"My trophy is a pen": a tribute to Tula Pilar Ferreira

by

Lennita Oliveira Ruggi

Sou uma Carolina I am a Carolina  
por Tula Pilar Ferreira by Tula Pilar Ferreira

Sou uma Carolina I am a Carolina
Trabalhei desde menina I worked since I was a girl
Na infância lavei, passei, engraxei… In my childhood I washed, ironed, polished…
Filhos dos outros embalei Soothed other people’s children

Sou negra escritora que virou notícias nos jornais I am the black writer that made the headlines
Foi do Quarto de Despejo aos programas de TV  The one who went from The Trash Room to the TV

Sou uma Carolina I am a Carolina
Escrevo desde menina I've wrote since I was a girl
Meus textos foram rasgados, amassados, pisoteados My texts were torn, trampled, crumpled
Foram tantos beliscões There were so many slaps
Pelas bandas lá de Minas Over there in Minas
Eu sou de Minas Gerais Minas Gerais is where I came from

Fugi da casa da patroa I ran away from the mistress' house
Vassoura não quero ver mais I never want to see another broom

A caneta é meu troféu My trophy is a pen
Borda as palavras no papel It embroiders the words on paper
É tudo o que quero dizer That's all I want to say

Sou uma Carolina I am a Carolina
Feminino e poesia Femininity and poetry
A negra escritora que foi do Quarto de Despejo The black writer who went from The Trash Room
aos programas na TV to the TV

Hoje uso salto alto. Today I wear high heels
Vestido decotado, meio curto e com babados My dress is low-cut, slightly short, and with frills
Estou na sala de estar I am in the living room
No meu sofá aveludado On my velvety sofa

Porque… Because…

Sou uma Carolina I am a Carolina
Feminino e poesia Femininity and poetry
Pobreza não quero mais Poverty, no more
A caneta é meu troféu My trophy is a pen
Borda as palavras no papel   It embroiders the words on paper
É tudo o que quero dizer… That's all I want to say...

Carolina… Carolina…

Presentation

The poet Tula Pilar Ferreira (1970-2019) was one of the most active and recognized figures of the Literatura Periférica [Literature of the Periphery] scene in São Paulo. This artistic movement gained momentum in the early 2000s in several Brazilian cities by challenging cultural elitism and enabling marginalized artists to take the center stage. Throughout the 2000s, Tula Pilar coordinated Raizarte, a collective of music, dance and poetry, and the slam sessions, Cadin de Coisa. She produced two individual poetry books, Palavras Inacadêmicas [Unacademic words] (2004) and Sensualidade de fino trato [Refined Sensuality] (2017) and had works published in several poetry collections. Her sudden death due to a heart attack in 2019 was deeply mourned by all who knew and admired her (Freitas and Faustino 21).

I am a Carolina is one of Tula Pilar’s signature poems. It is a tribute to Brazilian literature from below, that of writers who struggled against structural racism, misogyny, and class exploitation. The inspiration is Carolina Maria de Jesus (1914-1976), a bestselling Black Brazilian author in the 1960s. Carolina Maria’s memoir as a slum-dweller and scavenger in the city of São Paulo, titled The Trash Room (Jesus 1962) in English, was published in at least thirteen languages. Her work, however, was effaced from the Brazilian literary canon and almost forgotten in the last quarter of the 20th Century (Barboza and Ruggi 2023). It was mainly the obstinacy of those like Tula Pilar, who understood art as an essential space to resist oppression, that kept the memory of Carolina Maria de Jesus alive (Torres and Nascimento 2020, Teixeira 162).

Both Carolina Maria and Tula Pilar were migrants from Minas Gerais who moved to São Paulo in search of opportunities. Despite the decades separating them, the parallels between their life trajectories are symptomatic of ongoing structural inequalities. Both faced poverty while working as cleaners, babysitters, and cooks in white people’s houses. When that became unbearable, they collected cardboard and other recyclable materials to make a living in the metropolis. Each of them raised three children on their own. Most importantly, both Carolina Maria and Tula Pilar dreamt of becoming famous writers. They transformed their life (and ours) through art.

By identifying with Carolina Maria’s memory, Tula Pilar creates a Black female genealogy in which poems can express the exploitation of care work. Tula Pilar performed her poem I am a Carolina in slam sessions to wide acclaim. This gave witness to the inspirational and fruitful standpoint of ‘Feminity and poetry’, as she mentions in the poem. In this Black female genealogy, there is space for transformation, aesthetic and sexual enjoyment, and glamour.

