberg, “Slavery, Liberalism,” 114; Htun, Sex and the State, 46–53. 108. Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 28. For husbands’ economic duties, see Article 233§5, and for last names, see Article 240, Beviláqua, Código Civil, 2:586–89, 599–602. 109. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 81, 140; Htun, Sex and the State, 49. Articles 233§4 and Article 246, respectively. Beviláqua, Código Civil, 2:586–89, 614–17. This law was not amended ­until 1962. Marques and Melo, “Os direitos civis.” 110. Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 26. 111. Beviláqua, Codigo Civil de 1916, 5. 112. Beviláqua, Código Civil, 2:601. 113. Beviláqua, Código Civil, 1:176–80. 114.  Oliveira, Montenegro, and Garrafa, “Supremo Tribunal Federal,” 85–86. 115.  Some jurists argued that Article 4’s “natalist” (natalicista) doctrine was in contradiction to the sections of the code that granted rights to the fetus. To ­these scholars, Brazil should have followed the “conceptionist” (concepcionista) trend, which granted full rights from conception. J. M. Fonseca, “O nascituro,” 154–58. 116. Beviláqua, Código Civil, 2:801–3, 810–17. 117.  Article 1169 set out that an unborn child could receive donations if authorized by its parents. Article 1718 stipulated that any child not conceived before the death of a testator had no rights to inheritance, ­unless the testator predetermined in his or her ­w ill the rights of any f­ uture offspring. Law 3071, January 1, 1916, Código Civil dos Esta-



Notes to Chapter 1 261

dos Unidos do Brasil, http://­w ww​.­planalto​.­gov​.­br​/­ccivil​_­03​/­leis​/­L3071impressao​.­htm, accessed May 5, 2019. 118.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.3191 (1922). 119.  J. M. Fonseca, “O nascituro,” 154. 120.  Picanço, “O nascituro,” 165. 121.  Picanço, 166. 122.  C. Barreto, “O aborto,” 328; F. Mattos, “O aborto criminoso,” 65. 123.  Law 3071, January 1, 1916, Código Civil dos Estados Unidos do Brasil, http://­ www​.­planalto​.­gov​.­br​/­ccivil​_­03​/­leis​/­L3071impressao​.­htm, accessed May 5, 2019. Article 462 also referred to Article 458, which declared that “the curator’s authority extends to the person and property of the c­ hildren ­under ward, born or unborn (Art. 462§).” 124.  Articles 379–95 dictated pátrio poder. Article 383 addressed single m ­ others. Beviláqua, Código Civil, 2:832–52. 125.  Article 380, Beviláqua, 2:834–35. 126.  Article 395§3, Beviláqua, 2:858–61. 127.  Article 394§, Beviláqua, 2:855–58. 128.  Article 383, Beviláqua, 2:837–38. 129.  Beviláqua, 2:603–9. 130.  Beviláqua, 2:589. 131. Priore, Ao sul do corpo. 132.  J. F. Costa, Ordem médica; Engel, Meretrizes e doutores; Machado et al., Danação da norma; Vailati, A morte menina. 133.  Dunn, “Adolphe Pinard.” 134. Stepan, Hour of Eugenics, 77. 135. López, History of F ­ amily; Martins, Visões do feminino; Stepan, Hour of Eugenics. 136.  For the republican period, see, for example, O. Lima, “Assistencia á mãe pobre,” 46. For Vargas, see Maes, “Progeny of Pro­gress”; Otovo, Progressive ­Mothers. 137. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 89–109; Freire, Mulheres, mães e médicos; Martins, “ ‘Vamos criar seu filho’ ”; Otovo, Progressive ­Mothers. For maternalism within the obstetric profession, see Pinto Filho, Assistencia obstetrica, 16; Sobrado, Hygiene da gravidez, 55–56. 138.  Birn, “Child Health in Latin Amer­i­ca”; Birn, “ ‘No More Surprising’ ”; Guy, “Pan American”; Maes, “Progeny of Pro­gress”; Marko, “When They Became.” 139. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 98–104. 140. Drummond, Cartilha da maternidade, 28. I am indebted to Maria Renilda Barreto, who shared her research from the Pro-­Matre with me. The hospital is now closed, and the archive is unavailable to the public. See M. Barreto, “Pro-­Matre.” 141. Martins, Visões do feminino; Rohden, Uma ciência. 142. Marino, Feminism for the Amer­i­cas, 27. 143.  J. F. Costa, Ordem médica, 13, 208–9. In fact, much in their policies in the 1920s was implicitly racialized. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 94, 228n15; Wadsworth, “Moncorvo Filho.”

262

Notes to Chapter 1

144.  On the larger intersection of scientific racism, nation-­building, and social hierarchy in the west, see Stepan, “Race, Gender, Science.” 145.  5,099,816 enslaved ­people disembarked in Brazil between 1501 and 1875. See “Estimates Database.” 146. IBGE, Recenseamento geral do Brasil de 1940, 1. 147. Skidmore, Black into White, 39, 48–53. 148. Schwarcz, O espetáculo das raças, 34–35, 58–66; Skidmore, Black into White, 51–53. 149. Schwarcz, O espetáculo das raças, 18. 150. Alberto, Terms of Inclusion, 10. 151. Alberto, Terms of Inclusion, 10, 27; Skidmore, Black into White, 45–46, 64–65; Weinstein, Color of Modernity, 34–36. 152.  N. Rodrigues, As raças humanas, 49. 153.  See also Borges, “ ‘Puffy, Ugly, Slothful and Inert’ ”; Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 32–33; Corrêa, As ilusões da liberdade, 128–50; Schwarcz, O espetáculo das raças, 207–15; Skidmore, Black into White, 57–64. 154. Corrêa, As ilusões da liberdade, 113–14. 155. Skidmore, Black into White, 60. 156. Stepan, Hour of Eugenics, 28, 67–76, 82, 95–100, 168. 157.  Stepan, 73. For eugenics and sterilization in the US context, see Briggs, Reproducing Empire; Schoen, Choice and Coercion; A. Stern, Eugenic Nation. Positive eugenics, in contrast, was geared t­ oward incentivizing the reproduction of “superior” individuals. Wegner and Souza, “Eugenia ‘negativa,’ ” 265. 158. Hochman, A era do saneamento, 68; Stepan, Beginnings of Brazilian, 57–58. 159.  V. Souza, “A eugenia brasileira”; V. Souza, “Por uma nação eugênica.” 160.  Kehl, “A eugenia no Brasil.” See also Ligiéro, Algumas considerações; Neves Filho, Da esterilisação. 161.  Wegner and Souza, “Eugenia ‘negativa.’ ” 162.  Otovo, “Marrying ‘Well,’ ” 723. 163.  Borges, “ ‘Puffy, Ugly, Slothful and Inert,’ ” 235–36. 164. Ligiéro, Algumas considerações, 43. 165. Stepan, Hour of Eugenics, 160–62. 166. Roquette-­Pinto, “Nota sobre os typos.” See also V. Souza, “A eugenia brasileira,” 101. 167.  On the proposal, see Farani, in “Acta da setima reunião,” 38. 168.  Magalhães, in “Acta da segunda reunião,” 20. 169.  Magalhães, in “Acta da oitava [sic] reunião,” 24. 170.  Motta, “Subsidio para a Puericultura, parte I,” 155; Silvado, “Considerações sobre a puericultura, parte II,” 56. 171.  Fernandes, “O problema pre-­natal”; Lima, “Assistencia á mãe pobre”; Morpurgo, “Assistencia obstetrica.” 172. Corrêa, As ilusões da liberdade, 180; Wegner and Souza, “Eugenia ‘negativa,’ ” 274.



Notes to Chapters 1 and 2 263

173.  Wegner and Souza, “Eugenia ‘negativa,’ ” 272. 174. Stepan, Hour of Eugenics, 112. For the influence of the Papal Bull, see H. Abreu, “Do aborto medico,” 5 (17): 22. For this religious position even before Casti connubii, see Franca, “Sobre o aborto.” 175. Stepan, Hour of Eugenics, 127. The implementation of this law was uneven; it had dispensations for Brazilians who lived in areas without adequate access to health officials, or the majority of the population. 176.  Stepan, 126–27. 177. Alberto, Terms of Inclusion, 112–27, 143–49; Seigel, Uneven Encounters, 195; Skidmore, Black into White, 173–218; Weinstein, Color of Modernity, 12–13. 178. Alberto, Terms of Inclusion, 178–81; Guimarães, “Africanism.” 179. Alberto, Terms of Inclusion; Dávila, Diploma of Whiteness; Seigel, Uneven Encounters, 128–35; Weinstein, Color of Modernity, 14, 87–92. 180.  On the biological undertones of cultural discourse, see Corrêa, As ilusões da liberdade, 203–4; Schwarcz, O espetáculo das raças, 172, 248; Stepan, Hour of Eugenics, 37. On the genealogy of racist thought, see Corrêa, As ilusões da liberdade, 162; Cunha, Intenção e gesto, 324. On the per­sis­tence of an evolutionary model, see Schwarcz, O espetáculo das raças, 170; Skidmore, Black into White, 64–69. 181. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy; Maes, “Progeny of Pro­gress”; Otovo, Progressive ­Mothers; Wadsworth, “Moncorvo Filho.” 182. Weinstein, For Social Peace, 219–50. 183. Magalhães, Clinica obstetrica, 344. See also Magalhães, “Maternidade consciente,” 191. 184. Coêlho, Defeza da maternidade, 96. See also J. Lacerda, Hygiene da gravidez, 23–24; Pinto Filho, Assistencia obstetrica, 16; M. Ribeiro, Natimortalidade, 64. 185. Martins, Visões do feminino, 159; Schwarcz, O espetáculo das raças, 227, 236. 186.  M. Carvalho, A defeza, 151. 187.  C. Costa, “Inquerito clinico,” 160. 188.  C. Costa, “Estado atual,” 172.

Chapter 2 1.  “A incorporação da Maternidade Suburbana aos serviços municipaes de assistência,” Jornal do Brasil, July 21, 1933, 11. 2.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.7229 (1935). 3. Hochman, A era do saneamento, 21–47. 4.  Freire and Leony, “A caridade científica”; Sanglard, “A Primeira República,” 74–75; Sanglard and Ferreira, “Médicos e filantropos.” 5.  M. Barreto, “Assistência ao nascimento”; M. Barreto, “Dar à luz”; C. Fonseca, “A saúde da criança”; Freire, Mulheres, mães e médicos; Gormley, “Motherhood as National Ser­v ice”; Maes, “Progeny of Pro­g ress”; Mott, “Maternalismo, políticas públicas”; Otovo, Progressive ­Mothers; Wadsworth, “Moncorvo Filho.”

264

Notes to Chapter 2

6. Peard, Race, Place, and Medicine, 40; Mello e Souza, The Devil and the Land, 99–111; Walker, “The Medicines Trade.” 7.  For schools, see M. Fonseca, “A saúde pública,” 37; Peard, Race, Place, and Medicine, 16. For midwives, see Mott, “A parteira ignorante”; Pimenta, “Midwifery and Childbirth.” 8. Peard, Race, Place, and Medicine, 15–18; Schwarcz, O espetáculo das raças, 195–98; Stepan, Beginnings of Brazilian, 50–56; Vailati, A morte menina, 261. In 1889, physicians renamed the body the National Acad­emy of Medicine (Academia Nacional de Medicina, ANM). 9.  M. Fonseca, “A saúde pública,” 39. 10.  The Board was authorized u ­ nder Decree 598, September 14, 1850, and implemented ­under Decree 828, September 29, 1851. Chapter 4, Articles 25–46 dealt with the practice of medicine. Collecção das Leis, 1851, 14, Part 2:259–75. 11.  For 1882, see Decree 8387, January 19, 1882, Collecção das Leis, 1882, 97–116. For 1886, see Decree 9554, February 3, 1886, Collecção das Leis, 1886, 57–102. 12.  Brenes, “História da parturição,” 137–44; Martins, Visões do feminino, 142–49; Rohden, Uma ciência, 70–71. 13. Martins, Visões do feminino; Peard, Race, Place, and Medicine; Rohden, Uma ciência. 14.  Arquivo Geral da Cidade do Rio de Janeiro, hereafter (AGCRJ), 44.2.27, Documentação Avulsa—­Hospitaes e Casas de Saude, 1815–99; (AGCRJ) 46.2.39, Fundo Câmara Muncipal—­Série Ofícios e Profissões; (AGCRJ) 47.1.48, Fundo Câmara Municipal—­Série Ofícios e Profissões; (AGCRJ) 47.1.49, Fundo Câmara Municipal—­ Série Ofícios e Profissões. 15. Martins, Visões do feminino, 147–48, 178; Mott, “Assistência ao parto,” 199. 16. Laqueur, Making Sex; Martin, ­Woman in the Body; Martins, Visões do feminino; Rohden, Uma ciência; Schiebinger, Nature’s Body. 17.  Mott, “Assistência ao parto,” 200; Rohden, Uma ciência, 75–76. 18.  M. Barreto, “Dar à luz.” 19.  S. Graham, House and Street, 84, 167n88. 20.  Brenes, “História da parturição,” 140; Mott, “Assistência ao parto,” 200. 21.  The first ­woman to practice medicine in Brazil was Maria Augusta Generosa Estrela, who received her medical degree from the New York Medical College and Hospital for W ­ omen in 1881, and then returned to practice medicine in Rio de Janeiro. Her departure from the country in 1875 put public pressure on the imperial government to allow ­women to attend the country’s institutions of higher education, which it did in 1879. Hahner, Emancipating the Female Sex, 56–65; Peard, Race, Place, and Medicine, 131–35, 154–55. 22.  M. Barreto, “Dar à luz,” 187–91; Martins, Visões do feminino, 201–5. 23.  M. Barreto and Oliveira, “Cidade, assistência e saúde.” 24.  Section title quote from Pereira, “O Brasil é ainda,” 7. 25. Hochman, A era do saneamento, 17. 26.  Hochman, esp. 16, 25, 39, 41.



Notes to Chapter 2 265

27. Conniff, Urban Politics in Brazil, 61. 28. Hochman, A era do saneamento, 93. 29.  Caulfield, “Getting into Trou­ble,” 149. On the po­liti­cal role of physicians, see M. Barreto, “Dar à luz”; Corrêa, As ilusões da liberdade, 13–14, 77; Otovo, “Marrying ‘Well’ ”; D. Sá, A ciência como profissão; Stepan, Hour of Eugenics, 39–44. 30. Barbosa, Malthus no Brasil, 74–86, 103–17; M. Carvalho, A defeza, 79–143; Pinto Filho, Assistencia obstetrica, 87–104. 31.  Marko, “When They Became.” See, for example, Motta, “Subsidio para a Puericultura, parte I”; Motta, “Subsidio para a Puericultura, parte II”; Motta, “Subsidio para a Puericultura, parte III”; Motta, “Subsidio para a Puericultura, parte IV.” 32.  Freire and Leony, “A caridade científica”; Sanglard and Ferreira, “Médicos e filantropos”; Wadsworth, “Moncorvo Filho.” 33.  The regulation was Decree 5156, March  8, 1904, Collecção das Leis, 1904, 205–89. The lit­er­a­ture on the 1904 Revolt of the Vaccine is extensive in scope, approach, and analy­sis. See, for example, J. Carvalho, Os bestializados, 91–139; ­Meade, “Civilizing” Rio, 103–20; Needell, “Revolta Contra Vacina of 1904”; Sevcenko, A Revolta da Vacina. 34.  For health policies and po­liti­cal changes, see Hochman, A era do saneamento, 93–98. 35.  M. Barreto and Oliveira, “Cidade, assistência e saúde.” 36.  For the authorization, see Decree 5117, January 18, 1904, and for the hospital’s statutes, see Decree 5154, March 3, 1904, Collecção das Leis, 1904, 27–28, 192–205. 37.  M. Barreto, “Dar à luz,” 192–97; M. Barreto, “Pro Matre”; M. Barreto and Oliveira, “Cidade, assistência e saúde.” 38.  Sanglard, “A Primeira República,” 75. 39.  M. Barreto and Oliveira, “Cidade, assistência e saúde.” 40.  See Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 32, 335n52–54. 41. Martins, Visões do feminino; Mott, “Assistência ao parto”; Rohden, Uma ciência; Telles, “Pregnant Slaves.” For the United States, see Cooper Owens, Medical Bondage. 42.  See, for example, Rolindo, “Registo, Junho 1922,” Patient 17638, 224; Patient 17585, 228; Rolindo, “Registo, Setembro 1922,” Patient 17963, 439; Rolindo, “Registo, Março 1923,” Patient 18535, 144; Rolindo, “Registo, Junho 1923,” Patient 18857, 257; Patient 18868, 261; Rolindo, “Registo, Julho 1923,” Patient 18902, 299; Rolindo, “Registo, Agosto 1923,” Patient 19031, 364–66; Rolindo, “Registo, Novembro 1923,” Patient 19374, 512; Rolindo, “Registo, Setembro 1924,” Patient 20739, 427; Rolindo, “Registo, Novembro 1924,” Patient 20877, 469–70; Rolindo, “Registo, Janeiro 1925,” Patient 20973, 85; Rolindo, “Registo, Março 1925,” Patient 21370, 155–56; Rolindo, “Registo, Junho 1925,” Patient 21723, 268–69; Rolindo, “Registo, Dezembro 1925,” Patient 22181, 30–31; Patient 22351, 34. 43.  Franklin, “Consequencias maternas,” 476. 44. Ferreira, Do parto. 45.  For obstetric discussions, see Lima e Silva, “Relações”; Prata, “Considerações.” For forensic courses, see Porto-­Carrero, Programa, 47; H. Gomes, Programa, 40.

266

Notes to Chapter 2

46.  M. Barreto, “Dar à luz,” 197–98. 47.  M. Barreto, “Dar à luz”; M. Barreto, “Pro Matre.” 48.  M. Barreto and Oliveira, “Cidade, assistência e saúde.” 49. Baptista, Da protecção, 6, 17–22; F. Castro, Protecção ­legal, 22–23; E. Costa, Protecção á mulher, 29–32; Lago, Protecção, 34; Moura, Assistencia, 19–22, 33–34; R. Santos, Da gravidez, 112; ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (11): 435. 50.  On the hospital’s functions, see Baptista, Da protecção, 6; A. Mattos, Aborto criminoso, 44; Penteado, Causas obstetricas, 82. On midwifery courses, see “As novas diplomadas da Pró-­Mater [sic],” Diario de Noticias, February 6, 1933, 1; “As novas parteiras diplomadas pela Pró-­Matre,” Diario da Noite, February 2, 1933, 1. 51.  M. Barreto, “Dar à luz,” 195. On ­women’s philanthropy and scientific motherhood, see Freire, Mulheres, mães e médicos, esp. 19–33, 246; Mott, “Maternalismo, políticas públicas”; Wadsworth, “Moncorvo Filho.” 52. Martins, Visões do feminino, 236. 53.  Wadsworth, “Moncorvo Filho.” 54.  M. Barreto and Oliveira, “Cidade, assistência e saúde.” 55. Martins, Visões do feminino, 209. 56.  M. Carvalho, A defeza, 65–73; F. Castro, Protecção ­legal, 17–21; Lago, Protecção, 24–26; Moura, Assistencia, 28. 57.  Brenes, “História da parturição,” 142; Mott, “Assistência ao parto,” 205. 58.  Morpurgo, “Assistencia obstetrica,” 76. 59.  Morpurgo, 77. 60.  This was the city’s public ambulance ser­v ice, the Assistencia Pública, inaugurated in November 1907. “Posto Central”; Morpurgo, “Assistencia obstetrica,” 79–80. On its integration with a home obstetric ser­v ice, see M. Carvalho, A defeza, 54; Paranhos, A morte do feto, 68; Pinto Filho, Assistencia obstetrica, 28. 61. Martins, Visões do feminino, 174. 62.  Figueira, “Problemas de hygiene,” 39. 63.  Mott, “Assistência ao parto,” 209–10. 64.  Morpurgo, “Assistencia obstetrica,” 78. 65.  Moraes, “Do exercicio da profissão,” 47. 66.  Pinto Filho, Assistencia obstetrica, 76. 67.  Decree 10821, March 18, 1914, Collecção das Leis, 1914, 860–944. See also Hochman, A era do saneamento, 98n8, 102, 136–37n40. 68.  Decree 16300, December 31, 1923, was extensive legislation that further regulated the DNSP. For maternal-­infant health, see Articles 194–96, 312, 317–19, 323–34, 342–50, 1080, 1162, 1237, and 1244–45; and for midwives, see Articles 232–36, Collecção das Leis, 1923, 638, 647–48, 664–67, 669–71, 811–12, 825, 839–40. See also Piragibe, Consolidação, 83–84. 69.  “Uma maternidade no Meyer,” Correio da Manhã, November 13, 1920, 3. 70.  M. Barreto and Oliveira, “Cidade, assistência e saúde.” See also the interview with Dr. Herculano Pinheiro in “Assistencia hospitalar ás gestantes pobres nos suburbios,” Jornal do Brasil, June 3, 1926, 2.



