invited me into the minuscule hut she shares with her mum and two children. It’s a lopsided mud-brick construction which leans tipsily into the street. The holes in the walls are stuffed with plastic bags to keep out the rain and wind. A sardine would feel cramped in there. And yet, clean washing fluttered from lines which criss-crossed the tiny room. Her two little girls, eighteen months and three, sported perfectly plaited hair and freshly laundered frocks.
I asked the teenager if she would like to go back to school. ‘Oh, I would love to,’ she replied, despondently, ‘but there is nobody to look after my kids.’ Her first unwanted pregnancy forced her to leave school.
The door wheezed open and Teresa’s mother shuffled in unexpectedly from work. World-weary and weather-beaten, she looked eighty, but is only forty. Teresa shyly revealed that her mother was also pregnant at twelve. I asked Teresa’s mum if it was difficult to accept that her three daughters became mothers at such a tender age, just as she did.
‘It is difficult to accept, yes. I was very sad when I found out my daughters were pregnant. But the reason … well, their father was not a good example.’ Sadness strained her face as she lowered her bulk on to the bed next to me, the springs mourning beneath us. ‘He drank and smoked a lot of dope in the house. Both girls were rebellious and angry that I stayed living with this man. It’s been very difficult for them.’ She was fretting at her fingers, bending and stretching them as if warming up for a piano concerto. ‘You see, my own mother, had three children by the time she was sixteen. They were starving. At ten years old, I was the eldest so I became a prostitute to bring home milk for the baby and food for my siblings. I didn’t want to steal. I would rather work as a prostitute,’ she said defiantly, the veins in her neck standing out like cables.
‘I took drugs to numb the experience. My boyfriend, he was thirteen years old, he took drugs too. He became an addict. At fifteen my boyfriend was living off me as a pimp. He use to hit me.’ Her face burned with indignation. ‘I have been a victim of domestic violence all my life.’ Tears ran down her lined, exhausted face. ‘I am most ashamed of the time I had to have three men at once,’ she admitted, her face as crumpled as the unmade beds she is trying to forget.
I felt dreadful that my questions had made her weep. I tried to change conversational tack, explaining, self-deprecatingly that with my diplomacy skills I really should take up a career in hostage negotiations … But Teresa’s mother waved away my apologies and insisted on concluding her confession. ‘This year I’ve accepted Jesus and found the strength to leave prostitution and my pimp,’ she revealed, her voice see-sawing with emotion. She is telling me all this, she said, ‘because Jesus tells us to embrace the truth’. (Teresa’s mother has abandoned Catholicism for the Pentecostal religion – an increasing trend in Brazil.)
She started to cry again, blaming herself for her daughters’ blighted lives. ‘It was so bad at home, the drinking, the violence, it was no wonder my girls went wild.’ Thick tears plopped onto her chapped hands.
Teresa, mortified with embarrassment at her mother’s unexpected revelations, plugged a squawking baby with a bottle and looked at her feet. I probed the mother a little more, enquiring why she hadn’t talked to her daughters about contraception. Ironically, although working as a prostitute, her Catholic upbringing had left her too self-conscious to broach such sinful subjects. Her only advice to her three daughters had been, ‘don’t go out with boys’. She admitted that it is now something she bitterly regrets. ‘We just feel ashamed to talk about these issues.’
In a rather bleak postscript, she concluded that in the Plan-run school where she now works as a cleaner, she can see the twelve- and-thirteen-year-old
I asked the teenager if she would like to go back to school. ‘Oh, I would love to,’ she replied, despondently, ‘but there is nobody to look after my kids.’ Her first unwanted pregnancy forced her to leave school.
The door wheezed open and Teresa’s mother shuffled in unexpectedly from work. World-weary and weather-beaten, she looked eighty, but is only forty. Teresa shyly revealed that her mother was also pregnant at twelve. I asked Teresa’s mum if it was difficult to accept that her three daughters became mothers at such a tender age, just as she did.
‘It is difficult to accept, yes. I was very sad when I found out my daughters were pregnant. But the reason … well, their father was not a good example.’ Sadness strained her face as she lowered her bulk on to the bed next to me, the springs mourning beneath us. ‘He drank and smoked a lot of dope in the house. Both girls were rebellious and angry that I stayed living with this man. It’s been very difficult for them.’ She was fretting at her fingers, bending and stretching them as if warming up for a piano concerto. ‘You see, my own mother, had three children by the time she was sixteen. They were starving. At ten years old, I was the eldest so I became a prostitute to bring home milk for the baby and food for my siblings. I didn’t want to steal. I would rather work as a prostitute,’ she said defiantly, the veins in her neck standing out like cables.
‘I took drugs to numb the experience. My boyfriend, he was thirteen years old, he took drugs too. He became an addict. At fifteen my boyfriend was living off me as a pimp. He use to hit me.’ Her face burned with indignation. ‘I have been a victim of domestic violence all my life.’ Tears ran down her lined, exhausted face. ‘I am most ashamed of the time I had to have three men at once,’ she admitted, her face as crumpled as the unmade beds she is trying to forget.
I felt dreadful that my questions had made her weep. I tried to change conversational tack, explaining, self-deprecatingly that with my diplomacy skills I really should take up a career in hostage negotiations … But Teresa’s mother waved away my apologies and insisted on concluding her confession. ‘This year I’ve accepted Jesus and found the strength to leave prostitution and my pimp,’ she revealed, her voice see-sawing with emotion. She is telling me all this, she said, ‘because Jesus tells us to embrace the truth’. (Teresa’s mother has abandoned Catholicism for the Pentecostal religion – an increasing trend in Brazil.)
She started to cry again, blaming herself for her daughters’ blighted lives. ‘It was so bad at home, the drinking, the violence, it was no wonder my girls went wild.’ Thick tears plopped onto her chapped hands.
Teresa, mortified with embarrassment at her mother’s unexpected revelations, plugged a squawking baby with a bottle and looked at her feet. I probed the mother a little more, enquiring why she hadn’t talked to her daughters about contraception. Ironically, although working as a prostitute, her Catholic upbringing had left her too self-conscious to broach such sinful subjects. Her only advice to her three daughters had been, ‘don’t go out with boys’. She admitted that it is now something she bitterly regrets. ‘We just feel ashamed to talk about these issues.’
In a rather bleak postscript, she concluded that in the Plan-run school where she now works as a cleaner, she can see the twelve- and-thirteen-year-old
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