We have chosen two poems to translate into English: I am a Carolina and Feminis Forms. To contextualize the work, we offer below the translation of an interview in which Tula Pilar narrates her life and dreams. The interview was conducted by Lívia Lima da Silva1 as part of her research for a master's thesis in Cultural Studies. It took place in São Paulo in 2016. Tula Pilar’s words demonstrate the transformative potential of poetry as practices of self-defense and self-determination. We hope to claim her space in the future. 

Interview by Lívia Lima da Silva2

What is your name?

Tula Pila Ferreira.

I know you were born in Minas [Gerais] 3, so when did you come to São Paulo?

I was about 18 or 20 years old when I came, give or take. I was just a girl then.

When you were in Minas, did you live in the city or the in the countryside?

We lived in Belo Horizonte. In fact, it was in a neighbourhood near the city centre, which created quite a “stir”. People would say: “Why does this poor woman with her bunch of kids want to live here?” It was a middle-class neighborhood. My mother ended up there randomly, mostly because rent was cheap. It was an old run-down mansion, and my mom lived there for a long time. Later, she decided to leave and move with us to the outskirts. Because she was tired of the discrimination. Also, because we were growing up and meeting loads of men and loads of boys. We lived in a busy street, right in front of a hospital. There were too many men, and my mom was not pleased, she was afraid we were too exposed. So, she moved to the periphery of the city.

I also had some rural experience, during this time when we lived in the periphery. I worked with my mom in the harvest, but it was not that kind of back-breaking peasant work. It was just small stuff. We planted a bit of corn, and some potato, so I had some rural experience. We lived in São Benedito, which was a far-away neighborhood. Also, in Ribeirão das Neves in Belo Horizonte, where some of my siblings live now and have done so for more than 30 years, which is far away from the city and pretty much rural.

And how many siblings have you got?

We are seven sisters. Unfortunately, one of them left us by the end of 2015. She died younger than me. Now we are six sisters. But we were seven… I miss the seven of us...

Did you live with your father and your mother?

No, I always lived with only my mother, my sisters, and my aunt. I have a second mom that is my aunt who nowadays is 77 years old. My mom is already dead. She died fairly young from overwork. She got sick and weary of life, and died young. I never met my father. My mom didn’t like to talk to us about him. I don’t even know his origins that well.

The little I know is what my mom used to say. That he looked like [musician] Milton Nascimento, her husband who I believe was my dad. So, I love Milton Nascimento. I have this thing, this longing for, this fondness, that I wish I had met my dad. I wish that my mom at least spoke about him to us. Because we all have different fathers, maybe two, three or four are daughters of the same father and the others are not. Just like me, I have three kids, each one of them with a different man. I don’t know if it was inherited, reproducing this, but I didn’t do nothing I was not willing to do. I just wish I had met my dad.

Your sisters still live in Minas?

Yes, most of them live there in Ribeirão das Neves. The others live in a town on the way from São Paulo to Belo Horizonte. It is one of the last little towns along the Fernão Dias [Road]. It is called Itatiaiuçu. Some of them are there and they got into the housing project from Dilma [Rousseff]’s government. They live there now in some cool little buildings.

And when you came to São Paulo, were you by yourself?

I came alone on a wing and a prayer and with my foolishness (laughs). 

But did you have anything certain here?

No, I was an adventurer. I worked as a day laborer doing cleaning, and I was very young. I started to do cleaning [work] when I was 14 years old. I was raised in other people’s houses. I always worked as a maid. When I was 14, I decided I didn’t want to be hired monthly to work in only one house, I wanted to become a daily cleaner, paid by the day. I had many mistresses because I was very young and kept the houses shining clean, so they loved me. They loved to exploit me – let’s put it that way. Today I know it was exploitation because I was a child, but I cleaned it all very well and tidied up everything perfectly. I always enjoyed cleaning a house. I’m still obsessed with cleaning: cleaning everything, tidying up old stuff and organizing things.

Back then while I was working as a daily cleaner, I was cleaning a kitchen and I had to cover the floor with newspapers to avoid soiling it all with fat. The food was very greasy and they ate a lot of steaks, a lot of fried food. I was cleaning that exhaust fan that sucks the grease from the cooker. It was very dirty. So, I covered the floor with newspapers. In one of the newspapers’ pages was written: “Go to São Paulo as a housemaid, get this much money doing this, this and this.” I said: “I’ll go to São Paulo. Charwoman? What is a charwoman? I didn’t know. I’ll go as a babysitter. I’ll go to São Paulo. I’ll be a housekeeper, since I am already a cleaner. Once I get there, I’ll be a housekeeper.”