Notes to Chapter 2 267

71.  “A construcção da Maternidade do Meyer,” O Jornal, May 21, 1926, 8; “A Maternidade nos suburbios,” O Jornal, May 15, 1926, 8; “A Maternidade Suburbana,” O Jornal, May 22, 1926, 5; “A protecção a’ mulher nas vesperas da Maternidade,” Correio da Manhã, January 15, 1923, 2; “Dispensario e Maternidade do Meyer,” Jornal do Brasil, June 2, 1926, 20; “O lançamento da pedra fundamental da Maternidade do Meyer,” A Noite, May 21, 1926, 1; “Uma velha aspiração que, breve, será realidade,” Gazeta de Noticias, May 22, 1926, 1. 72.  “Algumas obras suburbanas vão ser ultimadas,” Correio da Manhã, August 17, 1929, 11; “O orçamento municipal para o anno de 1931,” Diario de Noticias, September 23, 1930, 3; “Vae para alguns annos a Prefeitura começou a construcção de um pavilhão para maternidade nos fundos da Assistencia do Meyer,” A Noite, July 2, 1930, 2. 73.  “A Maternidade Suburbana funde-se com a Pró-­Matre,” Jornal do Brasil, September 29, 1926, 9. 74.  “A Assemblêa da Maternidade Suburbana,” O Paiz, September 27–28, 1926, 1. 75.  M. Carvalho, A defeza, 52. See also C. Costa, “Inquerito,” 160. 76.  M. Carvalho, A defeza, 37; Ladeira, Assistencia social, 68; Lago, Protecção, 9; Paranhos, A morte do feto, 66–67; Penteado, Causas obstetricas, 83. 77.  Fraga, “Introducção ao relatorio.” See Chapter 3 for prenatal care. 78.  Section title quote from Vargas, Discurso pronunciado, 15. 79.  C. Fonseca, “Política e saúde,” 94–96; Hochman, “Reformas, instituições e políticas,” 129–30. 80.  C. Fonseca, Saúde no governo, 36–45. 81.  M. Barreto and Oliveira, “Cidade, assistência e saúde”; C. Fonseca, “Política e saúde,” 102–4. 82.  “A Maternidade Suburbana,” Diario da Noite, March 17, 1930, 1; “Conselho Municipal,” Jornal do Commercio, June 9, 1926, 9–10. It appears that ­t hese ­women successfully lobbied for new funds even as the Méier hospital was still a ­v iable proj­ect. 83.  “A incorporação da Maternidade Suburbana aos serviços municipaes de assistencia,” Jornal do Brasil, July 21, 1933, 11; “A Maternidade Suburbana”; “Dispensario e Maternidade de Cascadura,” Correio da Manhã, August 25, 1934, 3; “Inauguração da Maternidade de Cascadura,” O Radical, August 28, 1934, 2; “Maternidade e Dispensario de Cascadura,” Jornal do Brasil, June 6, 1934, 15. 84.  C. Fonseca, Saúde no governo, 137–38. The MESP became the Ministry of Education and Health (Ministério de Educação e Saúde, MES) and the DNSP became the National Department of Health (Departamento Nacional de Saúde, DNS). Law 378, January 13, 1937, Coleção das Leis, 1937, 12–33. On Capanema, see Williams, Culture Wars. 85.  Decree-­Law 1040, January 11, 1939, Coleção das Leis, 1939, 19–20. 86.  C. Fonseca, Saúde no governo, 289, 294. 87.  C. Fonseca, 55. 88.  For support, see “Zelando pela saude dos suburbanos,” O Radical, August 8, 1936, 1–2. 89.  “Trabalham 60 horas semanaes!” O Radical, February 23, 1938, 5.

268

Notes to Chapter 2

90. “Editorial,” Diario Carioca, November 21, 1937, 6. 91.  Decree 24814, July 14, 1934, Coleção das Leis, Julho 1934, 1401–9. See also J. Barreto and Fontenelle, “O systema dos Centros de Saúde”; Fontenelle, A saude publica, 271–75. 92.  M. Barreto and Oliveira, “Cidade, assistência e saúde.” 93.  C. Costa, “Estado atual,” 175–80. 94.  Martins, “ ‘Vamos criar seu filho,’ ” 146; Mott, “Assistência ao parto,” 198. 95.  The Puerto Rican government implemented a similar program in the 1930s. See Córdova, Pushing in Silence, 21–31. 96. Fontenelle, A saude publica, 276–77. See also the Society of Medicine and Surgery’s (Sociedade de Medicina e Cirurgia) discussion of lay midwives (curiosas) in O Jornal, June 13, 1928, 16. 97. Fontenelle, A saude publica, 276. For a less flattering view, see C. Costa, “Inquerito,” 159. 98.  C. Costa, “Estado atual”; Fontenelle, A saude publica; Moraes, “Do exercicio da profissão,” 46. 99.  C. Costa, “Inquerito,” 158–59; Fontenelle, A saude publica, 276–77. 100.  Mott, “A parteira ignorante,” 26. 101.  See Appendix E. 102.  Article 254, Decree 5156, March 8, 1904, Collecção das Leis, 1904, 268–69; Article 159, Decree 14354, September 15, 1920, https://­w ww2​.­camara​.­leg​.­br​/­legin​/­fed​/­decret​ /­1920​-­1929​/­decreto​-­14354​-­15​-­setembro​-­1920​-­503181​-­publicacaooriginal​-­1​-­pe​.­html, accessed May 7, 2019. Both restricted licensed midwives to normal deliveries. See, for example, (AN) T7.0.IQP.1922 (1908); (AN) T8.0.IQP.2682 (1908); (AN) CR.0.IQP.566 (1912); (AN) CS.0.IQP.2323 (1918); (AN) CS.0.IQP.3426 (1923). 103. See (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.20528 (1937); (AN) CS.0.IQP.8559 (1938); (AN) CT, Cx.1732 N.2703 (1940). 104.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.7613 (1935); (AN) CT, Cx.1815  N.1250 (1936). Some ­women of color, however, provided abortions. See (AN) CT, Cx.1821 N.224 (1930); (AN) CT, Cx.1845 N.67 (1932). 105.  See (AN) CS.0.IQP.237 (1908); (AN) CQ.0.IQP.626 (1909); (TJRJ) Maria Adelaide da Conceição Pinto Montenegro (1923); (AN) CT, Cx.1830 N.1386 (1936); (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.20528 (1937); (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.22279 (1938); (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.21018 (1938); (AN) CT, Cx.1732 N.2703 (1940); (AN) CT, Cx.1803 N.2816 (1940). 106.  Pimenta and Gomes, Escravidão, doenças; Peard, Race, Place, and Medicine, 109–37; Stein, Vassouras, 188–95. 107.  Pinto Filho, Assistencia obstetrica, 57. 108.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.7613 (1935). See also (AN) CS.0.IQP.7759 (1937). 109.  Ligon, “Albert Ludwig Sigesmund Neisser.” The Portuguese term is Neisseria gonorrhoea. Moraes, “Do exercicio da profissão,” 45–46. 110.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.7613 (1935). 111.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.7613 (1935). 112.  See Green, “Gendering the History,” 492–93.



Notes to Chapters 2 and 3 269

113.  Morpurgo, “Assistencia obstetrica,” 78. 114.  The ideas of “capacity” and “­w ill” come from Vaughan, “Modernizing Patriarchy,” 195. 115.  See Decree-­Law 3200, April 19, 1941, Coleção das Leis, 1941, 55–63. For Vargas and maternal-­infant health, see C. Fonseca, “A saúde da criança”; Gormley, “Motherhood as National Ser­v ice”; Maes, “Progeny of Pro­g ress”; Otovo, Progressive ­Mothers.

Chapter 3 1. An e­ arlier version of this chapter appeared in História, Ciências, Saúde-­ Manguinhos. See Roth, “Birthing Life and Death.” 2. Ferraz, Hygiene da mulher, 39. 3.  Ferraz, 41. 4. Moura, Assistencia, 34–36. 5.  I use the term amasio to refer to ­couples who lived together but ­were not officially married. See Engel, “Paixão, crime,” 162. 6.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.3426 (1923). Elizeu’s full name was Elizeu Barnabé Teixeira, but I use his shortened name for clarity. 7. ­Today, a placental abruption is suspected if the hemorrhage occurs prior to delivery. A partially separated placenta ­a fter delivery is a retained placenta. An abruption is perhaps less likely in this case since both babies survived. See Oyelese and Ananth, “Placental Abruption.” 8.  If the placenta ruptured a­ fter the delivery (and thus was retained), it could have been a postpartum hemorrhage. If so, the neighbor might have caused Teixeira’s death, but the rec­ords do not detail when the hemorrhaging began. See Loudon, Death in Childbirth, 98–100. 9.  On the history of syphilis in Brazil, see Carrara, Tributo a vênus. 10. Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 363n136; Hochman, A era do saneamento, 46n4. 11.  See J. F. Costa, Ordem médica; Martins, Visões do feminino; Otovo, Progressive ­Mothers; Rohden, Uma ciência. 12.  See Pedro, Práticas proibidas; Rohden, A arte de enganar. 13.  Gilberto Hochman reminds us that results come a­ fter an improvement in public health ser­v ices, not si­mul­ta­neously. A era do saneamento, 24. 14. See, for example, Córdova, Pushing in Silence; Hunt, Colonial Lexicon; T. Johnson, Childbirth in Republican China; Leavitt, Brought to Bed; Wertz and Wertz, Lying-­In. 15. See the price of childbirth in (AN) CS.0.PCR.7613 (1935) and (AN) CS.0.IQP.7759 (1937). 16.  (TJRJ) Maria Adelaide da Conceição Pinto Montenegro (1923). 17.  The cost-­of-­living index for one person (foodstuffs) in 1923 was 9$567.31 milréis. Lobo, História, 748–51. 18.  Lobo, 813.

270

Notes to Chapter 3

19.  M. Barreto and Oliveira, “Cidade, assistência e saúde”; Martins, Visões do feminino, 209–12; Mott, “Assistência ao parto.” For the socioeconomic profile of w ­ omen at maternity hospitals in São Paulo, see Arquivo Público do Estado de São Paulo, hereafter (APESP), C06736 Registro N.18148, Secretaria do Interior (1897–1904); (APESP) C0700 Registro N.18411, Secretaria do Interior (1894–1904). 20. Museu da Justiça, hereafter (MJ), RG.13245 Cx.1403 (1904). For similar cases, see (TJRJ) Isolina Ribeiro de Aguiar (1900); (MJ) RG.13242 Cx.1403 (1902); (AN) CT, Cx.1909  N.1776 (1909); (TJRJ) Alcina Ephygenia Mendonça (1911); (AN) CR.0.IQP.466 (1911); (AN) 70.0.PCR.766 (1913); (TJRJ) Helena Teixeira Pinto (1914); (AN) 70.0.IQP.3005 (1919); (TJRJ) Lydia de Carvalho (1922); (TJRJ) Jovelina Pereira dos Santos (1931); (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.16784 (1932). 21.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.1877 (1917). 22.  See (AN) CS.0.IQP.488 (1910); (AN) CS.0.IQP.2204 (1912); (AN) CR.0.IQP.674 (1912); (AN) 70.0.IQP.3005 (1919); (TJRJ) Maria da Gloria Gonçalves (1928). 23.  (MJ) RG.13242 Cx.1403 (1902). For a similar case, see (AN) 7H.0.IQP.671 (1906). 24.  (AN) MW.0.IQP.1852 (1908). 25.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.127 (1907). 26.  Robertson et al., “Head Entrapment.” 27.  Green, “Gendering the History,” 496. 28.  In fact, federal law called on the “head of h ­ ouse­hold” [chefe de familia] to communicate to authorities any deaths in the f­ amily, including miscarriages and stillbirths. Article 76§1, Decree 9886, March 7, 1888, Collecção das Leis, 1888, 261. 29.  See, for example, (AN) T7.0.IQP.1922 (1908); (AN) CT, Cx.1815 N.1250 (1936). 30.  (AN) T8.0.IQP.2727 (1908). 31.  For midwives employing hygienic princi­ples, see also (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.22279 (1938); (AN) CT, Cx.1732 N.2703 (1940). Some obstetricians believed curiosas did not employ antisepsis and asepsis methods. Moraes, “Do exercicio da profissão,” 49. 32.  See, for example, (AN) 7E.0.IQP.1626 (1908). 33.  For midwives who arrive in the late stages of l­abor, see (AN) 0I.0.PCR.3075 (1892); (AN) T8.0.IQP.2701 (1908); (AN) T8.0.IQP.2682 (1908); (AN) T8.0.IQP.3239 (1909); (AN) T8.0.IQP.3623 (1910); (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.105 (1912); (AN) CX, Cx.154 N.4714 (1937); (AN) CS.0.IQP.7759 (1937). For neighbors who came at the last moments of ­labor, see (AN) CS.0.IQP.127 (1907). 34.  (AN) T8.0.IQP.3239 (1909). 35.  Murray and Huelsmann, ­Labor and Delivery, 153–61. 36.  C. Costa, “Inquerito,” 154. 37.  Mott, “Assistência ao parto,” 203–4. 38.  See, for example, (AN) T7.0.IQP.809 (1908). 39.  (AN) CX, Cx.154 N.4714 (1937). 40.  Sources from T ­ ables 2 and 3 and “Notes on Sources.” 41.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.7592 (1936). 42.  Section title from C. Costa, “Inquerito,” 188. 43.  G. Davis, “Stillbirth Registration”; Woods, Death Before Birth.



Notes to Chapter 3 271

44.  For obstetricians, see Arnaldo de Moraes’s obstetric textbook, first published in 1924. Propedeutica obstetrica, 305–8. See also E. Azevedo, Do aborto, 19–20; G. Carvalho, Do aborto, 9; Cavalcanti, Contribuição, 3; Rezende, Considerações, 5. For public health data, see Enout, Estudo clinico, 5. 45.  Freitas Filho, Noções de bioestatística, 100. 46.  Figueira, “Problemas de hygiene,” 24. 47.  M. Machado, Mortalidade, 40–41. See also Woods, Death Before Birth, 77–78. 48.  Figueira, “Problemas de hygiene,” 25–26; Institut International de Statistique, Commission internationale, 104. 49.  Freitas Filho, Noções de bioestatística, 100; Scorzelli and Freitas Filho, Estatística vital, 23, 128; Institut Internationale de Statistique, Nomenclatures internationales, 75. 50.  Adamo, “Broken Promise,” 86, 159; Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 117, 363n134, 363n136. For con­temporary discussions, see Figueira, “Problemas de hygiene,” 24; Freitas Filho, Noções de bioestatística, 63–65. 51.  On physicians’ own observations, see M. Carvalho, A defeza, 81; M. Ribeiro, Natimortalidade, 21–22. On Vargas, see Cunha, “1933.” 52. Loudon, Death in Childbirth, 241–42. 53.  C. Costa, “Inquerito,” 146. 54.  C. Costa, 185. 55.  On São Paulo’s public health campaigns, see Anderson, “Public Health”; Hochman, A era do saneamento, 196–227. See Hochman, p. 200, for reproductive health as part of the reforms. 56. Woods, Death Before Birth, 5, 32. 57.  Woods, 84–85. 58. Hasselmann, Hygiene da gravidez, 44; M. Machado, Mortalidade, 44, 51; M. Ribeiro, Natimortalidade, 29–33, 35–36; Silvado, “Considerações sobre a puericultura, parte I,” 60–61. 59. André, Hygiene da gravidez, 15–22; Elias, Hygiene da gravidez, 114–15; Figueira, “Problemas de hygiene,” 31–32, 41; Fontenelle, A saude publica, 271; Paranhos, A morte do feto, 39–50; Penteado, Causas obstetricas, 9; Tatsch, Estudo clinico, 56–60. 60.  (AN) T8.0.IQP.2727 (1908). 61.  Maceration indicates a spontaneous death in utero in which the tissue has degenerated. Bamber and Malcomson, “Macerated Stillbirth.” For other cases of maternal syphilis and stillbirth, see (AN) CS.0.IQP.3191 (1922). 62. Carrara, Tributo a vênus, 34, 74. 63.  Clinical notes from the city’s main maternity hospitals, published in the Revista de Gynecologia e d’Obstetricia, detailed prenatal provisions, including the Wassermann reaction beginning in the 1920s. See also M. Carvalho, A defeza, 55; Fontenelle, A saude publica, 272, 275. On the Wassermann reaction, see Löwy, “Testing.” For syphilis screening and treatment in Brazil, see Carrara, Tributo a vênus, esp. 75–132. 64.  M. Carvalho, A defeza, 55. See also Carrara, Tributo a vênus, 33–34. 65. Woods, Death Before Birth, esp. 34, 41.

272

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66. Campos, Aborto criminoso, 137–52; Enout, Estudo clinico, 5; A. Mattos, Aborto criminoso, 20–23; Pimentel, Do aborto, 52–54. 67.  Miguel Couto in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (4): 149. 68.  (AN) T8.0.IQP.1408 (1904). 69. André, Hygiene da gravidez, 57–60; M. Carvalho, A defeza, 82–83; C. Costa, “Inquerito”; Lago, Protecção, 28–29; Magalhães, Clinica obstetrica, 85–97; Penteado, Causas obstetricas, esp. 19–25, 57–64. 70. Magalhães, Clinica obstetrica, 90. 71.  Pinto Filho, Assistencia obstetrica, 33–35. 72.  This was also called a craniotomy (craniotomia). Rolindo, “Quatro casos.” ­These operations are still performed in some places in the world if safe surgery is not available. See Ezugwu et al., “Are Destructive Operations.” Thank you to Maria Openshaw for bringing this to my attention. 73.  (AN) CT, Cx.1815 N.1250 (1936). 74.  Paul, “Baby Is for Turning.” 75.  The following are examples of what ­today Suellen Miller et al. call “too much, too soon.” See S. Miller et al., “Beyond Too ­Little”; Openshaw, “Where ‘Too Far to Walk.’ ” 76. Magalhães, Clinica obstetrica, 86–87, 89. For critiques, see C. Costa, Naturalisação do parto. 77. Fernandes, “O problema pre-­natal,” 250. For physicians’ use, see (AN) CS.0.IQP.6967 (1933). See also Pinto Filho, Assistencia obstetrica, 62. Midwives used pituitrin as well, to the chagrin of the licensed obstetric profession. See (AN) CT, Cx.1830 N.1386 (1937); (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.22279 (1938). For a critique of midwives, see C. Costa, “Inquerito,” 158. 78.  C. Costa, “Inquerito,” 151–52. 79.  C. Costa, 188. 80.  (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.105 (1912). 81.  Rolindo, “Registo, Junho 1924,” patient 20263, 266. 82.  See, for example, Rolindo, “Registo, Outubro 1924,” patient 20739, 427; Rolindo, “Registo, Março 1925,” patient 21192, 148. 83.  Rolindo, “Registo, Agosto 1925,” patient 21608, 364. 84.  Rolindo, “Registo, Novembro 1924,” patient 20876, 471. 85.  On the maneuver, see Malvasi et al., “Kristeller Maneuvers.” 86.  Rolindo, “Registo, Novembro 1924,” patient 20876, 471. 87.  M. Machado, Mortalidade, 42–43, 50–51, 68–69; M. Ribeiro, Natimortalidade, 27–62. 88. Barbosa, Malthus no Brasil, 66. 89.  Barbosa, 70. 90. Campos, Aborto criminoso, 271. 91.  This idea first came from Barão de Lavradio in the late nineteenth c­ entury. Barão de Lavradio, Apontamentos, 21. See also M. Machado, Mortalidade, 42–43; M. Ribeiro, Natimortalidade, 46–49. On consanguinity, see Otovo, “Marrying ‘Well.’ ” 92.  World Health Organ­ization, hereafter WHO, Reproductive Health, 16. 93. Loudon, Death in Childbirth, 50.



