You say “tomato,” I say “a bun in the oven”

So, finally, after 13 months of waiting for research-ethics approval, and 1 month of trying to convince the Brazilian federal police that my mom this year is the same mom I had last year (don’t ask, I might tell you about it), my project is up and running! The working (and highly engaging) title is “Deciduous dental eruption, nutritional status, and weaning and feeding decisions in the Brazilian Amazon.” It might sound more impressive in Portuguese: Surgimento dos dentes decíduos, estado nutricional, decisões alimentícias e desmame na Amazônia Brasileira. (Note to dental anthropologists – I do realize I am using the word “eruption” when I should be saying “emergence.” Everyone else – again, don’t ask unless you really want to know.)

The next step in the research process is to “recruit” participants, i.e., pretend that I know what I’m doing so I will not return to the U.S. data-less and, shamed, unable to finish my dissertation. Recruitment involves several important steps. First, I describe my project in heavily accented and mostly grammatically incorrect Portuguese. This is usually followed by lots of wide-eyed blinking and tentative smiling on both parts, me because I’m trying to figure out if I used the past perfect subjunctive tense right (just kidding! I don’t even know what that is), the potential participant because she is most likely embarrassed for me. Next, I say all the important things about the research being voluntary, etc., again in Portuguese, but not what you’d call melodious or syntactic. Then I ask the big question, “A senhora quiser participar nesta pesquisa?” Here I tilt my head to the side, raise my eyebrows to my hairline, elevate my voice two octaves, especially the last word, and . . . wait. (In my defense, I do not consider this behavior coercive, just optimistic. OptimisTIC??!!) So far, to my disbelief yet delight, everyone has said “yes.”

The dona da casa has been instrumental in helping me recruit women who come to Portel from rural communities. Dona Júlia’s house (where I am living) is about 3 “blocks” (read: one muddy path and two potholed roads, one unpaved) from one of the main docks. Women come by boat to sell or buy food and other products, and many regularly visit the public health posts (postos de saúde) for prenatal care. Dona Júlia is an active market participant and has helped recruit (well, she, really, singlehandedly recruited) around 15 grávidas.

Here I will digress and describe the different words in this region used to describe a pregnant woman. This topic arose the other day when someone pointed out a house to me and said, “Aqui fica uma embuchada.” I did what I normally do when I don’t understand – mumble something affirmative yet not quite intelligible, try to look interested yet noncommittal. I realized the speaker wanted me to go talk to the woman living there. Thinking back to my book 500 Portuguese Verbs, around 23 of which I remember, I pondered: “Embuchar? Doesn’t that mean ‘to fill’ or something?” In fact, it does! To be precise, embuchada translates as “stuffed,” as in, “A ‘stuffed’ lives there! You should go talk to her!” In the previous paragraph I used the word grávidas, which basically means pregnant. Technically I should have said mulheres grávidas, but I live by the motto, why try to say two words in Portuguese when you can use one? The word gestante is also used, as in “This line is reserved for idosos (old people), deficientes (‘deficients’), and gestantes (‘pregnants’).” I’d hate to be all three. Though I suppose you’d get served pretty fast. The fourth word I’ve heard used to describe a pregnant woman is prenhe, which translates as “breeding.” No need to comment on that one. In defense of regional language, I will also note that instead of “to give birth” people use the phrase dar luz, as in “to give light.” So, you may be a baby-stuffed breeder waiting in a shorter line than everybody else, but at least you do something beautiful with it.

Because I live close to the dock, the grávidas (just get over it) have been coming to the house, where I can collect data (i.e., ask them delicate questions and invade their personal space). At first I thought, “How awesome is this? They’re coming to me!” And it is. Superdeluxe. Really. However. I am never off-the-clock. I have the data forms ready, baby gifts at hand, and keep my room clean (I use my bed for measuring bellies – more on that later). Because I realized that it’s easier to talk to moms when their kids are not screaming, I also employ the ready services of a painfully bright, anatomically impossible, whacked-out-looking My Little Pony doll originally named “Rainbow Dash” and rechristened Viví by one of the kids in the house. (Here I would like to mention that the Portuguese word for “mother,” mãe, is pronounced much like the English word “my,” so that in Brazil I constantly hear children screaming “MY! MY! MY!” Fitting, I suppose, in terms of parent-child conflict.) What tends not to be prepared round-the-clock is my brain. There’s nothing like an abrupt switch from Moby Dick (hey, I need some down time) to asking in Portuguese how old you were when you had your first period.

A mom-to-be patiently waits while I grab-ass

I get there eventually. I’ve even had several women return for a second visit, so I must have said something right. Or, maybe it was Viví? I bet she knows 500 Portuguese verbs.