Girl, I tell you, I got fully worked up about it and I went! My mother said: “But you are mad, girl, my goodness!” My mom was from Rio de Janeiro. She said to my aunt: “This girl is crazy, Eutília! What’s this girl gonna do in São Paulo?” And I said: “I wanna leave.” I also had some grief going on back then. I ran away from that grief. It was from the lover that became the father of my daughter, whom I never saw again. He was the father of my first daughter, the oldest one, Samanta. She was already born, and now she is 28 years old. When she was born, I was a teenager. And there was so much grief. I said “I’m gonna leave to forget all this grief and broaden my perspectives, I wanna make money, I wanna study, I wanna be rich.” I had that dream of becoming rich and, so, I came here.

I was an adventurer, and I got lucky the very day I arrived. The agency had brought nine women. Amongst these nine women, I know that only two stayed here. One got a job as a cook right on the first day and I got a job as a housekeeper at a mansion in Morumbi [a posh neighbourhood in São Paulo city]. And so I stayed. Then I said: “Mom, here is great, it is something else...!” But I got scared because the mistresses here were very different from the mistresses in Minas, especially their habits. My mother could not adjust at all. She was here for a year and decided to leave. I brought four sisters over here, only one stayed with me. Today, this sister lives in Buenos Aires. I met her at the Buenos Aires Book Fair, when we went with the Sarau do Binho [Binho’s Spoken Word Session]. Only the two of us stayed, my other sisters and my mom got shocked by the reality here and they didn’t want to stay. So, I came as an adventurer, and I was lucky.

And you lived in the bosses’ houses or where did you live?

I lived in the mistress’ house. It was bad. But I moved out after about three years here. My mom, the year she was here, decided to rent a little house. She said: “Let’s rent a place so we don’t depend on these fussy madams from São Paulo.” We rented a place in the middle of nowhere of Macedônia, Casa Branca [neighbourhoods in the Southern periphery of the city of São Paulo]. We rented there, to be free. When my mom went away, I was left with that big house and I said: “I can’t keep living in this house paying all this money.” The rent was too expensive, so I went to live as a lodger. I began to live in digs, a little room here, a little room there, some sort of “slums.” I didn’t have my child here, my daughter lived in BH [Belo Horizonte] with my mom, my aunt, and my sisters. So, I kept living for a long time in “shack” digs until my second pregnancy came about. That was the one for my son Pedro Lucas, who is 19 years old nowadays.

Then I said: “No, I can’t live here anymore, not with a baby.” It was too grim. The bathroom’s conditions were totally unhygienic. I didn’t even use it, for I used it in the mistress’ house. I went there only to sleep and, as my mom said, to have “peace”. Because if you don’t leave the house where you work, you need to be constantly doing things. You can’t sleep or rest. The woman would ring the intercom all the time at my bedroom, for me to do something for her. Because they knew we had nowhere to go and nothing to do. And, also, they knew we depended on the job.

After we rented the house, the reality changed. We could rest during the weekend. We’d go home on Saturday afternoon and come back Sunday evening to the mistress’ house. What a relief to not be always on duty, not to be at their mercy. Several times I was reading and they would say: “You are only good for reading. I need to find you some chores.” And they would find me new chores (laughs). Ever since Minas, this obsession. They abide us doing nothing. They think: “This won't do”. We have to be working all the time.

And in Minas, have you got schooling?

I studied till the 6th grade in Minas. What happened was that one of the mistresses, the first one, told my mom: “Let me raise your daughter, Dona Antônia, to help you. I’ll send her to school. I’ll give her clothes and shoes and food in return.” And she really did it. The state schools were great, not like they are today. It was the time of the [Military] Dictatorship. The schools were much better and they were the same for everybody. It was not like these private schools that they have today for the rich kids. The state schools were for everybody and they were very good. We studied in very good schools in Belo Horizonte. I went to a school called João Pinheiro. It was a good place. I’m not sure if it still exists, I would like to visit it, to go back there... I studied there till the 4th grade, then I became a “little lady.” In that phase I was a cleaner and wanted to study in a private school, which I paid for with the hard-earned money from scrubbing. My mom used to say I was crazy, but I wanted to study. I studied for about three years more, I completed the 6th grade. I remember when I finished the 6th grade. Once I got to São Paulo, long afterwards, I went to adult education. I got into a pretty good institution, and that’s when I finished my education.

If I had remained in Minas, I think I’d have become “dumb”. I don’t want to be mean (laughs), but I was going to be left there with no education till this day. And maybe scrubbing floors to this day.

And your sisters also studied?