Notes to Chapter 3 273

94.  Loudon, 43–44. 95.  Loudon, 47. 96. WHO, Reproductive Health, 16–20. 97. Loudon, Death in Childbirth, 17. For uncertainties in Brazil, see Magalhães, Clinica obstetrica, 91. 98. Fontenelle, A saude publica, 267. 99.  On the ICD, see Institut International de Statistique, Commission internationale, 150–52; Loudon, Death in Childbirth, 27. 100.  Institut Internationale de Statistique, Nomenclatures internationales, 64–65; Serviço Federal de Bioestatística, Informes de estatística vital; WHO, Manual of the International Statistical Classification. 101. Loudon, Death in Childbirth, 38. 102.  Loudon, 255, 258–61, 534–41. 103.  Loudon, 203–5; Seligman, “Lesser Pestilence.” 104. Martins, Visões do feminino, 176. 105. Benchimol, Dos micróbios aos mosquitos. 106.  Article 1162§b, Collecção das Leis, 1923, 2:825; Franklin, “Consequencias maternas,” 495–97; Magalhães, Lições, 283–444; Magalhães, Clinica obstetrica, 287–303; Moura, Assistencia, 31–34. 107.  Rolindo, “Registo, Junho 1924,” patient 20197, 260. See also Rolindo, “Registo, Junho 1924,” patient 20220, 262; patient 20267, 264; patient 20263, 266; Rolindo, “Registo, Setembro 1924,” patient 20558, 383–84; patient 20564, 379; Rolindo, “Registo, Outubro 1924,” patient 20734, 428; patient 20767, 430–31; Rolindo, “Registo, Novembro 1924,” patient 20876, 471; Rolindo, “Registo, Janeiro 1925,” patient 20973, 85; patient 21150, 87; Rolindo, “Registo, Junho 1925,” patient 21723, 268–69. 108.  Rolindo, “Registo, Junho 1924,” patient 20172, 262–63. See also Rolindo, “Registo, Setembro 1924,” patient 20476, 380–81; Rolindo, “Registo, Outubro 1924,” patient 20555, 424. 109.  Charles and Larsen, “Streptococcal Puerperal Sepsis”; Ligon, “Penicillin”; Loudon, “Deaths in Childbed”; Loudon, “Maternal Mortality”; Loudon, “Puerperal Fever”; Seligman, “Lesser Pestilence.” 110. Magalhães, Clinica obstetrica, 296. 111.  Magalhães in Rolindo, “Registo, Novembro 1924,” patient 20877, 469–70. 112.  Turrentine and Andres, “Recurrent Bandl’s Ring.” For con­temporary discussions, see Quintella, Introducção ao estudo, 326–27. 113.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.2323 (1918). 114.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.2323 (1918). 115.  For the procedure, see Campos, Aborto criminoso, 204–14. 116.  (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.22570 (1938). See also (AN) CT, Cx.1821 N.224 (1930); (AN) CT, Cx.1845 N.67 (1932); (AN) CS.0.IQP.8559 (1938). 117.  For arsenic, see (AN) MW.0.IQP.440 (1902). 118.  The Portuguese names for t­ hese are, respectively, sabina, centeio espigado, pulsatilla, arruda, losna, teixo, erva-­cidreira, macela, canela, apiol, and jalapa. A. O. Antunes, Contribuição, 29–40; J. Camara, Do aborto, 31–38; Campos, Aborto criminoso,

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166; A. Costa, Abôrto criminozo, 84–85; A. Mattos, Aborto criminoso, 26–27; Peixoto, Elementos, 230–32; Pimentel, Do aborto, 41–45; Rizzo, Considerações, 33–36; R. Santos, Da gravidez, 104–5. See also (AN) CS.0.PCR.1350 (1915); (AN) CS.0.PCR.3046 (1921); (AN) CS.0.IQP.3693 (1925); (AN) CS.0.IQP.6040 (1930); (AN) CT, Cx.2010 N.148 (1931); (AN) CS.0.PCR.6998 (1934); (AN) CS.0.IQP.7229 (1935); (AN) CS.0.PCR.7644 (1935); (AN) CT, Cx.1934  N.2105 (1939). On their pharmacological traits, see Ernst, “Herbal Medicinal Products”; Netland and Martinez, “Abortifacients.” 119.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.7592 (1936). On Aguardente alemã, see Fonteles et al., “Vigilância pós-­comercialização.” On quinine, see Dannenberg, Dorfman, and Johnson, “Use of Quinine.” 120.  Dennis and Solnordal, “Acute Pulmonary Oedema.” 121.  P. Silva, Interrupção therapeutica, 63. For nineteenth-­century discussions, see Coutinho, “O jaborandi”; Durocher, “Observação de um caso”; Rego Filho, Moreira, and Saboia, “Relatorio da commissão.” 122.  Green, “Gendering the History,” 498–507; Jaffary, Reproduction and Its Discontents, 81–82; Ruggiero, “Honor, Maternity,” 361–62. 123.  Scheper-­Hughes, Death Without Weeping, 333–35. 124.  See (AN) CT, Cx.1872  N.652 (1914); (AN) CT, Cx.1950  N.118 (1929); (AN) CS.0.IQP.7592 (1936); (AN) CT, Cx.1934 N.2105 (1939). 125.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.3881 (1926). 126.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.5608 (1930); (AN) CT, Cx.1845 N.67 (1932); (AN) CS.0.PCR.7644 (1935); (AN) CS.0.IQP.8241 (1938). 127.  Lachman et al., “Prolonged Retention”; Schneider et al., “Abortion at 18–22 Weeks.” 128.  For the dilation and curettage (or D&C) method, see (AN) CS.0.IQP.8241 (1938); A.  O. Antunes, Contribuição, 41–43; J. Camara, Do aborto, 38–40; Campos, Aborto criminoso, 204–14; Cavalcanti, Contribuição, 4–5; A. Costa, Abôrto criminozo, 86; Peixoto, Elementos, 232–35; Rezende, Considerações, 13–14. 129.  The Pa­ri­sian gynecologist Joseph Récamier introduced curettage as a method to scrape the infected tissues off the uterine walls in 1850. López, History of ­Family, 54. 130.  For injection methods, see (AN) CS.0.IQP.3019 (1920); (AN) CS.0.PCR.5608 (1930); (AN) CS.0.PCR.5883 (1931); (AN) CS.0.PCR.6998 (1934); (AN) CS.0.IQP.7229 (1935); A. O. Antunes, Contribuição, 42; J. Camara, Do aborto, 40; A. Costa, Abôrto criminozo, 87; Pimentel, Do aborto, 45–47; Rizzo, Considerações, 30–32. Providers often injected potassium permanganate (permanganato de potássio), an antiseptic solution. See (AN) 72.0.IQP.1042 (1914); (AN) CS.0.PCR.3046 (1921); (AN) CS.0.PCR.4940 (1930). 131.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.5608 (1930). For other abortion-­related deaths, see (AN) 72.0.IQP.1042 (1914); (AN) CS.0.IQP.3019 (1920); (AN) CS.0.PCR.3046 (1921); (TJRJ) Philomena Francisca de Sousa Korff and Maria Albuquerque Froés e Silva (1921); (AN) CT, Cx.1950 N.118 (1929); (AN) CS.0.PCR.4940 (1930); (AN) CT, Cx.1821, N.224 (1930); (AN) CT, Cx.1928 N.60 (1931); (AN) CT, Cx.2010 N.148 (1931); (AN) CT, Cx.1845 N.67 (1932); (AN) CT, Cx.2010 N.535 (1933); (AN) CS.0.PCR.6998 (1934); (AN) CS.0.IQP.7592 (1936); (AN) CS.0.IQP.8559 (1938); (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.22570 (1938).



Notes to Chapters 3 and 4 275

132.  Booth, “A Short History.” 133.  Thank you to Maria Openshaw for bringing this to my attention. 134.  For example, Camargo, “Hygiene prenatal,” 468–69; Fontenelle, A saude publica, 272, 275; Pinto Filho, Assistencia obstetrica, 57. 135. Loudon, Death in Childbirth, 85–92. 136.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.6612 (1931). 137.  López-­Llera, “Main Clinical Types.” 138.  Moraes, “O sulfato de magnesio.” 139. Loudon, Death in Childbirth, 88–89. 140.  Varney, Kriebs, and Gregor, Varney’s Midwifery, 702–3. 141.  Loudon, “Maternal Mortality.” 142.  (AN) T7.0.IQP.1922 (1908). 143.  If the live baby was extracted vaginally with forceps, placenta previa was prob­ably unlikely. Thank you to Maria Openshaw for her help with this case. 144.  Pinto Filho, Assistencia obstetrica, 39–40. Brazilian physicians discussed how to properly identify signs of placenta previa. E. Mello, Contribuição, 38–47; Pinto, Da placenta praevia, 23–38; E. Silveira, Tratamento, 13–18. 145.  Varney, Kriebs, and Gregor, Varney’s Midwifery, 703. 146.  Pinto Filho, Assistencia obstetrica, 57. 147.  Varney, Kriebs, and Gregor, Varney’s Midwifery, 905. 148. Loudon, Death in Childbirth, 99. 149.  (AN) CT, Cx.2006 N.2008 (1926). 150.  Varney, Kriebs, and Gregor, Varney’s Midwifery, 915–16. 151. Bivar, Inversão uterina, 25–26. 152.  Bivar, 61. 153.  A. Cruz, Inversão uterina, 75. On this method, see Meara et al., Global Surgery, 220. 154. Bivar, Inversão uterina, 86–88. 155.  For current discussions of t­ hese same issues, see S. Miller et al., “Beyond Too ­Little”; Openshaw, “Where ‘Too Far to Walk.’ ” 156. Loudon, Death in Childbirth, 285–86. 157. Paranhos, A morte do feto, 51; M. Ribeiro, Natimortalidade, 22; Penteado, Causas obstetricas, 9. 158. Moura, Assistencia, 37; Lago, Protecção, 10; M. Carvalho, A defeza, 85.

Chapter 4 1. Magalhães in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (2): 74. Magalhães first broached the topic in May 1918. The ANM created the commission immediately a­ fter, and it presented its findings in October of the same year. Magalhães and Fonseca in ANM “Aborto criminoso,” 32 (19): 149; Silva in ANM, “Aborto criminoso,” 32 (20): 158. 2.  Silva and Magalhães in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (6): 214, 219.

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3.  Respectively, Quintella in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (10): 396; Magalhães in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (2): 75. 4.  Magalhães in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (2): 76. 5.  ANM, “Parecer,” 32 (41): 324–25. 6.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.3046 (1921). 7.  The cost-­of-­living index for one person (foodstuffs) in 1919 was 9$216.54 milréis. See Lobo, História, 748–51. 8. Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 20; Stepan, Hour of Eugenics, 43–44. 9. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 89–109; Martins, Visões do feminino, 224; Wadsworth, “Moncorvo Filho.” 10. Barbosa, Malthus no Brasil, esp. 129; J. Costa, A restricção, esp. 38–39, 50–51. 11. Stepan, Hour of Eugenics, 87. 12.  J. Costa, A restricção, 89–96. 13. Martins, Visões do feminino, 187. 14.  Novaes in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (6): 243. 15.  M. Carvalho, A defeza, 149. 16. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 170–71. 17.  “Acta da oitava [sic] reunião,” 24. 18.  For female sterilization, scholarship has explored the “Abel Parente affair,” in which an Italian physician practicing in turn-­of-­t he-­century Rio de Janeiro was excoriated by his medical colleagues for advertising a temporary female sterilization method. See J. Antunes, Medicina, leis e moral, 52–58; Martins, Visões do feminino, 184–88; Mendes and Vieira, “O ‘caso Abel Parente’ ”; Rohden, Uma ciência, 173–220; M. S. Silva, ‘Reprodução, sexualidade.” 19. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 105. 20.  J. Mello, Da justificação, esp. 127–51. 21.  A. Costa, Abôrto criminozo, 93–108; Elias, Hygiene da gravidez, 121; Mattos, Aborto criminoso, 43–46; Pimentel, Do aborto, 27; Tatsch, Estudo clinico, 23; Telles, A pericia obstetrica, 54–55. 22.  A. Costa, Abôrto criminozo, 113; Pimentel, Do aborto, 27. 23.  ANM, “O crime do aborto.” For press coverage, see “Campanha a fazer,” O Paiz, October 7, 1915, 1. 24.  Magalhães and Fonseca in ANM, “Aborto criminoso,” 32 (19): 149. 25.  They based their actions on a similar French commission formed in response to that country’s abortion “prob­lem.” ANM, “Aborto criminoso,” 32 (20): 158. 26. See Codigo de Posturas, Leis, Decretos, 239–40. 27. López, History of ­Family, 56; Stepan, Hour of Eugenics, 121. 28.  See Notes on Sources in this volume for changes to ­legal procedure in abortion ­trials. 29.  ANM, “Parecer,” 32 (41). 30.  Magalhães in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (6): 228. 31.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.1350 (1915).



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32.  When the ANM published its report, third parties could not bring a judicial complaint directly to a judge for the crime of abortion. Article 116§1, §2, Codigo do Pro­cesso, 18–19. In 1924, the law changed in Rio de Janeiro, and any person could bring a complaint. Article 2§3, Almeida, Codigo do Pro­cesso, 19. 33.  ANM, “Parecer,” 32 (41): 325; Fonseca in ANM, “Parecer,” 32 (45): 358. 34.  See Valverde and Novaes in ANM, “Parecer,” 32 (45): 358. For counterarguments, see Silva in ANM, “Parecer,” 32 (48): 381; Quintella in ANM, “Sobre o aborto criminoso,” 390. This remained a point of contention throughout the debate. See ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (6): 215–17; ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (8): 313–16. 35.  Magalhães resigned as president of the Acad­emy’s specialized surgery section in protest. Rohden, A arte de enganar, 99, 119n4. 36.  Magalhães in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (7): 261. 37.  See Almeida in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (7): 266–67; Fonseca in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (8): 310; Barros in ANM, “A questão medico-­ legal,” 14 (12): 467; Novaes in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (7): 285–86. 38.  Novaes in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (7): 286. 39.  Magalhães in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (7): 265. See also Seidl in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (11): 433. On the public health movement, see Hochman, A era do saneamento, 49–87. 40.  Fonseca in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (8): 310; Valverde in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (2): 52–54. 41. Rohden, A arte de enganar, 98–107. 42.  Silva in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (5): 197. 43.  Magalhães in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (5): 203–7. 44.  Fonseca in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (8): 310. 45.  Valverde in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (2): 54. 46.  Couto in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (4): 150. 47.  Couto in ANM, “A questão medico l­egal,” 15 (6): 238. 48.  Couto in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (4): 150. 49.  Couto in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (3): 115. 50.  Valverde in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (6): 217, 225. See also Seidl in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (11): 432. All the Acad­emy’s members, except Novaes, agreed on the need to repress “neo-­Malthusian” advertising. See Valverde in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (6): 225. 51.  Novaes in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (7): 277. 52.  Motta, “A lucta contra o aborto.” 53. Rohden, A arte de enganar, 106. See Fernandes, “O problema pre-­natal,” 251. 54.  Section title quote from Lima in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (6): 241. 55.  E. Azevedo, Do aborto, 27; Barbosa, Malthus no Brasil, 43; Cordeiro, O charlatanismo, 10; J. Costa, A restricção, 148; Moura, Assistencia, 18; Pimentel, Do aborto, 50; Rizzo, Considerações, 54. Some physicians believed that unlicensed abortion providers

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followed antisepsis and asepsis standards. A. O. Antunes, Contribuição, 28; Campos, Aborto criminoso, 61, 167. Physicians geared much of their attention ­toward midwives, but they also condemned male physicians who provided abortions. For male abortion providers, see, for example, (AN) CT, Cx.1824, SN (1905); (AN) CT, Cx.1872, N.652 (1914); (AN) CS.0.PCR.5883 (1931); (AN) CT, Cx.1934, N.2105 (1939). 56.  J. Camara, Do aborto, 15; A. Costa, Abôrto criminozo, 35; Elias, Hygiene da gravidez, 110–11; Pimentel, Do aborto, 28. 57. Elias, Hygiene da gravidez, 122. 58.  J. Costa, A restricção, 138–44. Carlos Seidl, for example, asked for the investigation of paternity, so ­women could receive the necessary support from absent ­fathers. Seidl in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (11): 435. 59.  (AN) CQ.0.IQP.626 (1909). See also “A parteira Mme. Maria Preciosa Pinto,” Correio da Manhã, February 4, 1909, 6. 60.  See advertisements for “Dra. Parteira Maria Preciosa Pinto” or “Maria Preciosa Pinto” in Jornal do Brasil (1901–16); “Parteira” or “Dra. Maria Preciosa Pinto” in Correio da Manhã (1901–16); “Parteira” in Gazeta de Noticias (1900–1901); and “Parteira” in Jornal do Commercio (1902). 61.  See the advertisements for “Dra. Parteira. Maria Preciosa Pinto” in Correio da Manhã, November 5, 1907, 6; December 2, 1907, 6; in Jornal do Brasil, October 27, 1907, 13; November 12, 1907, 7; November 24, 1907, 23; December 3, 1907, 6; December 15, 1907, 11; January 17, 1908, 10; January 25, 1908, 10; January 27, 1908, 10; January 29, 1908, 10; February 3, 1908, 9; February 13, 1908, 8; February 14, 1908, 9; March 5, 1908, 5; April 4, 1908, 10; April 15, 1908, 9; April 19, 1908, 17; April 23, 1908, 9; May 9, 1908, 13; June 5, 1908, 13; June 29, 1908, 8; July 27, 1908, 8; September 19, 1908, 14; October 27, 1908, 14; December 25, 1908, 15; December 31, 1908, 14; January 3, 1909, 11; January 5, 1909, 15; January 21, 1909, 12; January 23, 1909, 14; and in Jornal do Commercio, January 17, 1908, 7; January 21, 1908, 7; February 9, 1908, 13; February 11, 1908, 8. ­A fter the police investigation, her advertisements once again became generic for several years. See advertisements for “Mme. Maria Preciosa Pinto” in Jornal do Brasil, February 8, 1909, 9; February 16, 1909, 13; February 24, 1909, 7; February 28, 1909, 18; March 1, 1909, 9; March 3, 1909, 14; March 13, 1909, 14; March 21, 1909, 17; March 25, 1909, 16; April 1, 1909, 13; September 24, 1909, 14; October 10, 1909, 17; October 27, 1909, 13; November 10, 1909, 14; November 24, 1909, 14; December 1, 1909, 14. In 1912, she again mentioned avoiding pregnancy. See “Parteira. Dra. Maria Preciosa Pinto,” Correio da Manhã, April 19, 1915, 10; and in Jornal do Brasil, June 16, 1912, 22; July 21, 1912, 19; July 29, 1912, 11; August 13, 1912 12; September 8, 1912, 18; September 15, 1912, 20; September 18, 1912, 11; September 22, 1912, 19; September 29, 1912, 19; October 23, 1912, 12; October 30, 1912, 12; November 22, 1912, 12; November 24, 1912, 20; November 25, 1912, 12; December 4, 1912, 12; December 6, 1912, 12; December 8, 1912, 23; December 11, 1912, 12; December 15, 1912, 22; March 28, 1913, 15; April 21, 1913, 11; June 4, 1913, 12; June 12, 1913, 12; August 10, 1913, 24; November 20, 1913, 13; April 4, 1914, 15; April 23, 1914, 12; May 28, 1914, 15; June 3, 1914, 14; April 19, 1915, 11; April 20, 1915, 13; April 22, 1915, 12; April 25, 1915, 15; April 26, 1915, 11; April 27, 1915, 13; April 28, 1915, 15. The last advertisement



Notes to Chapter 4 279

I found was “Dra. Maria Preciosa Pinto,” Jornal do Brasil, February 28, 1916, 12; and “Dra. Maria Preciosa Pinto,” Correio da Manhã, March 11, 1916, 11. 62.  J. Costa, A restricção, 106–19, 156–59; Coêlho, Defeza da maternidade, 51–53; A. B. Lima, Contribuição, 17; ANM, “Aborto criminoso,” 32 (19): 149; Magalhães in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (6): 216–17. 63.  (AN) CT, Cx.1950 N.118 (1929); (AN) CT, Cx.1928 N.60 (1931); (AN) CS.0.IQP.7229 (1935); (AN) CS.0.IQP.8559 (1938). 64.  The cost-­of-­living index for one person (foodstuffs) in 1909 was 2$691.46 milréis. Lobo, História, 748–51. 65.  Careli, “De ‘comadres,’ ” 130. 66.  “Instituto de Protecção á Infancia,” Correio da Manhã, December 3, 1901, 3; “Instituto de Protecção á Infancia,” Correio da Manhã, May 2, 1902, 3; “Instituto de Protecção e Assistencia á Infancia,” Jornal do Brasil, May 2, 1902, 2; “Instituto de P. e Assistencia á Infancia,” Gazeta de Noticias, May 5, 1902, 2. 67.  Quintella in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (10): 397–98. See also Seidl in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (11): 431; Almeida in ANM, “A questão medico-­ legal,” 15 (2): 65. 68.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.5608 (1930). 69.  (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.20528 (1937). See also (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.22279 (1938). 70.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.237 (1908); (TJRJ) Maria Adelaide da Conceição Pinto Montenegro (1923). 71.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.4940 (1930). 72.  See also Green, “Gendering the History,” 500. 73.  See (AN) CS.0.IQP.237 (1908); (AN) CQ.0.IQP.626 (1909); (TJRJ) Maria Adelaide da Conceição Pinto Montenegro (1923); (AN) CS.0.PCR.5608 (1930); (AN) CT, Cx.1830 N.1386 (1937); (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.20528 (1937); (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.22279 (1938). 74.  (AN) CQ.0.IQP.626 (1909). See also (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.20528 (1937). 75.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.4940 (1930). 76.  For a similar description, see (AN) CS.0.PCR.5608 (1930). Other midwives also had signs advertising their ser­v ices outside their home-­clinics. (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.20528 (1937). 77.  (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.20528 (1937). 78.  Sueann Caulfield discusses the close relationship between police and reporters. “Getting into Trou­ble,” 150n9. 79.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.5608 (1930). For press coverage of the term in relation to vari­ ous midwives, see “A industria dos abortos provocados,” A Noite, November 26, 1920, 4; “As fazedoras de anjos,” A Noite, February 29, 1928, 5; “As ‘fazedoras de anjos,’ ” A Manhã, February 23, 1928, 7; “As ‘fazedoras de anjos,’ ” A Manhã, October 25, 1928, 4; “As fazedoras de anjos,” A Noite, July 19, 1927, 3; “As fazedoras de anjos,” A Noite, March 2, 1928, 7; “As fazedoras de anjos,” A Noite, January 30, 1930, 3; “As reportagens e sensação. As ‘fazedoras de anjos,’ ” A Manhã, December 10, 1927, 1; “Entre as fazedoras de anjos,” A Noite, August 16, 1921, 1; “Está complicada a Parteira Elly Waeger,” O Paíz, February 1, 1930, 5; “Falleceu em consequencia de uma operação criminosa,”

280

Notes to Chapter 4

A Batalha, February 1, 1930, 8; “Mais uma fazedora de anjos ás voltas com a policia,” Diario da Noite, January 21, 1930, 2; “O crime de uma fazedora de anjos,” A Manhã, March 1, 1928, 7; “O crime de uma fazedora de anjos,” A Manhã, March 3, 1928, 7; “Sobre um caso de ‘delivrance’ criminosa,” O Jornal, February 28, 1928, 1. 80.  Seidl in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (11): 434; Barros in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (12): 479; Teixeira in ANM, “A questão do aborto,” 149. 81. Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 2:55. 82.  A. C. Antunes, “O aborto,” 486–87. 83.  Some jurists argued that Article 302 was redundant ­because it was already codified ­u nder Article 297, or manslaughter. Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 2:63. I have found no court cases or investigations involving Article 302. 84. López, History of ­Family, 57. 85. Reagan, When Abortion Was a Crime, 61–70, 173–81; Vailati, A morte menina, 265–88. 86. Loudon, Death in Childbirth, 132–35; Reagan, When Abortion Was a Crime, 66–67; Rohden, Uma ciência, 63, 74. 87. Vailati, A morte menina, 268–69. 88.  Coriden, “Church Law and Abortion,” 192–94. 89. Vailati, A morte menina, 265–88. 90.  Quintella in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (10): 397; Coêlho, Defeza da maternidade, 54. 91.  On the value of the m ­ other’s life, see F. Abreu, Dissertação, 8–9; Alvarenga, Casos, 14; Mascarenhas, Do aborto, 4. 92. Miraglia, Indicações, 8; Pimentel, Do aborto, 34; Sebas, Aborto therapeutico, 11; Tatsch, Estudo clinico, 25–26. 93. Rohden, A arte de enganar, 89–97. 94.  See Silva, Barros, Peixoto, and Faria in ANM, “A questão do aborto,” 8 (8): 117–19; Quintella in ANM, “A questão do aborto,” 8 (10): 145–46. 95.  Quintella in ANM, “A questão do aborto,” 8 (10): 145–46. 96.  Couto and Teixeira in ANM, “A questão do aborto,” 8 (8): 118–21; Teixeira in ANM, “A questão do aborto,” 8 (10): 147–54. 97.  Teixeira in ANM, “A questão do aborto,” 8 (8): 120. 98.  Teixeira in ANM, “A questão do aborto,” 8 (10): 154. 99.  Teixeira in ANM, “A questão do aborto,” 8 (10): 149. 100.  E. Coelho, A mulher e a guerra, 39. 101.  A. J. Lima in ANM, “A questão do aborto,” 8 (12): 177–79. 102.  Teixeira in ANM, “A questão do aborto,” 8 (10): 148–49. See also Miraglia, Indicações, 9. 103. Baptista, Da protecção, 5. 104. Martins, Visões do feminino, 192. 105. Baptista, Da protecção, 5. 106.  Magalhães in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (5): 205. See also Mattos, Aborto criminoso, 46. 107.  M. F. Silva, Das embryotomias, 21.