They did, but none of them finished it. That is, I have two sisters who did complete their education, but they don’t work with what they learned. They could not find any good job related to their studies, and most of them remained as housekeepers. Except for my sister in Buenos Aires, who studied Cooking (Gastronomy) and has a business there in Argentina. It was only she and I who concluded our education. I don’t have a degree, because the institution where I went didn’t grant us a certificate. I have to do the ENEM [Exame Nacional do Ensino Médio or Secondary School National Exam] (laughs). So, I am one of the most educated siblings. My sisters are not illiterate, but they don’t have an education. 

Was your mother able to study?

No, my mom was completely illiterate. She used to say she was not even able to draw a letter ‘O’ on sand. That’s what she used to say. But she was very wise, very intelligent. She had that kind of popular wisdom. My mom was like that, and she passed a lot of that on to me. As I say: “I’ve been around the block”. Sometimes I say: “That is what it is” and people around me ask: “How do you know it?”. Most times I’m right. Sometimes it is a medicine, a tip, a weather change, or the soil, a plant that I know about. People ask me: “How do you know all this?” I’ve learned with my mom. It’s that kind of wisdom that school won’t teach. Only life teaches it. Maybe time as well. I am pleased to know that everything I know today was thanks to my mom. She also protected us in her own way. Because she had to place us in other people’s houses, but she protected us. She made sure that we didn’t have to face an interracial relationship or suffer abuse by some boss. Many housekeepers suffered harassment and sexual violence in the house where they worked. We were saved from this by my mom’s advice on how to act towards a boss. Most of them were afraid of us, they wouldn’t even come close to us nor mess with us. So, this was great wisdom from my mom that I employed all my life and still do. 

You said that you liked to go to school. Did you always enjoy reading? How was your relationship with reading? Did you used to read in school? Were there books in your house?

I have always been fascinated by reading and by writing. I wanted to know how to write well, and I wanted to know how to write fast. I had ugly handwriting and was very embarrassed by it, but I always wrote correctly because I used to read a lot. There was one house where I worked in that had loads of books. It was a whole wall covered in books, all the shelves packed with books. I had access to every kind of book you could imagine. They had family in the United States, so they had American literature, and British literature.

Afterwards, in a house where I worked here in Morumbi, they had books, but they were not placed on shelves. The woman had a cabinet where she placed the books, and once she ordered me to clean it. When I opened the cabinet door I was fascinated. I said “Folks, this here is my ‘gold’ mine.” In this house I read Roots, I read The Colour Purple, I read Cousin Bette which I loved… all that literature from English language. I read Valley of the Dolls which is very “heavy”, it is an American or British novel that is very interesting.

There in Minas, once, I was reading a book that I got in a mistresses’ house. I remember my mother beat me because of this book. I was just telling some people the other day, that the book had a very erotic cover, very sensual. It was a semi-naked woman. It showed the woman’s breasts, and a man had his mouth on her neck, kissing it. I remember the cover of this book as if it was here today. I was just a girl, I was maybe 13 years old, and my mother was shocked when she saw that. She said: “What are you reading this for, girl? This is not for you. You are a child. This is a disgrace! This pornography, this horrible thing” and so on. She beat me up and took the book away from me. And she said to my aunt: “Otília, get rid of this book.” She told my aunt to throw away the book and my aunt hid it instead. So, sometime later I found it and read it while hiding it from my mother (laughs). I finished reading my novel. The worst thing was that my mom had caught me reading the best part, when the lady got involved with the guy. He was a horse trainer. It was a beautiful novel, The Rogue it was called. I remember it so well. I also read those magazines that had love stories. I loved love stories. Nowadays not so much anymore, I prefer “kinkier” stuff. But I am very romantic. I think I place this romance also in my literature. The erotic literature that I write, is actually more romantic than erotic, as I have to admit after all. Perhaps it comes from reading all this stuff...

I always had plenty of contact with literature. When I moved here this mistress used to say to me, when I picked up the phone: “You talk very well, where did you learn to talk this well?”, using difficult words. Then she would order me to write: “Look, if someone calls, you write it down.” I wrote and spelt the words correctly, the handwriting was ugly, but the words were correct. And she used to say: “How do you know how to write like this?” Because I used to read; so, it got stuck into my mind. You memorize it, because I used to read all my life.