Notes to Chapter 4 281

108.  Magalhães in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (2): 67–68. 109. Magalhães, Obstetricia forense, 15. 110.  Barros and Seidel in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 14 (12): 465–79. For an opposing view, see Novaes in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (6): 242–45; Novaes in ANM, “A questão medico-­legal,” 15 (7): 279. 111.  E. Coelho, “Assistencia e protecção,” 65; J. Costa, A restricção, 154–56; M. F. Silva, Das embryotomias, 21; Ulhôa, Baseotripsia, 6; Werneck, “Embryotomia,” 289. 112. Magalhães, Lições, 444. Magalhães lifted the entire uterus out of the abdominal cavity for surgery and kept it t­ here during recovery. Although death rates due to the ­actual procedure declined ­a fter the implementation of the procedure, statistics did not consider deaths due to infection resulting from the exposed uterus. See Nakano, Bonan, and Teixeira, “Cesárea, aperfeiçoando a técnica.” 113.  See, for example, Magalhães, “Maternidade consciente.” 114. Magalhães, Lições, 426. See also A. O. Antunes, Contribuição, 16; G. Carvalho, Do aborto, 39–40; E. Lima, Parto prematuro, 22–23; Miraglia, Indicações, 8. 115.  The code also allowed physicians to refuse to practice an abortion u ­ nder a religious conscience clause as long as they referred their patient to a colleague (Article 72). Primeiro Congresso Médico Sindicalista, hereafter PCMS, “Código de Deontologia.” 116.  PCMS, “Código de Deontologia.” 117.  For the initial debate, see “Academia Nacional de Medicina,” Diario de Noticias, July 31, 1931, 3; “Academia Nacional de Medicina,” Jornal do Brasil, July 31, 1931, 8; “Academia Nacional de Medicina,” O Jornal, July 31, 1931, 16. 118.  Porto-­Carrero in “Academia Nacional de Medicina,” O Jornal, July 31, 1931, 16; Porto-­Carrero, “O abortamento l­egal.” 119.  Porto-­Carrero in J. M. Fonseca, “O nascituro,” 150. For the law, see Beviláqua, Código Civil, 1:176–80. 120.  J. M. Fonseca in “Academia Nacional de Medicina,” O Jornal, July 31, 1931, 16; J. M. Fonseca in “Academia Nacional de Medicina,” O Jornal, October 16, 1931, 16; J. M. Fonseca, “O nascituro.” 121.  J. M. Fonseca, “O nascituro,” 150. 122.  J. M. Fonseca, 152. 123.  H. Abreu, “Do aborto medico,” 5 (11): 348. 124.  H. Abreu, “Do aborto medico,” 5 (17): 21. 125.  H. Abreu, 22. 126.  H. Abreu in Sociedade Brasileira de Criminologia, “Decima sexta sessão,” 260–67. 127.  Sociedade Brasileira de Criminologia, “Decima sexta sessão,” 248. 128.  Ribeiro in “Academia Nacional de Medicina,” O Jornal, July 31, 1931, 16. Magalhães fit into this camp. Magalhães in “Academia Nacional de Medicina,” O Jornal, August 14, 1931, 16. 129.  “Academia Nacional de Medicina,” O Jornal, July 31, 1931, 16; “Academia Nacional de Medicina,” O Jornal, August 14, 1931, 16; “Academia Nacional de Medicina,” O Jornal, October 16, 1931, 16.

282

Notes to Chapters 4 and 5

130.  Octávio Pinto in “Academia Nacional de Medicina,” O Jornal, October 16, 1931, 16. 131.  PCMS, “Código de Deontologia.” 132.  Porto-­Carrero, “O abortamento l­egal,” 513. 133.  Porto-­Carrero, 515.

Chapter 5 1.  (AN) CS.0.HCO.1602 (1915). 2.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.7444 (1936). 3.  According to Jürgen Habermas, the public sphere is an “institutionalized arena of discursive interaction” that is separate from the state and can facilitate discourse that is critical to state structures. Habermas, Structural Transformation. The quote is from Fraser, “Rethinking the Public Sphere,” 57. 4.  Gluckman, “Gossip and Scandal”; Gluckman, “Psychological, So­cio­log­i­cal.” 5.  Paine, “Gossip and Transaction”; Paine, “What Is Gossip About?” 6.  Merry, “Rethinking Gossip,” 50. 7.  Bailey, “Gifts and Poison,” 7. 8.  K. Brown, Good Wives, Nasty Wenches; Kamensky, Governing the Tongue; L. White, Speaking with Vampires; Wickham, “Gossip and Re­sis­tance.” 9. Chambers, From Subjects to Citizens, 91–124; Derby, “Beyond Fugitive Speech”; Derby, Dictator’s Seduction, 135–72; Fischer, “Slandering Citizens”; Gotkowitz, “Trading Insults”; Putnam, Com­pany They Kept, 139–72; D. Ramos, “Gossip, Scandal”; Shelton, “Bodies of Evidence.” 10.  Merry, “Rethinking Gossip,” 48. 11.  This term comes from Derby, “Beyond Fugitive Speech.” 12.  Engel, “Paixão, crime”; Soihet, Condição feminina. For colonial Brazil, see D. Ramos, “Gossip, Scandal,” esp. 904. 13.  F. Rodrigues, “Os crimes,” 135; Rohden, A arte de enganar, 124–25. 14. Caulfield, In Defense of Honor; Chalhoub, Trabalho, lar e botequim; Esteves, Meninas perdidas; Fischer, “Slandering Citizens”; Jean, “Guardians of Order.” 15.  Bretas, “Sovereign’s Vigilant Eye?” 58. 16. Gramsci, Se­lections, 103–4. See also Boggs, Gramsci’s Marxism, 39. 17. Foucault, Discipline and Punish, 26–27, 223. 18. ­Women’s participation in patriarchal structures parallels Gramsci’s definition of hegemony, as w ­ omen internalize patriarchal values and roles and become complicit in maintaining a system of male dominance. hooks, Teaching Critical Thinking, 170. Thank you to Zoë Roth for bringing this concept to my attention in relation to hegemony. 19. Goffman, Pre­sen­ta­tion of Self, 227; Hotchkiss, “­Children and Conduct,” 713. 20.  Merry, “Rethinking Gossip,” 52. Jean-­Noël Kapferer emphasizes the atmosphere of small towns. Rumors, 170. 21.  Merry, “Rethinking Gossip,” 64.



Notes to Chapter 5 283

22.  S. Graham, “Making the Private Public,” 30; Soihet, Condição feminina, 151. 23. Goffman, Pre­sen­ta­tion of Self, 132–51, 227; Goffman, Stigma, 130. 24.  Hotchkiss, “­Children and Conduct,” 713. 25. ­These numbers come from S. Graham, “Making the Private Public,” 30. See also Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 34. For other Latin American contexts, see Putnam, Com­pany They Kept, 147–51, 155. 26.  (AN) T8.0.IQP.1773 (1905). 27. Benchimol, Pereira Passos, 181–83. 28.  Adamo, “Broken Promise,” 31–32; Soihet, Condição feminina, 142–43. 29.  (AN) T8.0.PCR.825 (1901). Her full name was Anna Thomasia Pacheco Torres. I use a shortened name in the text for clarity. 30.  Adamo, “Broken Promise,” 3, 33–35. 31.  A. Azevedo, O cortiço; Edmundo, O Rio de Janeiro. 32. Backheuser, Habitações populares, 109. 33.  M. A. Abreu, Evolução urbana, 50; Chalhoub, Cidade febril, 15–20; Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 33–34. 34. Benchimol, Pereira Passos, 260–68, 286–94; Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 34–38; ­Meade, “Civilizing” Rio, 123–25. 35.  M.  A. Abreu, Evolução urbana, 50; Adamo, “Broken Promise,” 37; ­Meade, “Civilizing” Rio, 79–82. 36. Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 38–44; ­Meade, “Civilizing” Rio, 172–74. 37.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.3426 (1923). 38.  M. A. Abreu, Evolução urbana, 66, 95, 108; Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 38–49. 39. See (AN) CT, Cx.1928  N.60 (1931); (AN) CS.0.IQP.6612 (1931); (AN) CT, Cx.2010 N.535 (1933); (AN) CS.0.IQP.7229 (1935); (AN) CS.0.IQP.7592 (1936). 40.  On prostitution in Rio de Janeiro, see Caulfield, “O nascimento do Mangue”; S. Graham, “Slavery’s Impasse”; L. Menezes, Os estrangeiros; Schettini, Que tenhas teu corpo; L. Soares, Rameiras, ilhoas, polacas; Soihet, Condição feminina, 200–222. On denunciations, see (AN) Série Justiça, IJ(6)705. 41. Chazkel, Laws of Chance, 121. See also Jean, “Guardians of Order,” 120–29. 42.  Fitzpatrick and Gellately, “Introduction,” 747. 43.  Fitzpatrick and Gellately, 763. For instance, ­there are cases of ­women denouncing their female neighbors for child abuse. See (AN) CS.0.PCR.1373 (1915). 44.  Instituto de Filosofia e Ciências Humanas, Centro de Pesquisa em História Social da Cultura, Universidade Estadual de Campinas, hereafter (IFCH-­U NICAMP), Ocorrências Policiais, numeração 3795, localizador RJ12583011981, rolo FCRB040. 45.  See (TJRJ) Maria Adelaide da Conceição Pinto Montenegro (1923); (AN) CT, Cx.1860 N.1692 (1926). 46. Derby, Dictator’s Seduction, 141–44, 149. See also Foucault, Discipline and Punish, 22–24. 47.  Fitzpatrick and Gellately, “Introduction,” 752. 48.  Gross, “Note on the Nature”; Gross, “Social Control.” 49.  Fitzpatrick and Gellately, “Introduction,” 759.

284

Notes to Chapter 5

50.  Love, “Po­liti­cal Participation,” 7–15. 51. ­Women often declared that they thought they ­were sick and not pregnant. See (MJ) RG.13243 Cx.1403 (1902); (AN) T8.0.IQP.1773 (1905); (AN) CA.CT4.376 (1907); (AN) CA.CT4.492 (1908); (AN) MW.0.IQP.2634 (1910); (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910); (AN) T8.0.PCR.4135 (1912); (TJRJ) Helena Teixeira Pinto (1914); (AN) 70.0.PCR.766 (1913); (AN) 70.0.IQP.3005 (1919). 52. (AN) 0R.0.IQP.3065 (1904). For other written denunciations, see (AN) CQ.0.IQP.626 (1909); (AN) T8.0.IQP.3834 (1911); (AN) 72.0.IQP.1042 (1914). 53.  (AN) 0R.0.IQP.3065 (1904). 54.  The case was incomplete, and the police unofficially archived it in 1910. 55.  In 1906, 54 ­percent of the city’s female population was illiterate. In 1920, the proportion was 44 ­percent. Republica dos Estados Unidos do Brazil, Recenseamento do Rio de Janeiro, 108–9; Directoria Geral de Estatistica, Recenseamento do Brazil, 2:414–15. 56.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.237 (1908). 57.  “Escandalo formidavel. Quadrilha da prostituição. Uma parteira, um medico, um pharmaceutico. Infanticidios e abortos. Urge a acção da Policia!,” Diario de Noticias, February 18, 1908, 1. 58.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.237 (1908). 59. Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 117, 136. See also (AN) SF, Cx.2314 N.798 (1902); (AN) MW.0.IQP.1852 (1908); (AN) T8.0.IQP.2697 (1908); (AN) CT, Cx.1806  N.360 (1912); (AN) CS.0.IQP.2323 (1918); (AN) CX, Cx.154 N.4714 (1937). 60. Findlay, Imposing Decency; Putnam, Com­pany They Kept. 61. Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 169. 62.  (AN) MW.0.IQP.440 (1902). 63.  (AN) CT, Cx.1909 N.1776 (1909). For men who simply negated the claim, see (TJRJ) Lydia de Carvalho (1922). 64.  (AN) 7H.0.IQP.821 (1907). 65.  (AN) 7H.0.IQP.821 (1907). 66.  (AN) 7H.0.IQP.821 (1907). 67.  (AN) T8.0.IQP.1408 (1904). 68.  (AN) T8.0.IQP.1773 (1905). 69.  (AN) CT, Cx.2010 N.535 (1933). 70.  “Manobras criminosas de uma parteira,” A Noite, May 13, 1933, 3; “A rapariga falleceu na Assistencia,” Correio da Manhã, May 14, 1933, 6; “ ‘Delivrance’ forçada?” Diario Carioca, May 14, 1933, 16; “Em consequencia da impericia de uma parteira,” Jornal do Brasil, May 14, 1933, 25. 71.  See (AN) MW.0.IQP.1852 (1908). Patricia Hill Collins argues that the west has historically hypersexualized black sexuality. Black Sexual Politics, 27. 72.  (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.16784 (1932). See also (AN) CS.0.IQP.2204 (1912); (AN) CT, Cx.1928 N.60 (1931). 73.  (AN) 72.0.IQP.1042 (1914). On the word mestiço, see Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 154–55; Skidmore, Black into White, 23.



Notes to Chapter 5 285

74. Caulfield, In Defense of Honor; Chalhoub, Trabalho, lar e botequim; Cunha, Intenção e gesto; Esteves, Meninas perdidas. 75. Cunha, Intenção e gesto, 160. 76.  Jean, “Guardians of Order,” 188–96; Cunha, Intenção e gesto, 203. For a similar argument in Puerto Rico, see Findlay, Imposing Decency. 77. Holloway, Immigrants on the Land. 78. Alberto, Terms of Inclusion, 23–68; Klein, “Social and Economic Integration of Portuguese”; Klein, “Social and Economic Integration of Spanish”; Lesser, Negotiating National Identity; Skidmore, Black into White, 136–44, 192–200; Weinstein, Color of Modernity. 79. Hahner, Poverty and Politics, 47; Klein, “Social and Economic Integration of Portuguese,” 317–19. 80. Chalhoub, Trabalho, lar e botequim, 64–114. 81. Acerbi, Street Occupations; Chalhoub, Visões da liberdade; S. Graham, House and Street. 82. Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 51. 83.  (AN) 72.0.IQP.1412 (1915). Silva was a mi­g rant from the neighboring state of Minas Gerais. 84.  (AN) 72.0.IQP.1412 (1915). 85. Kapferer, Rumors, x, 173. 86.  (AN) 72.0.IQP.1412 (1915). 87.  On marriage and social honor, see Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory, 214n11. 88.  (AN) 72.0.IQP.1412 (1915). 89.  (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910). 90. Chalhoub, Trabalho, lar e botequim, 112–13. On racial discrimination in industrial work, see Adamo, “Broken Promise,” 50–80. 91. Chalhoub, Trabalho, lar e botequim, 64–114, 149. See also M ­ eade, “Civilizing” Rio, 49. 92.  (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910). 93.  Portuguese immigrants ­were most likely to arrive as adult males without accompanying dependents. Klein, “Social and Economic Integration of Portuguese,” 319–20. 94.  (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910). 95.  (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910). 96.  (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910). 97.  A fourth witness who had rented rooms to both ­couples made similar claims. 98.  (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910). 99.  (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910). 100.  Caulfield, Chambers, and Putnam, Honor, Status, and the Law, 12. See also Gotkowitz, “Trading Insults,” 88; Shelton, “Bodies of Evidence,” 458. 101.  Merry, “Rethinking Gossip,” 60. 102. Pedro, Práticas proibidas; F. Rodrigues, “Os crimes.” 103. Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 43–44.

286

Notes to Chapters 5 and 6

104. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 18–37; Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 71–76. 105.  S. Graham, House and Street, 31–58. 106. Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 45–48; Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 79–104. 107.  S. Stern, Secret History, 99–106. 108.  (AN) 72.0.IQP.1042 (1914). See also (AN) MW.0.IQP.1493 (1907). 109.  Article 394, Beviláqua, Código Civil, 855–58. 110.  (AN) CT, Cx.1950 N.118 (1929). See also (AN) CR.0.IQP.566 (1912). 111.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.3881 (1926). 112.  (AN) 72.0.IQP.1042 (1914). 113.  (TJRJ) Maria Adelaide da Conceição Pinto Montenegro (1923). For other cases of male denouncers, see (AN) T8.0.IQP.1408 (1904); (AN) MW.0.IQP.1493 (1907); (AN) CR.0.IQP.188 (1908); (AN) T8.0.IQP.3623 (1910); (AN) CR.0.IQP.566 (1912); (AN) 72.0.IQP.1042 (1914); (AN) CS.0.IQP.2323 (1918); (AN) CT, Cx.1950 N.118 (1929); (AN) CS.0.IQP.7759 (1937). 114.  (TJRJ) Maria Adelaide da Conceição Pinto Montenegro (1923).

Chapter 6 1.  An ­earlier version of this chapter appeared in the Journal of ­Women’s History. See Roth, “Policing Pregnancy.” 2.  (AN) 70.0.IQP.1517 (1915). 3.  (AN) 70.0.IQP.1517 (1915). Municipal code did not differentiate between the price of stillborn versus newborn burials. See Consolidação, 1:417. 4.  (AN) 70.0.IQP.1517 (1915). 5.  For the history of l­egal medicine in Brazil, see J. Antunes, Medicina, leis e moral; Corrêa, As ilusões da liberdade; Otovo, “ ‘Marrying Well.’ ” 6.  See also Caulfield’s discussion of “hymenolatry.” In Defense of Honor, 17–19, 96–99. 7.  On race and the police, see Adamo, “Broken Promise”; Cunha, Intenção e gesto. For immigrants, see Chalhoub, Trabalho, lar e botequim. 8. Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 173–204; Bretas, “Sovereign’s Vigilant Eye?”; Caulfield, “Getting into Trou­ble”; F. Rodrigues, “Os crimes”; Rohden, A arte de enganar; Soihet, Condição feminina. 9. Holloway, Policing Rio de Janeiro. 10.  On the continuation of corruption and vio­lence, see Caulfield, “Getting into Trou­ble,” esp. 151; Chalhoub, Trabalho, lar e botequim, 247–335; Chazkel, Laws of Chance, 205–51; Fischer, A Poverty of Rights, 151–85. The police in Brazil ­were, and still are, divided into two separate forces or­ga­nized on a state and not municipal level: the civil police and the military police. (­Today, ­t here is also a third, federal police force.) In general, the military police patrol the streets, and the civil police conduct all criminal investigations. In the early twentieth c­ entury, the latter also dealt with administrative issues. This chapter deals exclusively with the civil police. For a discussion of the two forces, see Bretas, A guerra das ruas, 35–55; Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 40.



Notes to Chapter 6 287

11. Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 42–43; Jean, “Guardians of Order,” 76, 79. 12.  In the 1890s, the forensic division was part of the city’s central police station (Repartição Central). In 1907, the ser­v ice became its own autonomous entity, the Medical L ­ egal Ser­v ice (Serviço Medico ­Legal), and in 1922, the ser­v ice was subordinated directly to the Ministry of Justice as the Medico-­Legal Institute of the Federal District (Instituto Medico-­Legal do Distrito Federal). Each orga­nizational change resulted in an expansion in personnel and ser­v ices. See Decree 1034-­A, September 1, 1892, Collecção das Leis, 1892, 467–85; Decree 4763 and 4764, February 5, 1903, Collecção das Leis, 1903, 78–116; Decree 6440, March  30, 1907, https://­w ww2​.­camara​.­leg​.­br​/­legin​ /­fed​/­decret​/­1900​-­1909​/­decreto​-­6440​-­30​-­marco​-­1907​-­504445​-­a nexo​-­pe​.­pdf, accessed May 17, 2019; Decree 15848, November 20, 1922, https://­w ww2​.­camara​.­leg​.­br​/­legin​/­fed​ /­decret​/­1920​-­1929​/­decreto​-­15848​-­20​-­novembro​-­1922​-­508065​-­republicacao​-­92377​-­pe​ .­html, accessed May 17, 2019. See also Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 39–60. 13. Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 51. 14.  In 1907, police deputies earned salaries equivalent to t­ hose of a teacher and district police chiefs’ salaries ­were equivalent to a doctor’s. Bretas, 33. 15. Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 51–52n32, 52n33; Jean, “Guardians of Order,” 82, 128n211. 16. Bretas, A guerra das ruas, 39–41; Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 47; Jean, “Guardians of Order,” 82–84. 17. Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 39–40; Jean, “Guardians of Order,” 12–14. 18. Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 50–51; Jean, “Guardians of Order,” 107. For cemeteries, see M. Coelho and Fonseca, Projecto de Codigo de Policia, 78, 208; Consolidação, 2:124–25. 19. See (AN) CS.0.IQP.1740 (1916); (AN) CS.0.IQP.2323 (1918); (AN) CT, Cx.1950 N.118 (1929). See also Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 25, 64–65, 99; Chazkel, Laws of Chance, 91. 20.  Bretas posits that this dual role created a conflict for a police force that favored the repression of crime. He names t­ hese roles “social ser­v ice and social control.” Ordem na cidade, 24, 99. 21.  Breathnach and O’Halpin, “Scripting Blame”; Caron, “ ‘Killed by Its M ­ other’ ”; Shelton, “Bodies of Evidence.” 22.  See, for example, M. Machado, Mortalidade, 4. 23.  See Barbosa, Malthus no Brasil, 28; Camara, Do aborto criminoso, 15; M. Machado, Mortalidade, 23–24; Pacheco, Do infanticidio, 13, 18. For their influence on the police, see Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 44, 66–67; Cunha, Intenção e gesto, esp. 141– 45, 265–67, 325–30; Jean, “Guardians of Order,” 93. 24. Bliss, Compromised Positions; Buffington, Criminal and Citizen; Guy, Sex and Danger; Piccato, City of Suspects; Rodriguez, Civilizing Argentina. 25.  Cunha, “1933,” 146; Cunha, Intenção e gesto, 185–236. 26. See (AN) 0R.0.IQP.1578 (1901); (AN) CT, Cx.2017  N.1233 (1902); (AN) MW.0.IQP.737 (1903); (AN) 0R.0.IQP.3065 (1904); (AN) CT, Cx.2007  N.1975 (1910); (AN) T8.0.IQP.3834 (1911); (AN) 72.0.IQP.90 (1912); (AN) 72.0.IQP.1407 (1915); (AN)

288

Notes to Chapter 6

CS.0.IQP.3019 (1920); (AN) CS.0.IQP.3693 (1925); (AN) CT, Cx.2006  N.2008 (1926); (TJRJ) Maria da Glória Gonçalves (1928); (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.16784 (1932); (AN) CT, Cx.1999 N.302 (1932); (AN) CS.0.IQP.6819 (1933). 27.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.7592 (1936). 28.  On the class-­based par­a meters of the private sphere in Latin Amer­i­ca, see Twinam, Public Lives, 28–29. 29. Bretas, A guerra das ruas, 38, 71; Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 46–60; Jean, “Guardians of Order,” 79n133, 80. 30. Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 99–101, 114. 31. For abortion clinics, see (AN) CS.0.IQP.237 (1908); (AN) CQ.0.IQP.626 (1909); (TJRJ) Maria Adelaide da Conceição Pinto Montenegro (1923); (AN) CT, Cx.1830 N.1386 (1937); (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.21018 (1938); (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.22279 (1938); (AN) CT, Cx.1732 N.2703 (1940). For abortion-­related deaths, see (AN) 72.0.IQP.1042 (1914); (AN) CS.0.IQP.3019 (1920); (AN) CS.0.IQP.3881 (1926); (AN) CT, Cx.1950 N.118 (1929); (AN) CT, Cx.1928 N.60 (1931); (AN) CT, Cx.2010 N.148 (1931); (AN) CT, Cx.1845 N.67 (1932); (AN) CT, Cx.2010 N.535 (1933); (AN) CS.0.IQP.7592 (1936); (AN) CS.0.IQP.8559 (1938); (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.22570 (1938). 32.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.5608 (1930), 5. 33. Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 115–16. 34.  I have found one case where the public prosecutor sent the police investigation to trial, but bureaucratic delays caused the statute of limitations to expire. (AN) SF, Cx.2317 N.28 (1897). 35.  See (AN) CS.0.IQP.3881 (1926); (AN) CT, Cx.1950  N.118 (1929); (AN) CT, Cx.1928  N.60 (1931); (AN) CT, Cx.2010  N.148 (1931); (AN) CT, Cx.1845  N.67 (1932); (AN) CT, Cx.2010 N.535 (1933); (AN) CS.0.IQP.7229 (1935); (AN) CS.0.IQP.7592 (1936); (AN) CS.0.IQP.8559 (1938). ­There are two cases in which the police investigated ­women as abortion providers without charging them for any specific procedure. (AN) CS.0.IQP.237 (1908); (AN) CQ.0.IQP.626 (1909). I include them ­here ­because no physical evidence incriminated them. 36.  See “Notes on Sources.” 37.  Cunha, “Stigmas of Dishonor,” 311. 38. Pedro, Práticas proibidas, 11–12. 39.  See also Reagan, When Abortion Was a Crime, 5. 40.  For changes in police practice, see Cunha, “1933”; Cunha, “Stigmas of Dishonor.” 41.  See the following exceptions: police annotations, (AN) 72.0.IQP.1412 (1915); (AN) 70.0.IQP.3005 (1919); (AN) CT, Cx.1740 N.1072 (1935); official death certificate, (AN) T7.0.IQP.1922 (1908); hospital rec­ords, (AN) CS.0.IQP.3693 (1925); nationality (Italian), (AN) CT, Cx.1956 N.587 (1898). 42.  In one case, medico-­legal physicians classified one ­woman as branca, although the police and witnesses described her as parda. For consistency, I included her in the branca category. (TJRJ) Carmen Maria de Faria (1919). 43.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.2204 (1912); (AN) CT, Cx.1928 N.60 (1931); (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.16784 (1932). For the purposes of ­t hese calculations, of the three ­women who ­were consid-



Notes to Chapter 6 289

ered both preta and parda, I assigned two to the parda category and one to the preta category. 44.  The 1900 and 1920 censuses excluded the category of color. Th ­ ere was no census in 1910. Piza and Rosemberg, “Cor nos censos.” 45.  Loveman, “Race to Pro­g ress,” 451; Piza and Rosemberg, “Cor nos censos,” 124–28. 46. Of the fifty-­n ine cases that recorded ­women’s occupation, twenty-­n ine (49 ­percent) w ­ ere employed in domestic ser­v ice (serviços domésticos), including as a cook (cozinheira), kitchen helper (copeira), and maids (arrumadeira and agregada). Twenty-­seven (46  ­percent) ­were ­house­w ives (domésticas). One was a seamstress (costureira); one was a merchant (comerciante); and one was a bank clerk (funcionária bancária). Occupations come from e­ ither the witness testimony or autopsy reports. 47.  Sueann Caulfield classifies her use of the category doméstica to refer to w ­ omen who did not work outside of the home. In Defense of Honor, 158–59. I use the same definition. However, if the w ­ oman or other witnesses mentioned that she worked for wages, I coded her occupation as a domestic servant, even if the police officially recorded her as a doméstica. See (AN) T8.0.IQP.1773 (1905); (AN) T8.0.IQP.3623 (1910); (AN) CT, Cx.1950 N.118 (1929); (AN) 70.0.IQP.10555 (1930); (AN) CT, Cx.1999 N.302 (1932); (AN) CS.0.IQP.7444 (1936); (AN) CS.0.IQP.8241 (1938). On this practice within the police, see Engel, “Paixão, crime,” 160. 48.  Of the fifty-­four ­women for whom the police recorded education, thirty-­one ­women (57 ­percent) w ­ ere illiterate and twenty-­t hree w ­ omen (43 ­percent) w ­ ere literate. Among the latter, one ­woman could “sign her name.” (AN) CS.0.IQP.6967 (1933). 49.  For example, Farrell, “Most Diabolical Deed,” 23–37; Rattigan, “What Else Could I Do?”; Ruggiero, “Honor, Maternity,” 356; Shelton, “Bodies of Evidence,” 459. 50.  The breakdown is as follows: ages fifteen to nineteen, twenty-­one ­women; twenty to twenty-­four, twenty-­nine ­women; twenty-­five to twenty-­nine, eight w ­ omen; thirty to thirty-­nine, eleven ­women; over forty, one w ­ oman (for seventy w ­ omen total). In one case, the police recorded the age of the ­woman as “presumed” twenty-­six while the forensic exam declared her as twenty-­two. I use the latter. (AN) T8.0.IQP.3623 (1910). 51.  The police annotated the civil status of eighty w ­ omen: single (thirty-­one); married (twenty-­nine); coupled but unmarried, or amasiada (thirteen); widowed (five); separated (two). 52.  On the importance of male testimony, see Cunha, “Stigmas of Dishonor,” 304–5. 53.  For suspected men, see (AN) T8.0.IQP.1408 (1904); (AN) 0R.0.IQP.8747 (1906); (AN) MW.0.IQP.1493 (1907); (AN) CT, Cx.1806  N.360 (1912); (AN) 72.0.IQP.1042 (1914); (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.9981 (1927); (AN) CS.0.IQP.8241 (1938). For accused men, see (AN) CS.0.IQP.1918 (1917); (AN) CS.0.IQP.2352 (1918); (AN) CS.0.IQP.2323 (1918); (AN) CS.0.IQP.3693 (1925); (AN) 70.0.IQP.9291 (1929); (AN) 70.0.IQP.10555 (1930). For suspected c­ ouples, see (AN) 7H.0.IQP.671 (1906); (AN) 0R.0.IQP.6132 (1908); (AN) CR.0.IQP.188 (1908); (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.105 (1912); (AN) 70.0.IQP.1517 (1915).

290

Notes to Chapter 6

54. Peixoto, Elementos, 211–26, 235–41, 448; A. J. Lima, Tratado, 759–87. 55. Peixoto, Elementos, 429. See (AN) 0R.0.IQP.8747 (1906); (AN) CR.0.IQP.188 (1908); (AN) CS.0.IQP.1918 (1917); (AN) CS.0.IQP.2352 (1918); (AN) 70.0.IQP.9291 (1929); (AN) 70.0.IQP.10555 (1930). 56.  H. Abreu, Manual, 376–97; Peixoto, Elementos, 250–71, 448; A. J. Lima, Tratado, 685–738. 57.  H. Abreu, Manual, 331–48; Peixoto, Elementos, 430–48. 58.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.7229 (1935). 59.  (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.20528 (1937). See also (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.22279 (1938). 60. Rohden, A arte de enganar, 127–28. 61.  For western medical understandings, see Jackson, “Suspicious Infant Deaths.” For Brazilian medico-­legal physicians, see H. Abreu, Manual, 383–97; Peixoto, Elementos, 252–60. 62.  On efficacy, see Moar, “Hydrostatic Test.” 63. Peixoto, Elementos, 262. 64.  (AN) CR.0.IQP.466 (1911). 65.  “To deflower” and “to rape” ­were two separate crimes ­u nder the 1890 Penal Code. Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 1:305–42, 357–73. See Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 34–35. 66.  (AN) CR.0.IQP.466 (1911). The pregnant w ­ oman’s weight seemed to be a f­ actor in other p ­ eople’s denials. See (AN) MW.0.IQP.2634 (1910); (AN) CT, Cx.1845  N.67 (1932); (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.16784 (1932). 67.  (AN) CR.0.IQP.466 (1911). 68.  (AN) 6Z.IQP.16784 (1932). 69.  (AN) 6Z.IQP.16784 (1932). 70.  On “public courtship,” see Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 75–76. 71.  (AN) 6Z.IQP.16784 (1932). 72.  See also (AN) 70.0.IQP.3005 (1919). 73.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.2225 (1912). For a ­later case at the same cemetery, see (AN) CT, Cx.2010 N.328 (1933). 74.  The earliest year in which I found an investigation of the public disposal of a dead fetus or infant was 1900. (AN) 7C.0.IQP.306 (1900). 75.  On transportation, see Benchimol, Pereira Passos, 239–43, 260–62; ­Meade, “Civilizing” Rio, 79–82, 123, 128–29. 76.  (AN) T8.0.IQP.2697 (1908). For other criminal public disposal cases, see (AN) 0R.0.IQP.1647 (1901); (AN) 0I.0.IQP.2872 (1902); (AN) CT, Cx.2017 N.1233 (1902); (AN) 7C.0.IQP.1278 (1907); (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.16784 (1932). 77.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.2819 (1919). 78.  (AN) CT, Cx.2009 N.1523 (1921). 79.  Nascimento, “O ‘espetáculo’ da morte,” 254. See also S. Graham, House and Street, 86. 80.  The municipality had shared the administration of cemeteries with the church since at least 1828. (AGCRJ) Codigo de Posturas da Cidade; Codigo de Posturas da Ilus-



Notes to Chapter 6 291

trissima, 3–5; Posturas da Camara Municipal, 2. In 1890, the republican government secularized all cemeteries, placing their control in the hands of the local police. Decree 789, September 27, 1890, which implemented Article 72§5 of the 1891 constitution. Consolidação, 1:410, 416; Consolidação, 2:124–25. 81.  O. Soares, Codigo Penal, 728. 82.  Apart from six cases of newborn cadavers found floating in the ocean between 1919 and 1922 (investigated by the Third Auxiliary District), the investigations ­were not concentrated in any specific district. (AN) CS.0.IQP.2883 (1919); (AN) CT, Cx.2009  N.1388 (1921); (AN) CT, Cx.2009  N.1411 (1921); (AN) CT, Cx.2009  N.297 (1922); (AN) CT, Cx.2009 N.90 (1922); (AN) CT, Cx.2009 N.93 (1922). 83.  For the 115 cases involving reproductive events that I found in the police logbooks for the central parishes of Santana and Espírito Santo (1905–25), which included the neighborhoods of Saúde, Gamboa, Santa Rita, Cidade Nova, Sacramento, Estácio de Sá, and Catumbi, only 5 involved abandoned newborn cadavers or fetuses. In none of t­ hese cases did the police precinct open an investigation. See (IFCH-­U NICAMP), Ocorrências Policiais, numeração 7341, localizador, RJ09556007541, rolo FCRB028; numeração 9656, localizador RJ09580001651, rolo FCRB033; numeração 38, localizador RJ07996008421, rolo FCRB023; numeração 10992, localizador RJ06038019042, rolo FCRB008; numeração 13206, localizador RJ02533001801, rolo FDPC005. 84. (AN) MW.0.IQP.2273 (1909). For similar noncriminal cases, see (AN) 0R.0.IQP.4460 (1906); (AN) MW.0.IQP.2162 (1908); (AN) CT, Cx.2009 N.1411 (1921); (AN) CT, Cx.2009 N.90 (1922); (AN) CT, Cx.2009 N.93 (1922). 85.  On the Avenida Central, see Needell, Tropical Belle Époque, 36–45. 86.  (AN) MW.0.IQP.1852 (1908). 87.  (AN) 7H.0.IQP.671 (1906). 88.  Cunha, “Stigmas of Dishonor.” 89.  (AN) T7.0.IQP.403 (1904). 90.  (AN) T8.0.IQP.3834 (1911). 91.  For a l­ater case involving the home burial of early fetal remains, see (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.9981 (1927). For a similar reasoning for a public burial, see (AN) CX, Cx.154 N.4714 (1937). 92.  For falls, see (AN) 7C.0.IQP.495 (1902); (AN) T7.0.IQP.1922 (1908); (AN) T8.0.IQP.2701 (1908); (AN) T8.0.IQP.2727 (1908); (AN) T8.0.IQP.3239 (1909); (AN) T8.0.IQP.3254 (1909); (AN) T8.0.IQP.3623 (1910); (TJRJ) Carmen Maria de Faria (1919); (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.9981 (1927); (TJRJ) Maria da Glória Gonçalves (1928); (AN) CS.0.IQP.6040 (1930); (AN) CS.0.IQP.6967 (1933); (AN) CT, Cx.2010 N.535 (1933); (AN) CS.0.IQP.7229 (1935); (IFCH-­U NICAMP), Ocorrências Policiais, numeração 9600, localizador RJ09580001331, rolo FCRB033; numeração 10526, localizador RJ06038016111, rolo FCRB008. For physical altercations, see (AN) 0R.0.IQP.6132 (1908); (AN) 7E.0.IQP.1626 (1908). For scares or strong emotions, see (AN) CS.0.IQP.237 (1908); (AN) T7.0.IQP.1142 (1909); (AN) CT, Cx.1830 N.1313 (1936). For carry­ing heavy loads, see (AN) MW.0.IQP.2634 (1910); (AN) CS.0.IQP.1154 (1914). For high heels, see (AN) CX, Cx.154 N.4714 (1937).

292

Notes to Chapter 6

93. López, History of F ­ amily, 55–72; Shelton, “Bodies of Evidence,” 458–59, 472–73; Valle Prieto, “Parto y aborto.” For ­women’s physical and emotional weakness, see Martins, Visões do feminino, 111. For Brazilian physicians, see E. Azevedo, Do aborto, 35–36; Cavalcanti, Contribuição, 6. 94.  On immigration, see Klein, “Social and Economic Integration of Portuguese.” On burial practices, see Goldey, “Good Death,” 6. 95.  J. Costa, Ordem médica, 87, 162; Mauad, “A vida das crianças,” 156–60; Needell, Tropical Belle Époque, 137; Reis, Death Is a Festival, 99, 103, 119–21, 124; Vailati, A morte menina, 246–56. 96.  Mauad, “A vida das crianças,” 158. 97.  J. Costa, Ordem médica, 160; Needell, Tropical Belle Époque, 278n90; Vailati, A morte menina. 98.  See, for example, (AN) CA.CT4.492 (1908). 99.  (AN) T8.0.PCR.4135 (1912). 100.  (AN) 70.0.PCR.766 (1913). 101.  (AN) 70.0.IQP.3005 (1919). Two more cases involved the f­athers of the newborns, who w ­ ere caught in the act of publicly disposing of the bodies. One was found guilty, (AN) 70.0.PCR.570 (1912). The other was acquitted, (AN) 72.0.PCR.1804 (1916). The last case involved a midwife who signed a death certificate without examining the newborn. (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.8809 (1925). 102.  In 1861, the imperial government took over the registration of marriages and births for non-­Christians. Decree 1444, September 11, 1861, Collecção das Leis, 1861, 21–22. In 1874, it passed a decree sharing the registration powers of births, deaths, and marriages for all Brazilians between state and ecclesiastic registries. Decree 5604, April 25, 1874, Collecção das Leis, 1874, 434–49. When the federal government secularized vital registries in 1888, it relied on state police forces to carry out all the necessary administrative duties. Both federal and municipal law regulated the registration of death, but burials ­were a local responsibility, and thus municipal codes and their police enforcers implemented the law. Decree 9886, March 7, 1888, Collecção das Leis, 1888, 248–68. The 1888 decree underwent some changes during the period of this study, but the clauses relating to the registration of deaths remained unchanged. See Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 120–25, 363n136. 103.  For federal law, see Articles 56, 74§, 77, Decree 9886, March 7, 1888, Collecção das Leis, 1888, 256, 261–62. For municipal law, see (AGCRJ) Codigo de Posturas da Cidade; Codigo de Posturas da Illustrissima, 3–5; Codigo de Posturas, Leis, Decretos, 1–3; Consolidação, 1:409–17; Posturas da Camara Municipal, 2–3. See also (AN) CS.0.IQP.2323 (1918). 104.  Article 2, (AGCRJ) Codigo de Posturas da Cidade; Consolidação, 2:124–25. See also J. J. Barros, Contribuição, 31. The verification of death certificates was one role that the city’s police chief continually asked to be transferred to the municipality’s civil authorities. Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 64–65. 105.  For an example of bureaucratic difficulties that led to criminal action, see (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.8809 (1925). 106. Bretas, Ordem na cidade, 180n19.



Notes to Chapters 6 and 7 293

107.  Twelve logbook annotations involved fetuses coming from public hospitals or clinics. Five involved abandoned fetuses, and eight had insufficient annotations. See (IFCH-­U NICAMP), Ocorrências Policiais. 108.  Pressler and Hepworth, “Conceptualization.” For cases with physical marks, see (AN) T8.0.IQP.2701 (1908); (AN) T8.0.IQP.2727 (1908); (AN) T8.0.IQP.3239 (1909); (AN) T8.0.IQP.3254 (1909). For more cases involving death certificates and miscarriages or stillbirths, see (AN) 0R.0.IQP.6132 (1908); (AN) T7.0.IQP.1142 (1909); (AN) CS.0.IQP.1154 (1914). 109.  (AN) T8.0.IQP.3280 (1909). 110. O’Toole, Mosby’s Medical Dictionary, 316. 111.  Physicians’ understandings of the difference between fetal anomalies and infanticide was established medical knowledge by the early twentieth c­ entury. J. I. Fonseca, Do infanticidio, 27–30; Jorge, Do infanticidio, 29–33; J. Silva, Do infanticidio, 32–34. 112.  (AN) T8.0.IQP.2682 (1908). 113.  Hacker, Gambone, and Hobel, Hacker and Moore’s, 87–88. 114.  (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.105 (1912). 115.  He was trying to access the ­f ree ser­v ices at the Santa Casa da Misericórdia, which had a contract with the police. See Consolidação, 2:128–36. 116.  Gabbe et al., Obstetrics, 320–26, 493–94. 117.  The physician was Pedro Ernesto Baptista. 118.  For municipal law, see Article 498, Consolidação, 2:124. For federal law, see Decree 9886, March 7, 1888, Collecção das Leis, 1888, 248–68. For police code, see M. Coelho and Fonseca, Projecto de Codigo de Policia. See also (AN) CS.0.IQP.2323 (1918); (AN) CS.0.IQP.3191 (1922). 119. Caulfield, In Defense of Honor; Fischer, “Slandering Citizens”; Soihet, Condição feminina, esp. 150. 120.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.6967 (1933). For other cases involving health officials, see (AN) T8.0.IQP.2682 (1908); (AN) CT, Cx.1806 N.360 (1912); (AN) CS.0.IQP.3019 (1920); (AN) CS.0.IQP.3426 (1923); (AN) CT, Cx.1928 N.60 (1931); (AN) CS.0.IQP.6612 (1931); (AN) CS.0.IQP.7229 (1935); (AN) CS.0.IQP.7592 (1936). 121.  Bamber and Malcomson, “Macerated Stillbirth,” 339–60. 122. Barcellos, Do infanticidio, 32; Brasiel, Breves considerações, 17; J. T. Oliveira, Do infanticidio, 46–49; A. Pessoa, Exame medico l­ egal, 7–8. 123. Reagan, When Abortion Was a Crime, 3. 124.  (AN) 72.0.IQP.1043 (1914). 125.  (AN) CT, Cx.2009 N.1219 (1924).

Chapter 7 1.  (AN) CT, Cx.1978 N.1036 (1924). 2. Alvarez, Bacharéis, criminologistas; Chazkel, Laws of Chance; Corrêa, As ilusões da liberdade; Fischer, Poverty of Rights.

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3.  Five abortion t­ rials w ­ ere in response to the death of the pregnant w ­ oman; thus, she could not have been the accused person. (TJRJ) Philomena Francisca de Sousa Korff, Maria Albuquerque Fróes e Silva (1921); (AN) CS.0.PCR.4940 (1930); (AN) CT, Cx.1821  N.224 (1930); (AN) CS.0.PCR.5608 (1930); (AN) CS.0.PCR.6998 (1934). But even t­ rials in which the w ­ oman died during the trial, she was not the accused party. See (AN) CS.0.PCR.3046 (1921). 4.  Pedro, “Aborto e infanticídio,” 55–56; F. Rodrigues, “Os crimes,” esp. 149. See (AN) 84, Cx.105  N.994 (1890) Magé; (AN) CT, Cx.1872  N.652 (1914); (AN) CS.0.PCR.1350 (1915); (AN) CS.0.PCR.2059 (1918); (AN) CS.0.PCR.5883 (1931); (AN) CT, Cx.1934, N.2105 (1939). 5.  According to Marcel Mauss, ­women w ­ ere denied their status as persons. “Category of the H ­ uman Mind.” 6.  Donovan, “Infanticide and the Juries.” 7.  Back­house, “Desperate W ­ omen”; Brennan, “Fine Mixture of Pity”; Jackson, “Trial of Harriet Vooght.” 8.  Caron, “ ‘Killed by Its ­Mother’ ” ’; Donovan, “Infanticide and the Juries”; Marland, “Getting Away with Murder?” 9. Farrell, “Most Diabolical Deed”; Rattigan, “What Else Could I Do?”; Ruggiero, “Honor, Maternity.” 10.  For honor as a central l­ egal tenet, see Guerra, “Las flores del mal”; Jaffary, “Reconceiving Motherhood”; López, History of ­Family; Pedro, Práticas proibidas; Ruggiero, “Honor, Maternity”; Ruggiero, “Not Guilty.” For peripheral areas, see Shelton, “Bodies of Evidence.” 11.  In many Latin American countries, judges de­cided both infanticide and abortion cases. López, History of ­Family; Ruggiero, “Honor, Maternity”; Shelton, “Bodies of Evidence.” 12. Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 161–63. 13. Chazkel, Laws of Chance, 74, 81; Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 163–66. For Peru, see López, History of ­Family, 68–70. 14.  Article 27§4, Costa e Silva, Codigo Penal, 189. In 1922, jurists modified this clause to read “disturbance of the senses” (perturbação de sentidos), which did not change the application of the law. Article 38, Decree 4780, December 27, 1923, Costa e Silva, Codigo Penal, 191, 194. In 1932, the Vargas administration passed new legislation that stated if a person was acquitted u ­ nder this article and had been found using drugs or other mind-­a ltering substances, he or she would be committed to a medical fa­cil­ i­t y. This also did not affect jurisprudence relating to infanticide. Article 45§2a, Decree 20930, January 11, 1932, Piragibe, Consolidação, 42, 195nA. 15. Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 376n15. 16.  J. Antunes, Medicina, leis e moral, 96–122; Peres and Nery Filho, “A doença ­mental,” 338–39; Soihet, Condição feminina, 277–78. 17.  Besse, “Crimes of Passion”; Bretas, “Sovereign’s Vigilant Eye?,” 65; Chalhoub, Trabalho, lar e botequim, 101, 180–84; Engel, “Paixão, crime”; Soihet, Condição feminina, 276–87. Engel contends the judicial system absolved both genders ­u nder this



Notes to Chapter 7 295

article, but Soihet argues only men had this option. Chalhoub also demonstrates it was used in general hom­i­cide t­ rials. 18.  Engel, “Paixão, crime,” 168, 170. 19.  Besse, “Crimes of Passion,” 658; Engel, “Paixão, crime,” 168–69. 20.  Faria, quoted in O. Soares, Codigo Penal, 77–78. 21.  Costa e Silva, Codigo Penal, 199. 22.  Costa e Silva, 198. 23.  “Apostillas academicas”; Aguiar, Da psycose, 12, 67; A. Gomes, Psychoses puerperaes, 26. 24.  For early discussions, see J. T. Oliveira, Do infanticidio, 50–51. For ­later approaches, see A. Gomes, Psychoses puerperaes; Post, Psychoses; Telles, A pericia obstetrica, 51. 25. Siqueira, Direito Penal, 1:350. 26. Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 2:55. See also C. Barreto, “O aborto,” 325; O. Soares, Codigo Penal, 618. 27.  For the quote, see Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 2:55. For discussions, see Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 2:61; Siqueira, Direito Penal, 2:595–96; O. Soares, Codigo Penal, 621. Defense ­lawyers in abortion cases reiterated this l­egal understanding. See (AN) CS.0.PCR.7644 (1935), esp. 112–15. 28. Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 2:61; Siqueira, Direito Penal, 2:597–98; O. Soares, Codigo Penal, 621. 29.  Hentz, “A honra,” 72–73; Neckel et al., “Aborto e infanticídio,” 102–3; F. Rodrigues, “Os crimes,” 82; Roden, A arte de enganar, 132. 30.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.7644 (1935). 31. Haugeberg, ­Women Against Abortion, 26; López, History of ­Family, 52; Pedro, Oliveira, and Carvalho, “Corpos femininos,” 235, 239. 32.  I also analyze five child abandonment cases anecdotally (Article 292). Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 2:63–70. One child abandonment case had circumstances very similar to most infanticide cases, and thus I include it as one of the twenty infanticide cases. See (AN) T8.0.PCR.825 (1901). I also anecdotally analyze eleven illegal practice of medicine t­ rials involving midwives (Article 156) and nine misdemeanor ­trials of illegal burial and registration practices surrounding stillborn infants (Articles 285, 364, and 388, respectively). O. Soares, Codigo Penal, 585–89, 728, 757–59. See Appendix B. 33.  See C. Silva, “Amores e dores,” 79–80; Pedro, Oliveira, and Carvalho, “Corpos femininos,” 219–51; G. Ramos, “Entre ‘o sublime nome’ ”; Scheper-­Hughes, Death Without Weeping. 34.  Judges closed five ­because the statute of limitations expired (prescrita). (TJRJ) Isolina Ribeiro de Aguiar (1900); (MJ) RG.13242 Cx.1403 (1902); (AN) CS.0.PCR.2059 (1918); (TJRJ) Lydia de Carvalho (1922); (TJRJ) Jovelina Pereira dos Santos (1931). Bureaucratic delays caused three to remain incomplete. (AN) 0I.0.PCR.3075 (1892); (AN) T8.0.PCR.825 (1901); (AN) T8.0.PCR.2480 (1907). In one trial, Maria de Jesus’s case presented ­earlier, the judge declared the accusation without ­legal basis (improcedente). (AN) CT, Cx.1978 N.1036 (1924).

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35.  (MJ) RG.13243 Cx.1403 (1902); (MJ) RG.13244 Cx.1403 (1903); (AN) CA.CT4.376 (1907); (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910). In this last case, the jury found Joaquina Gonçalves not guilty. The prosecution appealed, but the case languished in the courts and was closed due to bureaucratic delay (prescrita) twenty years ­later. I include it ­here ­because the initial jury decision found Gonçalves not guilty, and she was released from prison. 36.  (MJ) RG.13245 Cx.1403 (1904); (AN) CA.CT4.492 (1908); (TJRJ) Alcina Ephygenia Mendonça (1911); (TJRJ) Gracinda de Medeiros (1911); (TJRJ) Faustina Brasilina (1912). In the first trial, the jury found Olivia Nogueira da Gama guilty and not acting in a state of postpartum madness. She appealed, and the appeals jury found her guilty of infanticide while acting in a state of postpartum madness and acquitted her. 37.  (TJRJ) Helena Teixeira Pinto (1914). 38.  (TJRJ) Maria de Lima (1916). 39.  Ruggiero, “Honor, Maternity,” esp. 355–56, 372. 40.  One case went before a jury; the abortion had resulted in the death of the ­woman, and thus it was a more serious crime. (TJRJ) Philomena Francisca de Sousa Korff, Maria Albuquerque Fróes e Silva (1921). (In 1923, the law changed, so even abortion-­related deaths went before a judge.) Article 100, 101§3, §5n18, Decree 1030, November 14, 1890, https://­w ww2​.­camara​.­leg​.­br​/­legin​/­fed​/­decret​/­1824​-­1899​/­decreto​-­1030​ -­14​-­novembro​-­1890​-­505536​-­publicacaooriginal​-­1​-­pe​.­html, accessed May 19, 2019; Article 23§r, Decree 2579, August 16, 1897, Collecção das Leis, 1897, 676–77; Article 82§6n15, Article 92§1, Decree 16273, December 20, 1923, https://­w ww2​.­camara​.­leg​.­br​/­legin​/­fed​ /­decret​/­1920​-­1929​/­decreto​-­16273​-­20​-­dezembro​-­1923​-­509027​-­publicacaooriginal​-­1​-­pe​ .­html, accessed May 19, 2019. 41.  See also Pedro, “Aborto e infanticídio,” 30. 42.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.1350 (1915). 43. For improcedente, see (AN) CT, Cx.1872 N.652 (1914); (AN) CS.0.PCR.4940 (1930); (AN) CT, Cx.1821 N.224 (1930); (AN) CS.0.PCR.5883 (1931); (AN) CS.0.PCR.7644 (1935); (AN) CT, Cx.1934, N.2105 (1939). In one improcedente case, which had two accused midwives, the judge de­cided the case was improcedente for the first midwife and with l­egal basis (procedente) and guilty for the second (she appealed, and the appeals judge determined her case improcedente). (AN) CS.0.PCR.6998 (1934). For absolved (absolvida), see (AN) CT, Cx.1860 N.1692 (1926). 44.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.3046 (1921). 45.  When the appellate court issued the stay of execution, it changed the crime from Article 300§1 to Article 301. The judge never issued an arrest warrant, so the midwife was not arrested. (AN) CS.0.PCR.5608 (1930). 46.  (TJRJ) Philomena Francisca de Sousa Korff, Maria Albuquerque Fróes e Silva (1921). 47. Chazkel, Laws of Chance, 5, 27, 90, 254; Rosenn, “Brazil’s L ­ egal Culture.” 48.  For re­sis­tance, see Chalhoub, Trabalho, lar e botequim, 34, 281, 283; Soihet, Condição feminina, 385. For the idea of “existence,” see Scheper-­Hughes, Death Without Weeping, 533. 49.  (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910).



Notes to Chapter 7 297

50.  (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.22279 (1938). See also (AN) CT, Cx.1830 N.1386 (1937). 51.  (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910). 52.  See (AN) 0I.0.PCR.3075 (1892); (MJ) RG.13245 Cx.1403 (1904); (TJRJ) Alcina Ephygenia Mendonça (1911); (TJRJ) Gracinda de Medeiros (1911); (TJRJ) Helena Teixeira Pinto (1914); (AN) CS.0.PCR.1877 (1917); (TJRJ) Lydia de Carvalho (1922); (AN) CT, Cx.1838 N.249 (1928). For incomplete cases, see (AN) T9.0.PCR.28 (1893); (AN) T8.0.PCR.825 (1901); (AN) T8.0.PCR.2480 (1907). 53.  (AN) 0I.0.PCR.3075 (1892). 54.  (TJRJ) Isolina Ribeiro de Aguiar (1900). See also (AN) T9.0.PCR.28 (1893); (MJ) RG.13242 Cx.1403 (1902); (AN) CA.CT4.376 (1907); (AN) T8.0.PCR.2480 (1907); (TJRJ) Helena Teixeira Pinto (1914); (TJRJ) Lydia de Carvalho (1922); (TJRJ) Jovelina Pereira dos Santos (1931). 55.  See (AN) CS.0.PCR.5883 (1931). 56.  F. Rodrigues, “Os crimes,” 133–35; Rohden, A arte de enganar, 124. 57.  In relation to infanticide, ­women ­were the accused parties in nineteen of the twenty ­t rials. In the last case, not included ­here, the accused man was Portuguese. (AN) CS.0.PCR.2059 (1918). 58.  See Appendix F. 59. Farrell, “Most Diabolical Deed”; Ruggiero, “Honor, Maternity.” 60.  Pedro, “Aborto e infanticídio,” 23, 55–56; Pedro et al., “Mulheres, memórias,” 160–61. 61.  Respectively, (AN) CT, Cx.1872 N.652 (1914); (AN) 6Z.0.IQP.22570 (1938); (AN) CS.0.PCR.4940 (1930); (AN) CS.0.PCR.5883 (1931). 62.  On the importance of social networks in the ability to access abortion ser­ vices, see López, History of F ­ amily, 73. 63.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.5883 (1931). Her official name was Philomena Temponi, but she went by her professional name, Lia Navarro. 64. Lobo, História, 748–51. 65.  (MJ) RG.13244 Cx.1403 (1903). 66.  The 1903 monthly cost-­of-­living index for foodstuffs was 2$470 milréis; for 1930, it was 10$222 milréis. Lobo, História, 748–51. For inflation adjustments, see Appelbaum, “Consumer Price Index.” 67. ­These initial denunciations provided the ­legal basis for both the trial proceedings and the bill of indictment (libelo crime) presented to both judge and jury. Article 212, Codigo do Pro­cesso, 31; Article 322, Almeida, Codigo do Pro­cesso, 123. 68.  On colonial Catholic roots, see Priore, “A árvore e o fruto.” 69.  For the honor clause, see (MJ) RG.13243 Cx.1403 (1902); (MJ) RG.13244 Cx.1403 (1903); (MJ) RG.13245 Cx.1403 (1904); (AN) CA.CT4.376 (1907); (AN) CA.CT4.492 (1908); (TJRJ) Alcina Ephygenia Mendonça (1911); (TJRJ) Helena Teixeira Pinto (1914); (TJRJ) Maria de Lima (1916). For the three cases not prosecuted ­u nder the honor clause, see (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910); (TJRJ) Gracinda de Medeiros (1911); (TJRJ) Faustina Brasilina (1912). For cases in which the public prosecutor asked for the maximum sentence, see (AN) CA.CT4.376 (1907); (AN) CA.CT4.492 (1908); (TJRJ) Alcina

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Ephygenia Mendonça (1911). For medium sentences, see (MJ) RG.13243 Cx.1403 (1902); (MJ) RG.13244 Cx.1403 (1903); (MJ) RG.13245 Cx.1403 (1904); (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910); (TJRJ) Gracinda de Medeiros (1911). For minimum sentences, see (TJRJ) Helena Teixeira Pinto (1914); (TJRJ) Maria de Lima (1916). In the last case, the prosecution asked for the medium sentence, but Maria de Lima received the minimum. 70.  (AN) CA.CT4.492 (1908). 71.  For Article 39§5, §9, see O. Soares, Codigo penal, 101, 106–7, 110–11. For the infanticide sentence, see Araujo, O Codigo Penal, 2:2. 72.  (AN) 0I.0.PCR.3075 (1892). 73.  (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910). 74.  See, for example, (AN) CS.0.PCR.5883 (1931). 75.  The men who deflowered and forced a partner to have an abortion ­were charged with both abortion (Article 300) and deflowering (Article 267). See (AN) CS.0.PCR.1350 (1915). On deflowering, see Caulfield, In Defense of Honor; Esteves, Meninas perdidas. 76.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.1350 (1915). For other incest cases, see (AN) CS.0.PCR.2059 (1918); (AN) CT, Cx.1934 N.2105 (1939). 77.  On the commonality of marriage promises and deflowering, see Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 36–41, 137–41. 78.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.7644 (1935). 79.  The police often forced ­women to testify against their abortion provider. See (AN) CS.0.PCR.5883 (1931); (AN) CT, Cx.1830  N.1386 (1937); (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.20528 (1937); (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.22279 (1938). 80.  See also Rohden, A arte de enganar, 137; Soihet, Condição feminina, 342–43. 81.  (AN) CT, Cx.1872  N.652 (1914). For physicians who notified the police, see (AN) CS.0.PCR.5608 (1930); (AN) CS.0.PCR.7644 (1935). 82.  Section title quote from Aguiar, Da psycose, 12. 83.  Article 175, Decree 1030, November 14, 1890, https://­w ww2​.­camara​.­leg​.­br​/­legin​ /­fed​/­decret​/­1824​-­1899​/­decreto​-­1030​-­14​-­novembro​-­1890​-­505536​-­publicacaooriginal​-­1-​ ­pe​ .­html, accessed May 19, 2019; Decree 2457, February 8, 1897, Collecção das Leis, 1897, Part 2:84–90. 84.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.1373 (1915). 85.  Messitte, “Assistência judiciária,” 135–36. 86.  See (MJ) RG.13245 Cx.1403 (1904); (TJRJ) Alcina Ephygenia Mendonça (1911); (TJRJ) Gracinda de Medeiros (1911); (TJRJ) Helena Teixeira Pinto (1914); (TJRJ) Maria de Lima (1916). ­Under the 1890 Penal Code, minors over the age of nine who acted with an understanding of their actions could be tried as adults. Between the ages of nine and fourteen, minors acting “without discernment” (sem discernimento) ­were unable to stand trial. Article 27§1, §2, O. Soares, Codigo Penal, 72–74. In 1923, the definitive age of criminal responsibility was fixed at fourteen, and in 1927, the federal government instituted the Youth Code (Código de Menores) creating a separate court system for youth crimes. A ­ fter this date, the Youth Court (Juíz de Menores) tried



Notes to Chapter 7 299

minors ­u nder eigh­teen, and the regular court system assigned ­legal representatives (curadores) to minors between the ages of eigh­teen and twenty-­one. Articles 24, 28, Decree 16272, December 20, 1923, https://­w ww2​.­camara​.­leg​.­br​/­legin​/­fed​/­decret​/­1920​ -­1929​/­decreto​-­16272​-­20​-­dezembro​-­1923​-­517646​-­publicacaooriginal​-­1-​ ­pe​.­html, accessed May 19, 2019; Articles 50, 409, 410, Almeida, Codigo do Pro­cesso, 43, 146–47; Article 42§11, O. Soares, Codigo Penal, 132–33. On the Código de Menores, see Alvarez, Bacharéis, criminologistas, 205–10. For an overview of criminal responsibility in the 1890 code, see Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 161–66. 87.  (MJ) RG.13243 Cx.1403 (1902). 88.  (AN) CA.CT4.492 (1908). 89.  (TJRJ) Maria de Lima (1916). 90. Beviláqua, Codigo Civil de 1916, 179. 91.  (MJ) RG.13243 Cx.1403 (1902). 92. Rohden, A arte de enganar, 47–88. 93.  (TJRJ) Jovelina Pereira dos Santos (1931). 94.  (AN) CT, Cx.1860 N.1692 (1926). This “official complaint” (queixa crime) bypassed the police and went directly to a judge. Article 2, Almeida, Codigo do Pro­cesso, 19–20. 95.  Jorge Filho, Do parto, 25–27; Mercadante, A maternidade, 5. 96.  See also J. M. Collins, “Bearing the Burden”; Farrell, “Most Diabolical Deed.” 97. (AN) T8.0.PCR.2480 (1907). See also (AN) 0I.0.PCR.3075 (1892); (AN) T8.0.PCR.825 (1901); (MJ) RG.13243 Cx.1403 (1902); (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910); (TJRJ) Helena Teixeira Pinto (1914). 98.  For stillbirth, see (AN) 0I.0.PCR.3075 (1892); (TJRJ) Isolina Ribeiro de Aguiar (1900); (AN) T8.0.PCR.825 (1901); (MJ) RG.13242 Cx.1403 (1902); (MJ) RG.13243 Cx.1403 (1902); (AN) T8.0.PCR.2480 (1907); (AN) CA.CT4.492 (1908); (TJRJ) Gracinda de Medeiros (1911); (TJRJ) Lydia de Carvalho (1922); (AN) CT, Cx.1978 N.1036 (1924). For born alive, see (MJ) RG.13244 Cx.1403 (1903); (MJ) RG.13245 Cx.1403 (1904); (TJRJ) Alcina Ephygenia Mendonça (1911). For w ­ omen who did not know if the child was alive or dead, see (TJRJ) Helena Teixeira Pinto (1914). For ­dying moments a­ fter birth, see (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910); (TJRJ) Jovelina Pereira dos Santos (1931). For ­women who denied giving birth, see (AN) CA.CT4.376 (1907). ­There is a correlation between stillbirth and the absence of skilled birth attendants at delivery. McClure, Goldenberg, and Bann, “Maternal Mortality.” 99.  (TJRJ) Jovelina Pereira dos Santos (1931). 100.  (MJ) RG.13244 Cx.1403 (1903). 101. (MJ) RG.13242 Cx.1403 (1902); (MJ) RG.13243 Cx.1403 (1902); (AN) CA.CT4.492 (1908); (TJRJ) Helena Teixeira Pinto (1914). 102.  (MJ) RG.13244 Cx.1403 (1903); (MJ) RG.13245 Cx.1403 (1904); (TJRJ) Alcina Ephygenia Mendonça (1911); (TJRJ) Helena Teixeira Pinto (1914); (TJRJ) Jovelina Pereira dos Santos (1931). 103.  (AN) CA.CT4.492 (1908).

300

Notes to Chapter 7

104.  (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910). See also (TJRJ) Lydia de Carvalho (1922); (TJRJ) Jovelina Pereira dos Santos (1931). 105.  (TJRJ) Maria de Lima (1916). 106.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.7644 (1935). 107.  S. Graham, House and Street, 4, 15. 108.  S. Graham, “Making the Private Public,” 29. 109. Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 106; S. Graham, House and Street, 5, 49–50. 110.  For some of the more scandalous headlines, see Delmira Maria da Conceição, (AN) T8.0.PCR.2480 (1907): “Uma panthera humana. Crime horroroso. Vida curta e tragica. Num caixão de lixo,” Correio da Manhã, January 31, 1907, 4; Gloria Lourenço da Silva, (AN) CA.CT4.492 (1908): “Crime horroroso. Uma creança de dias estrangulada, esquartejada e posta aos pedaços no ‘water-­closet,’ ” Correio da Manhã, August 1, 1908, 2; “Crime horroroso. O barbaro estrangulamento do Becco da Batalha,” Correio da Manhã, August 2, 1908, 8; “Barbaro infanticidio. Degolamento e esquartejamento. Uma cabeça que rola,” O Paiz, August 1, 1908, 3; “Crime horroroso. Mãe que mata o filho para esconder a propria fraqueza,” Correio de Manhã, April 1, 1909, 4. 111.  (MJ) RG.13245 Cx.1403 (1904); Jornal do Brasil, January 26, 1904, 2; “Mãe assassina. A confissão,” Jornal do Brasil, February 9, 1904, 1; “Mãe desnaturada. A confissão do crime,” Correio da Manhã, February 9, 1904, 2. 112.  On neighborhoods and social reputation, see S. Graham, House and Street, 42. 113.  S. Graham, House and Street, 5, 7, 185–90; Hahner, Emancipating the Female Sex, 91. 114.  Bretas, “Sovereign’s Vigilant Eye?” 60; S. Graham, House and Street, 31, 45–46, 54. 115.  See (AN) T9.0.PCR.28 (1893); (MJ) RG.13244 Cx.1403 (1903); (MJ) RG.13245 Cx.1403 (1904). On ­labor laws, see Besse, Restructuring Patriarchy, 8, 141–51, 239n70; S. Graham, House and Street, 130. 116. Schulte, Village in Court, 86, 100–101. 117. Dias, Power and Everyday Life; Milanich, ­Children of Fate; Putnam, Com­pany They Kept. 118.  For the demographics of live-in domestic servants with c­ hildren, see S. Graham, House and Street, 5–6, 78–79, 185–91. Sueann Caulfield also found that domestic servants in deflowering cases often lost their jobs upon becoming pregnant. In Defense of Honor, 135. 119.  (AN) T9.0.PCR.28 (1893). 120.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.1877 (1917). 121.  (TJRJ) Isolina Ribeiro de Aguiar (1900). 122.  For sexual assault and infanticide, see (MJ) RG.13244 Cx.1403 (1903); (MJ) RG.13245 Cx.1403 (1904); (AN) CS.0.PCR.2059 (1918). 123.  (TJRJ) Helena Teixeira Pinto (1914). 124.  (TJRJ) Faustina Brasilina (1912).



Notes to Chapter 7 and Conclusion 301

125.  Miller, “Denial of Pregnancy.” See also Altink, “ ‘I Did Not Want’ ”; Schulte, Village in Court, 104–8. 126. Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 186–88. 127. Ribeiro, Codigo Penal, 3:69–83. 128. Rohden, A arte de enganar, 167–71. 129. Ribeiro, Codigo Penal, 2:59–72. 130.  The 1940 Code was in line with its German counterpart, which, as Regina Schulte argues, defined infanticide as “based on a ‘natu­ral’ conception of the mother-­ child relationship” in that the crime “emerges as an individual psychiatric aberration or as a deviation from nature, which itself is intrinsically immutable.” Village in Court, 83. 131.  Abortion is covered ­under Articles 124–28, Ribeiro, Codigo Penal, 3:85–104. 132.  M. Lacerda, “Sobre o aborto”; Sociedade Brasileira de Criminologia, “Decima sexta sessão.” 133. Rio, A alma encantadora, 202–3. 134. Rio. 135.  See, for example, T. Barreto, Menores e loucos, 67; F. J. Castro, A nova escola penal, 19, 38, 49, 342; F. J. Castro, Jurisprudencia criminal, 80. 136.  See, for example, (TJRJ) Isolina Ribeiro de Aguiar (1900). 137.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.3046 (1921). 138.  (AN) CS.0.PCR.7644 (1935). 139.  I have found feminist discussions on mothering and love helpful in this regard. See Ruddick, “Maternal Thinking”; Scheper-­Hughes, Death Without Weeping, 340–99; Steedman, Landscape, 83–97.

Conclusion 1. Aranha, Canaã, 233–36. 2.  (AN) CT, Cx.1956 N.587 (1898). 3.  (AN) CR.0.IQP.188 (1908). 4.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.8241 (1938). She was also referred to as Anna Maria de Lemos Henrique. 5.  Rolindo, “Registo, Junho 1922,” patient 17585, 228. 6.  (AN) CS.0.IQP.7759 (1937). 7.  Rolindo, “Registo, Novembro 1922,” patient 18202, 542–44. 8. (IFCH-­ U NICAMP), Ocorrências Policiais, numeração 7670; localizador RJ06595001263; rolo FCRB013. 9.  “Notes on Sources.” See also Peard, Race, Place, and Medicine, 40. 10.  Rolindo, “Registo, Setembro 1924,” patient 20619, 382. 11. Jesus, Child of the Dark, 113. 12.  Jesus, 137. 13.  Scheper-­Hughes, Death Without Weeping, 128.

302

Notes to Conclusion

14.  Nakano, Bonan, and Teixeira, “A normalização da cesárea.” 15.  Leal et al., “Nascer no Brasil.” 16.  Leal et al. 17.  Aquino, “Reinventing Delivery,” S1. 18.  S. Diniz and Chacham, “ ‘Cut Above’ ”; Leal et al., “Intervenções obstétricas.” 19.  Leal et al., “Nascer no Brasil.” 20. Otovo, Progressive ­Mothers, 211. 21.  Domingues et al., “Processo de decisão.” 22.  L. Carneiro and Fraga, “Justiça determina que gravida.” 23.  Castelbajac, “Aborto l­egal,” 46. 24.  Isabel Hentz describes this history as “waves of criminalization and decriminalization.” “A honra,” 54. 25.  Luna, “Morte por aborto.” 26.  Ibope, “Pesquisa.” 27.  J. Carneiro, “Brazil’s S­ ilent Abortion Dilemma.” 28.  H. Coelho, “Justiça condena três pessoas.” 29.  Luna, “Morte por aborto”; “Operação da polícia.” 30.  Kane, Galli, and Skuster, When Abortion Is a Crime. 31.  Defensoria Pública, “Perfil de mulheres.” 32.  Galli, “Negative Impacts.” 33.  Brasil, Ministério da Saúde, Aborto; D. Diniz and Medeiros, “Aborto no Brasil”; Menezes and Aquino, “Pesquisa sobre o aborto.” 34.  Löwy, “Zika Virus and Rubella.” 35.  D. Diniz, Zika. 36. Reagan, Dangerous Pregnancies. 37.  M. Silveira, “ ‘Não engravidem agora.’ ” 38.  Reis, “Mosquitos and ­Mothers.” 39.  For birth control, see Bougher, “Government Recommendations on Zika Virus.” For unplanned pregnancies, see “Is It Realistic to Recommend Delaying Pregnancy.” 40.  D. Diniz, “A arquitetura.” 41.  D. Diniz, “Brazilian Litigation.” 42.  For a history of mosquito control, see Braga and Valle, “Aedes aegypti.” 43.  For the Aedes aegypti’s breeding habits, see Medronho et al., “Aedes aegypti.” For ­women, see D. Diniz, Zika (documentary); S. Diniz and Andrezzo, “Zika Virus.” 44.  S. Diniz and Andrezzo, “Zika Virus.” 45.  Saxton, “Disability Rights.” Thank you to Cody Williams for bringing this issue to my attention. 46.  Löwy, “Abortion for Fetal Anomaly”; Löwy, Tangled Diagnoses. 47.  D. Diniz, “The Brazilian Litigation”; H ­ uman Rights Watch, “Amicus Curiae.” 48.  Ilana Löwy, email messages to author, August 27, 2018, and August 28, 2018. 49. D. Diniz, “Protection.” For the article she critiques, see Teixeira et  al. “Epidemic.”



Notes to Conclusion and Notes on Sources 303

50.  A. M. Stern, “Zika.” 51.  W. Oliveira et al., “Zika Virus.” 52.  Hay et al., “Potential Inconsistencies.” 53.  W. Oliveira et al., “Zika Virus.” 54.  F. Coelho et al., “Can Zika Account”; Hay et al., “Potential Inconsistencies”; W. Oliveira et al., “Zika Virus.” 55.  Center for Reproductive Rights, “The World’s Abortion Laws 2017.” 56.  Viterna and Bautista, “Pregnancy.” 57.  Center for Reproductive Rights, “The World’s Abortion Laws 2017.” 58.  Colombia, Ministerio de Salud y Protección Social, “Lineamientos pro­ visionales.”

Notes on Sources 1.  Sistema de Informações do Arquivo Nacional (SIAN), http://­sian​.­a n​.­gov​.­br​ /­sianex​/­consulta​/­login​.­asp. 2.  Rachel Soihet, who published her book in 1989, cites some of the cases that I found in both the TJRJ and the MJ as ­housed in the Tribunal do Júri archive. Condição feminina, 341n100, 344n101, 345n102, 350n104, 354n106, 356n108, 358n110, 360n111, 363n113. 3. Caulfield, In Defense of Honor, 44–45; Fischer, “Slandering Citizens,” 182. 4.  In one case, the supervising prosecutor overruled his subordinate’s decision and sent the case to trial. (TJRJ) Isolina Ribeiro de Aguiar (1900). Articles 45§1, 49b, 52§1n1, Decree 2579, August 16, 1897, Collecção das Leis, 1897, 693–95, 698–99, 700. 5.  In addition to the trial above, I have found only one other investigation in which the presiding judge rejected the public prosecutor’s decision to close the case, sending it to the superior prosecutor. In this investigation, however, the prosecutor upheld his subordinate’s decision and closed the case. (AN) MW.0.IQP.440 (1902). 6.  One abortion case is an official complaint (queixa-­crime) brought directly to the judge, thus bypassing a police investigation. (AN) CT, Cx.1860 N.1692 (1926). Article 2§2, Almeida, Codigo do Pro­cesso, 19–20. 7.  Article 100, Almeida, Codigo do Pro­cesso, 61; Article 42, Codigo do Pro­cesso, 9. 8.  Article 13§1, §2, §3, §4, Law 2033, September 20, 1871, Collecção das Leis, 1871, 130–31; Article 101§1, Almeida, Codigo do Pro­cesso, 61; Article 43§1, Codigo do Pro­ cesso, 9. 9.  (AN) CA.CT4.492 (1908); (TJRJ) Faustina Brasilina (1912); (TJRJ) Maria de Lima (1916). In one infanticide investigation that went to trial, Joaquina Gonçalves was de facto imprisoned while receiving medical attention at the city jail’s infirmary (Casa de Detenção). See (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910). 10.  Article 101§2, Almeida, Codigo do Pro­cesso, 61; Article 42§2, Codigo do Pro­ cesso, 9.

304

Notes to Notes on Sources

11.  Articles 94–99, Almeida, Codigo do Pro­cesso, 58–61; Articles 37–41, Codigo do Pro­cesso, 8–9. See, for example, (AN) CS.0.PCR.1373 (1915); (AN) CT, Cx.1830 N.1386 (1937); (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.20528 (1937); (AN) 6Z.0.PCR.22279 (1938). 12.  For exceptions, see (AN) CS.0.PCR.5608 (1930); (AN) CS.0.PCR.5883 (1931); (AN) CT, Cx.1934 N.2105 (1939). 13.  For cases in which the presiding judge issued an arrest warrant, see (MJ) RG.13242 Cx.1403 (1902); (AN) CA.CT4.376 (1907); (TJRJ) Lydia de Carvalho (1922); (TJRJ) Jovelina Pereira dos Santos (1931). 14.  Article 12, Almeida, Codigo do Pro­cesso, 23–24; Article 121, Codigo do Pro­ cesso, 19. 15. Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 166–69, 379–80n42. 16.  Article 311, Almeida, Codigo do Pro­cesso, 119–20. The defense also could provide their own witnesses. See (AN) CA.CT4.492 (1908); (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910); (AN) CS.0.PCR.4940 (1930); (AN) CS.0.PCR.7644 (1935). 17.  (TJRJ) Isolina Ribeiro de Aguiar (1900); (MJ) RG.13242 Cx.1403 (1902); (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910); (TJRJ) Lydia de Carvalho (1922); (TJRJ) Jovelina Pereira dos Santos (1931); (AN) CS.0.PCR.1877 (1917); (AN) CS.0.PCR.2059 (1918). 18.  Articles 100, 101§3, §5n18, Decree 1030, November 14, 1890, Constituição da Republica, 252–53; Article 23, Decree 2579, August 16, 1897, Collecção das Leis, 1897, 676–78; Articles 82§6n15, 92§1, Decree 16273, December 20, 1923, Collecção das Leis, 1923, 403–4, 409. 19.  Articles 224, 326, 357, Regulation 120, January 31, 1842, Pessoa, Codigo do Pro­ cesso, 430, 455, 471–72. 20.  Articles 90, 277, 279, Decree 9263, December 28, 1911, Albuquerque, Novissima reforma, 30, 98–100. 21.  S. Graham, “Honor Among Slaves,” 206–7; Fischer, Poverty of Rights, 167. 22.  For cases that the defendant appealed, see (MJ) RG.13245 Cx.1403 (1904); (AN) CS.0.PCR.5608 (1930); (AN) CS.0.PCR.6998 (1934). For cases in which the defendant was denied appeal, see (TJRJ) Helena Teixeira Pinto (1914). For cases in which the public prosecutor appealed, see (MJ) RG.4382 Cx.577 (1910); (TJRJ) Philomena Francisca de Sousa Korff, Maria Albuquerque Fróes e Silva (1921). For cases in which the public prosecutor was denied appeal, see (TJRJ) Alcina Ephygenia Mendonça (1911); (AN) CS.0.PCR.5883 (1931); (AN) CT, Cx.1934, N.2105 (1939). 23. Martins, Visões do feminino, 152; Rohden, Uma ciência, 109–10, 167n2, 167–68n3, 168n4. 24.  J. Antunes, Medicina, leis e moral, 164–65; Martins, Visões do feminino, 144–45, 152–53; Peard, Race, Place, and Medicine, 269. 25. Stepan, Hour of Eugenics, 41. 26. Martins, Visões do feminino, 139–54; Peard, Race, Place, and Medicine, 19–20; Stepan, Beginnings of Brazilian, 47–64. 27.  The journal started in August 1907 as the Revista de Gynecologia e D’Obstetricia do Rio de Janeiro. In 1919, it changed to the Revista de Gynecologia, D’Obstetricia e de Pediatria. In 1922, it became the Revista de Gynecologia e D’Obstetricia.



Notes to Notes on Sources and Appendix D 305

28.  I was unable to locate vol. 18, nos. 4, 5, 6, 8 (1924) and vol. 20, no. 4 (1926). 29.  Gravidity refers to the total number of pregnancies a w ­ oman has, regardless of duration. Parity refers to a ­woman’s number of past pregnancies that reached viability and have been delivered, regardless of the number of c­ hildren. Posner et al., Oxorn-­ Foote, 74–75.

Appendix D 1.  This case began in 1889, when the 1830 Criminal Code was still in effect.

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Index

Pages numbers in italics indicate illustrations; those with a t indicate tables. abandonment. See child abandonment abortifacients, 35–36, 41–42, 100, 107, 110 abortion, 18–25, 39, 106–26; Catholic view of, 32–33, 38–39, 120, 124, 130, 174; Colombian laws on, 219; contraception and, 108–13; criminal sentences for, 35, 38, 118, 188, 215–16; curettage after, 101, 211; disposal of fetal remains after, 22, 169–75, 170t, 171t; eugenics and, 109, 121–24; fees for, 83, 106–7, 114, 154; forensic evidence of, 165–67; infanticide versus, 20–21, 166, 182–85, 210; men’s involvement with, 184, 195–96; methods of, 100–101; midwives and, 113–25, 117, 119; miscarriage versus, 28, 91, 210; Penal Code of 1830 on, 35–36; Penal Code of 1890 on, 36–40, 183; Penal Code of 1940 on, 124, 204–5; after rape, 120–21; right to, 112; rubella and, 217; septic, 94, 99–100; therapeutic, 118–26 Abreu, Henrique Tanner de, 124 Aguiar, Etelvina de, 172–73 Aguiar, Isolina Ribeiro de, 191, 203, 246t

Alberto, Paulina, 48 Albuquerque, Platão Cavalcanti de, 177 alcoholism, 50, 93 Alves, Francisco de Paula Rodrigues, 61, 132 ambulatory obstetric care, 65–66 Amorim, Maria da Gloria, 116–17, 117, 242t ANM. See National Academy of Medicine Andres, Dolores de, 203 anencephaly, 217 Aranha, Graça, 208–9 Araujo, Aurora Bastos de, 244t Araujo, João Vieira de, 40 Araújo, Jurema Lindgren de, 55, 79, 166 Argentina, 34, 36, 43, 100, 110, 191 Assis, Guilhermina Gonçalves de, 173, 174 Association of Charity and Mutual Help (Associação de Caridade e Auxílio Mútuo), 64. See also Pro-Matre Hospital Assumpção, Margarida Rosa da, 134–37, 136, 153

351

352

Index 

Augusta, Maria, 144–46, 168–69, 178, 248t Azevedo, Cecilia, 166 Azevedo, Maria Campos de, 99 Bailey, F. G., 128–29 Bandl ring, 98–99 Barbosa, Elizângela, 215 Barnabé, Elizeu, 81 Barreto, Maria Renilda, 261n140 Barreto, Tobias, 34–35, 48 Benchimol, Jaime, 97 Berlimont, Maria, 243t Bertillon, Alphonse, 160 Bessa, Maria Luisa, 99–101 Beviláqua, Clóvis, 35, 43–44, 46 Bezerra, Antonia “China” Mendes, 135–37 birth defects, 176–77; from consanguineous marriages, 94; from forceps deliveries, 93; from Zika virus, 216–19 birth rates: home versus non-home, 61t; hospital versus non-hospital, 73t Borges, Isidro, 152–54 Borges, Maria Piedade, 137–39, 241t Braga, Lucinda Pinto, 210–12 Brasília, 251n1 Brasilina, Faustina, 203, 247t Brazilian Communist Party, 42 Brazilian Federation for Feminine Progress (Federaçāo Brasileiro pelo Progresso Feminino), 42 Brazilian Society for Criminology (Sociedade Brasileira de Criminologia), 124 breech birth, 85–86, 92, 215 Bretas, Marcos, 161–62, 176 Britto, Isabel Maximiana de, 243t Brown, Wendy, 12 burial regulations, 169–75 Caetano, Constancia Maria, 241t Campos, Antonio Ferreira, 84, 172

Candida, Maria, 180 Capanema, Gustavo, 71, 72 Cardozo, Deodelina Isabel, 131 Careli, Sandra, 114 Carlos, Simão, 137–39 Carvalho, Anna de, 83–84, 101, 203, 247t Carvalho, Celeste de, 117–18, 248t Carvalho, Lydia de, 248t Cascadura Maternity Hospital (Maternidade Cascadura), 55, 70–71, 93 Castelbajac, Matthieu de, 36, 215 Castro, Isolina, 114–16, 115 Castro, Nimpha Figueiredo de, 86–87, 100 Caulfield, Sueann, 14, 60, 140, 289n47 Cavas, Heronita de Oliveira, “Madame Pereira,” 243t Central Board of Public Hygiene (Junta Central de Higiene Pública), 57 cesarean section, 64, 120, 213–15; Magalhães on, 98–99, 123 Chagas, Paulo Ferreira das, 195–96 Chalhoub, Sidney, 147 Chaves, Leticia, 104 Chazkel, Amy, 133 child abandonment, 132; definition of, 28; men’s involvement with, 184; at Santa Casa da Misericórdia, 58, 203, 210 Childhood Protection and Assistance Institute (Instituto de Proteção e Assistência à Infância, IPAI), 60, 114 Chile, 7, 34, 43 Chrispim, Rosa, 246t Civil Code of 1916, 10, 30, 35, 44, 122 Coelho, Antonio, 172–73 Coelho, Erico, 121 Colombian abortion laws, 219 communism, 7, 42 Conceição, Alice Maria da, 84–85 Conceição, Delmira Maria da, 200, 246t

Index 353

Conceição, Guilhermina Theresa da, 175 Conceição, Leonor Maria da, 175 Conceição, Odilia da, 196, 247t Conceição, Silvana Maria da, 241t Conceição, Virginia Maria da, 212 Concha, Joanna, 202–3, 246t congenital Zika syndrome (CZS), 216–18 Constantino, Honorina, 244t Constitution: of 1891, 5, 9, 30, 42; of 1934, 42; of 1937, 42 contraception, 7–8, 16, 18, 51, 189; abortion and, 107–14; definition of, 27 Corrêa, Mariza, 49 cost-of-living index, 83, 106–7, 114, 297n66 Costa, Ana Israel da, 180 Costa, Antonio da, 85 Costa, Clovis Corrêa da, 53, 86, 88, 92–93 Costa, Irene Pereira da, 76–78 Costa, Joaquim Augusto da, 153 Costa e Silva, Antonio José da, 187 Couto, Miguel, 91, 112, 125 craniotomy, 118, 272n72. See also embryotomy criminal responsibility: civil incapability and, 42–46; gendered codification of, 32–42, 110–11; “insanity defense” and, 183–88, 196–99, 203–7; race and, 48–49, 198. See also police investigations Cruz, Jandira Magdalena dos Santos, 215–16 Cunha, Olívia Maria Gomes da, 144, 163 curettage, 101, 211, 274n129 d’Angers, Charles-Prosper Ollivier, 35 Dantas, Eurydice, 243t Delgado, Ambrosina Magalhães, 242t dengue, 219

denunciation, 26, 127–39, 136, 141, 145–55, 167, 173, 182–83, 222 Deontology Code, 123 Derby, Lauren, 134 Dias, Julieta Joaquina, 91 Dias, Maria Carneiro, 179–80 Diniz, Debora, 218 disposal of bodies, 22, 29, 131, 169–75, 170t, 171t domestic workers, 84, 182; infanticide cases among, 191, 201–3; race and, 164, 209; types of, 289nn46–47 Dominican Republic, 134 Drummond, Irêne, 47 Duarte, Manoel, 147–50 eclampsia, 68, 94–96, 96t, 97, 101–2, 105 ectopic pregnancy, 95–96 El Salvador, 219 embryotomy, 118, 122–23. See also craniotomy Emilia, Maria, 84, 172 emmenagogues. See uterotonics Ernesto, Pedro, 55, 69–73, 93 Estado Novo (1937–45), 6–7, 16, 52, 56, 79 Estrela, Maria Augusta Generosa, 264n21 eugenics movement, 31–32, 48–54, 64, 108, 160; abortion and, 109, 121–24; sterilization and, 49–52, 75, 276n18; whitening thesis of, 16–18, 48. See also race Farani, Alberto, 51 Faria, Antônio Bento de, 187 Faria, Claudina, 197, 247t Faria, Olympia Octavia da, 85, 90 Faustina, Emilia, 192, 200, 246t Felix, Joaquina, 180 Fernandes, Carlos da Rocha, 92 Ferreira, Anna, 146–47 Ferreira, Luiza Leite, 103 Ferri, Enrico, 187

354

Index 

fetus, 38–39; Catholic view of, 120, 174; civil rights of, 44, 46, 120, 122–24; ensoulment of, 33 Figueira, Fernandes, 66 Figueiredo, Philomena Almeida, 248t First Aid Hospital (Hospital Prompto Socorro), 72 First Congress of Medical Trade Union Members (Primeiro Congresso Médico Sindicalista) (1931), 123 First National Congress on Medical Practice (Primeiro Congresso Nacional dos Prácticos) (1922), 112–13 Fischer, Brodwyn, 15 Fitzpatrick, Sheila, 133 Flemming, Rebecca, 27 Fonseca, Eurico Avelino da, 179–80 Fonseca, Joaquim Moreira da, 44–45, 124 Fonseca, Olympio da, 110, 112 forceps delivery, 64, 92, 98–99, 103; fetal trauma and, 178 forensic medicine, 24, 102, 157–59, 163; police practice and, 166. See also hydrostatic test Foucault, Michel, 134 Fraga, Clementino, 71 France, 108, 120–21, 160, 174; criminal codes of, 34, 39, 42 Franco, Sebastiana Rosa, 104 Freitas, Adelina Machado, “Dininha Freitas,” 244t Freyre, Gilberto, 52 Gama, Olivia Nogueira da, 83, 84, 201, 246t, 296n36 Gellately, Patrick, 133 gender, 4, 164, 184; class and, 62–65, 75, 76, 85, 91; criminal responsibility and, 32–42, 110–11; healthcare and, 60, 77, 85, 92; legal responsibility and, 205; race and, 5, 8–19, 48, 209; “reproductive justice” and, 255n73;

women medical students and, 58, 65, 264n21. See also patriarchal power; women’s rights Gentil, Philomena, 210 Góes, Adelir Carmen Lemos de, 214–15 Goffman, Erving, 131 Gomes, Agricola de Araujo, 212 Gomes, Manoel Martins, 140–42 Gonçalves, Ernestina da Silva, 44 Gonçalves, Joaquina, 147–50, 190, 195, 200, 247t, 296n35 gonorrhea, 68, 77. See also syphilis gossip, neighborhood, 22, 26, 127–55, 167, 173, 182–83, 222 Graham, Sandra Lauderdale, 201 Gramsci, Antonio, 130, 282n18 Green, Monica, 85 Grinberg, Keila, 43 Guillain-Barré syndrome (GBS), 219 gynecology, 41, 116–17, 117; clinical training in, 57–58; fees for, 114; obstetrics and, 251n5. See also obstetrics Habermas, Jürgen, 282n3 hemorrhage, maternal mortality from, 94–96, 96t, 97, 102–5 home burials, 173–75 homebirths, 61, 65–66, 71–77, 85; class differences with, 75–76, 84, 86; puerperal fever after, 99; rates of, 61t, 73t; regulations of, 76 hydrostatic test, 166, 168, 173. See also forensic medicine Immaculate Conception, doctrine of, 33 infant mortality, 47, 51, 60, 174 infanticide, 18–25, 39; abortion versus, 20–21, 166, 182–85, 210; autopsies of, 157–58, 165–69; definition of, 27–28, 37; disposal of body after, 22, 29, 131, 169–75, 170t, 171t; judicial outcomes of, 188–91; maternity clinics and,

Index 355

110; men guilty of, 184; Penal Code of 1830 on, 35; Penal Code of 1890 on, 36–40, 193, 204–5; Penal Code of 1940 on, 124, 204–6; ScheperHughes on, 213; sentences for, 185, 188–89; stillbirths and, 87, 200; from temporary madness, 183–88, 196–99; women’s honor and, 186–89 Inhaúma Health Center (Centro de Saúde de Inhaúma), 68–69, 69, 72 Innocencia, Maria, 178–80 International Classification of Diseases (ICD), 88, 95 Jesus, Carolina Maria de, 213 Jesus, Maria de, 182–83, 248t Jesus, Maria Francisca de, 243t Jim Crow laws (US), 9 Jorge, Thereza, 241t José, Maria, 241t Kapferer, Jean-Nöel, 146 Kehl, Renato, 49–51 Kristeller maneuver, 93, 214 Lamarck, Jean-Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet, chevalier de, 31, 49–50 laminaria, 101, 211 Lange, Martha, 153 Laranjeiras Maternity Hospital (Maternidade Laranjeiras), 1–4, 22, 220; clinical training at, 63–64; patient demographics of, 62–63, 63t, 86; photographs of, 2, 62 Lavradio, Barão de, 272n91 Law of the Free Womb (1871), 4 Lazzaretti, Giuseppe, 39 Lemos, Mariath, 211, 212 leprosy, 50, 68 Lima, Agostinho José de Souza, 37–40, 121, 157–58 Lima, José Ferreira da Silva, 195 Lima, Maria de, 189, 198, 200, 247t

Lombroso, Cesare, 121, 160 Lopes, Rita Lobato Velho, 58 Lopes, Rosa, 153 Loudon, Irvine, 94, 96 Lourdes, Angelica de, 167–69, 178 Lourenço, Elvira Alves, 102 Lutz, Bertha, 42, 47 Magalhães, Fernando, 49, 50–52, 211–12; on abortion, 106, 109–13, 122; cesarean technique of, 123; malpractice claims against, 64; on puerperal infection, 98–99; on stillbirth prevention, 91 Marino, Katherine, 47 Marques, Antonio, 147–48 Martins, Maria Rosa, 248t maternal mortality, 95, 97; from cesarean section, 120; definitions of, 95–96; from hemorrhage, 94–105, 96t, 102–5 Maternity Hospital Auxiliary Association (Associação Auxiliadora da Maternidade), 62. See also Laranjeiras Maternity Hospital Mattos, Alcyr Graça da Cunha, 86 Maudsley, Henry, 205–6 Mauriceau maneuver, 92 Mauss, Marcel, 294n5 McClintock, Anne, 19 Medeiros, Gracinda de, 247t medical schools, 57–58, 65, 264n21 Méier Maternity Hospital (Maternidade do Méier), 66–68, 67 Mello, Jacintha de, 104, 242t Mendel, Gregor, 49–50 Mendes, Anna, 248t Mendes, Antonio Augusto de Mattos, 162 Mendonça, Alcina Ephygenia, 247t Mendonça, Maria Ferreira da, 110, 195–96, 247t Merry, Sally Engle, 128, 130

356

Index 

Mexico, 34, 100, 151; abortion laws in, 36, 219 microcephaly, 216–19 midwives, 241–44t; abortion and, 113–25, 117, 119; categories of, 74–75; criminalization of, 66, 75–76; fees of, 83; lay, 66, 74–77, 91, 99–100; licensing of, 42, 60, 65–66, 73–76; police cooperation by, 167, 168; practical, 74, 84; training of, 58, 64, 74t Ministry of Education and Public Health (Ministério da Educação e Saúde Pública, MESP), 70 Ministry of Justice (Ministério da Justiça), 60, 159, 287n12 Ministry of Work, Industry, and Commerce (Ministério do Trabalho, Indústria e Comércio, MTIC), 70 miscarriages, 20–21, 40, 87, 91; abortion versus, 28, 91, 210; causes of, 90, 93, 173–74; curettage after, 101, 211; rate of, 87–94, 89 mixed-race, 16–18, 28, 48–49. See also race Moncorvo Filho, Arthur, 60, 114 Monteiro, Judith, 144, 152, 153 Montenegro, Maria Adelaide da Conceição Pinto, 83, 242t Moraes, Arnaldo de, 66, 271n44 Moraes, Benedicta Ramos de, 175 Moreira, Joaquina, 140, 142 Morpurgo, Antonieta Dias, 58, 65 Morrot, Idalina Faria, 199, 248t Morrot, João, 199 mosquito-borne diseases, 217–18; control of, 11, 29, 56, 256n1. See also yellow fever; Zika virus motherhood, 12–19, 46–53, 64–65; cultural relativism of, 24–25; “natural” role of, 24–26, 108; rape and, 121; “scientific,” 16, 47–48, 53–54. See also women’s honor

Mott, Maria Lúcia, 74 Motta, Alberto Ribeiro de Oliveira, 125 Napoleonic Code, 42 Nascimento, Alcileide Cabral do, 170 Nascimento, Clara do, 101, 153 Nascimento, Ignacia Maria do, 127 National Academy of Medicine (Academia Nacional de Medicina, ANM), 106–13, 118 National Department of Public Health (Departamento Nacional de Saúde Pública, DNSP), 66, 68 Navarro, Lia. See Temponi, Philomena Nazareth, Oswaldo, 211 neo-Malthusianism, 108, 111–13, 277n50 Neves, Ondina Constantino, 190, 244t Novaes, Julio, 108, 111, 112 nurses, 71; as midwives, 74–75; salary of, 83 obstetrics, 16, 47, 60–69, 215; clinical training in, 57–58, 60, 63–64; eugenics movement and, 31–32, 50–54, 64; gynecology and, 251n5; imperial origins of, 57–59; Magalhães and, 49–52; patriarchal power and, 107, 113; public health reforms and, 5–6, 56, 65–69, 79; puericulture and, 47, 60; regulation of, 41–42, 66, 75, 78. See also gynecology Oliveira, Antonio Ferreira de, 173, 174 Oliveira, Conceição de, 92, 243t Oliveira, Emilia Dias de, 142–43 Oliveira, Maria Luiza de, 244t Operation Herod, 216 Otovo, Okezi, 214 Passos, Francisco Pereira, 61–62, 132, 172 Pasteur, Louis, 98 patient-doctor confidentiality, 110, 111 patriarchal power, 36, 45, 151; citizenship and, 10; obstetricians and, 107,

Index 357

113; “restructuring” of, 16; slavery and, 36; Teixeira on, 121; women’s healthcare and, 60, 77, 81, 85, 92; women’s honor and, 12–18, 195–96. See also gender Pavlak, Maria, 244t Pedro, Joanna, 191 Peixoto, Afrânio, 49, 109, 125, 157–58; on autopsy evidence, 166–67; on infanticide, 40 Penal Code of 1830, 22, 34–36, 40 Penal Code of 1890, 3–5, 21, 26, 36–38, 118; abortion under, 36–40, 183; criminalization of midwifery in, 66; infanticide under, 36–40, 193, 204–5; legal responsibility under, 206–7; Piragibe’s updating of, 258n52; police investigation procedures under, 161–62 Penal Code of 1940, 124, 204–6 penicillin, 87, 95, 103; discovery of, 82, 98; for septicemia, 105; for syphilis, 90 Philippine Ordinances, 33, 40 Picanço, Melchiades, 45 Pinard, Adolphe, 47 Pinheiro, Herculano, 55, 67–68, 70 Pinto, Antonia, 92 Pinto, Helena Teixeira, 189, 203, 247t Pinto, João, 173 Pinto, Maria, 133 Pinto, Maria Preciosa, 113–16, 241t Piragibe, Vicente, 258n52 Pius IX (pope), 33 placenta previa, 91, 102, 103 police investigations, 2–4, 22–23, 26, ­ 161–67, 161t, 164t, 210; of disposal of bodies, 22, 169–75, 170t, 171t; of “suspect circumstances,” 175–80; types of, 165. See also criminal responsibility Porto-Carrero, Júlio Pires, 124, 125 “postpartum madness,” 183–88, 196–99, 203–7 pre-eclampsia. See eclampsia

pregnancy: denial of, 203; ectopic, 95–96 “pregnancy-induced hypertension.” See eclampsia premature delivery, 39–40, 100, 123–25, 173–74, 199 prenatal care, 25–26, 60–62, 68, 90, 105; eclampsia and, 102; by midwives, 66. See also Wasserman reaction Pro-Matre Hospital (Hospital ­Pro-Matre), 64–68 puericulture, 47, 60, 174 puerperal fever, 81–82, 94–95, 100; causes of, 96–99; maternal mortality from, 96t, 97, 98, 105 quinine, 100 Quintella, Arnaldo, 114, 120 race, 144–45, 164t; gender and, 5, 8–19, 48, 209; legal responsibility and, 48–49, 198; of midwives, 75; mixed, 16–18, 28, 48–49; motherhood and, 46–53; of obstetric patients, 63t; patient demographics by, 62–63, 63t; positivist criminology theory of, 160; terminology of, 16, 28, 63t, 164t. See also eugenics movement rape, 83, 167–68; abortion after, 120–22; infanticide after, 203; pregnancy denial after, 203 Reagan, Leslie, 19–20, 36, 179 Récamier, Joseph, 274n129 “reproductive justice,” 255n73 “Revolution of 1930,” 6 Ribeiro, Cândido Barata, 132 Ribeiro, Leonídio, 124–25 Rio, João do, 205–6 Rocha, Bertha Vieira da, 242t Rodinha, Ercilia da Costa, 140 Rodrigues, Annita, 156–57, 163–64, 176 Rodrigues, Paula, 81, 242t Rodrigues, Raimundo Nina, 48–49 Rohden, Fabíola, 111–13

358

Index 

Roquette-Pinto, Edgar, 50 Rosario, Maria do, 76–78, 243t rubella, 216–17 Ruggiero, Kristin, 24, 189 rumor. See gossip Sampaio, Carlos, 66 Santa Casa da Misericórdia, 58 Santa Isabel Municipal Maternity Hospital (Maternidade Municipal Santa Isabel), 58–59, 59, 138, 203, 210 Santo, Alice do Espirito, 84, 246t Santo, Maria do Espirito, 243t Santos, Deonilia, “Madame Odette,” 243t Santos, Evenina dos, 127 Santos, Francisco José dos, 156–57 Santos, José Rodrigues dos, 58–59 Santos, Jovelina Pereira dos, 29–31, 45–46, 198, 200, 248t Santos, Mercedes dos, 142–43, 143 Santos, Nalvina Angel dos, 248t Santos, Olympia Francoso dos, 177, 241t Scheper-Hughes, Nancy, 24–25, 100; on infanticide, 213 Schwarcz, Lilia, 48 Semola, Govinda, 241t septicemia, 94, 96t, 97, 98–100. See also puerperal fever Sesiu, Emilia, 241t Silva, Bernardo Francisco da, 178 Silva, Ernesto Nascimento, 111 Silva, Gloria Lourenço da, 193, 194, 197–98, 200, 246t Silva, Gustavo Saturnino da, 210–11 Silva, Honorina, 139 Silva, José Ferreira da, 248t Silva, Laura Machado da, 154 Silva, Maria Albuquerque Fróes e, 242t Silva, Maria de Lourdes da, 127–28 Silva, Maria José da, 140–42 Silva, Maria Pereira da, 145–47 Silva, Maria Vieira da, 106–7, 206, 248t Silva, Palmyro, 154

Siquiera, Galdino, 187 slavery, 4, 8–9, 36, 190 smallpox, 61, 109 Sobral, Laura, 197, 246t social Darwinism, 48 Soihet, Rachel, 303n2 Souza, Alcinda Ferreira de, 196, 200, 206, 248t Souza, Celina de, 191, 194–95, 246t Souza, Octávio de, 93, 98, 104, 125 Souza, Vanderlei Sebastião de, 49–50 Souza Korff, Philomena Francisca de, 242t Stepan, Nancy Leys, 19, 47, 49 sterilization, 49–52, 75, 109, 276n18. See also eugenics movement Stern, Steve, 151 stillbirths, 60; categories of, 87–88; Catholic view of, 120, 174; causes of, 81, 89, 90, 91, 93; complications from, 85, 91; Costa’s study of, 86, 88, 92–93; definitions of, 87, 88; disposal of body after, 22, 169–75, 170t, 171t; infanticide and, 87, 200; rate of, 87–94, 89 streptococcal infections, 81–82, 95, 96, 98–99. See also puerperal fever Suburban Maternity Hospital (Maternidade Suburbana). See Cascadura Maternity Hospital suffrage, 9, 10, 42, 47, 108, 128, 134 suicide, 122, 144, 169, 211 Superior Council of Public Health (Conselho Superior de Saúde Pública), 57 syphilis, 50, 81, 212; screening for, 68, 77, 90–91, 271n63; stillbirths and, 89, 90; treatment of, 90–91 Tardieu, Auguste Ambroise, 38–39 Tavares, Jovita, 243t Teixeira, Antonio Maria, 120–21 Teixeira, Arminda Palmyra, 243t Teixeira, Avelino Lourenço, 153

Index 359

Teixeira, Carmen, 144–47 Teixeira, Emilia, 80–81, 132 Teixeira, Escalatina Lina, 241t Teixeira, Flausina Leonidia, 140–42 Temponi, Philomena, 192, 248t, 297n63 tetanus, 35, 95 Thiller, Bella Pereira, 132, 246t toxemia. See eclampsia Trujillo, Rafael, 134 tuberculosis, 50, 68, 90, 96, 111, 132 United States, 24, 89–90; common law tradition in, 34; Jim Crow laws of, 9; medical training in, 63–64 Uruguay, 219 uterotonics, 100 vaccination campaigns, 11, 56, 61 Valverde, Belmiro, 111, 112 Vargas, Getúlio, 14–15, 47, 162; antiunionism of, 42; Estado Novo of, 6–7, 16, 52, 56, 79; on eugenics, 51–52; government centralization by, 10–11, 56; healthcare policies of, 56, 60, 69–79, 209; judicial reforms of, 31, 41; on motherhood, 18–19; on “racial democracy,” 17; racial policies of, 17; on stillbirth rates, 88

Vianna, Emilia da Silva, 248t Vieira, Bertha, 153 Vieira, Isalina, 1–4, 8, 15, 20, 22, 179–80, 219–20; full name of, 251n1 Vieira, Maria da Gloria, 244t Villela, Odilia Ferreira, 116, 166, 244t Wadsworth, James, 64–65 Waeger, Elly, 101, 114–18, 115, 242t Wasserman reaction, 90–91, 271n63. See also syphilis water test. See hydrostatic test Weingärtner, Pedro, 117–18, 119 women’s honor, 7, 12–19; abortion and, 195–96, 205; Caulfield on, 14; infanticide and, 29, 186–89, 199–200, 205; as legal defense, 30, 35, 38, 183, 187; stigmatization of, 163 women’s rights, 108, 112, 294n5; citizenship and, 7–19; suffrage and, 10, 42, 108, 134. See also gender Woods, Robert, 90 yellow fever, 11, 60, 61 Zika virus, 24, 216–19