I wrote all my life. But this mistress tore it apart, she trashed it. I had this one mistress who used to say: “You think you can be here reading? In my house you come to work and not to be reading and writing. Are you crazy? I took you out of that favela and you come here and want to read those books of yours and write away.” She would get my stuff and tear it apart. She tore it all apart and then said to me: “Now, clean it up.” I cleaned it and I told her: “Ok. If you don’t want me to read, madam, I won’t read anymore.” Ah! But when she went to the shopping center or when she went out… I used to hide the books in my bedroom, because my bedroom was out in the backyard, so I had a lot of books hidden under the mattress. I had Playboy magazines, because I liked to read Playboy, to see the naked women (laughs). My mom would beat me, but I loved it. I was fascinated by naked women. I read some erotic stories as well, believe me, I used to love that. Wow! I think that is the reason I like eroticism so much. I used to read all the stories in the magazines, and my mom would say: “My God, this girl is crazy!”, and I got beaten. But there was no way. I read loads of books with erotic stuff, even forbidden images.

There were those encyclopedias back then, that we used to buy every month at the newspaper stall. My older sister and I, we used to read them. These encyclopedias talked about venereal diseases and teenage pregnancy. Thus, we had some information. And we were really not willing to be abused by male hands, as we saw several women be, including my mom. So, we had more protection against that. Our bodies, our sexual will. Because these encyclopedias taught us a lot, they were pretty cool. Everybody used to say: “Ah! These ones know a lot of stuff!” We were the leaders; everybody was around us because we knew so much. But it was because we read so much. I don’t know if my sister still reads today. I think she doesn’t like it anymore. She says she has no patience; she just reads culinary books. That is how I grew up.

Nowadays, I keep on remembering because one stores it all in the mind, the characters, the plots. And today, I gather in my poetry all this literature I had contact with throughout my life, since I was a girl. It is pretty cool. When I was a child, I liked to read Disney stories, I read everything you can think of, I read all there was from Monteiro Lobato, besides reading O Sítio do Pica Pau Amarelo4, which was also on TV. In fact, I watched the original first Sítio do Pica-Pau Amarelo which was much nicer than the one today. I used to memorize more as well.

I read and studied English from the bookshelves. In the mistresses’ house, I studied English from the shelves, there were some cool books which had images, and this woman had a granddaughter who was from the US. The granddaughter came to stay for a couple of months in Brazil, and she realised I could say stuff. When she arrived, I said: “Now I’m going to read that booklet so that I can talk to her.” I was about 10 years old. I was at this house from 10 till 13 years old, more or less. When she saw I could speak, she used to say: “Ow, you can speak so well, you are smart.” And she began to teach me lots of stuff. Most English I know today, because I can speak English, at least they say so (laughs), the foundation comes from this. Also, because when you are a kid, you memorize things better, so I appreciate this phase when this young lady contributed to my knowledge (laughs).

How was it at work, and when did you quit secondary school?

So, there were too many years in other people’s houses. My dream was to quit the “houses” to work for a company. Just imagine the foolishness, as if it was any change! The only company job that I was able to get, because I had not completed my education, was as an ironing lady. That is what I chose to do at the laundry as I was not willing to wash the clothes. I found it awful to wash clothes. I liked to iron, and I ironed very well, especially shirts. I had many ironing teachers who were very old, and they liked me a lot. They taught me the craft of ironing those clothes that were more difficult, and fancy. Like a suit. It is very hard to iron a suit, but I learned because I thought: “I wanna make more money.” I toiled hard for the money.

I remained for several years as a shirt ironer, and afterwards, the other clothes I learned to iron. I was never formally registered [by the company] in the trade, so I got tired and dropped it all. I left. That was when I started to sell cardboard on the street, for a bit. After a while, I learned about the street magazine Ocas5. Back then I was facing adversity, because the mistresses didn’t hire me anymore because I was a “troublemaker” regarding the matters of income and its increase. I was in a fairly precarious situation, financially. Then, I started to sell the Ocas magazine, and I began to have more access to concerts, to literature. I didn’t know nothing about that world and Ocas provided me an opportunity to go to the theatre. I read a lot of great plays as well.

Then I learned about the Sarau [Spoken Word Session] that was near my house over in Taboão da Serra [a city in the south-west metropolitan area of São Paulo]. One day I was walking by and I saw all those people reciting and I said: “What a beautiful thing this is!” I remember the first time I went I peeked in from the outside; I didn’t go in. The following week I got in. It used to be every Wednesday. I went in, I got a chair, I ordered a hot drink, and I stood around thinking how beautiful it was. Next thing, I invited my daughter to come along, Samanta, who is 28 today. She was 15 or 17 years old back then. I told her: “Samanta, there’s a cool place down here in São Francisco, let’s go there.” And she was like: “There you go again, mom, with your crazy ideas.” But she went and she liked it, and we started to go regularly.

[Marco] Pezão looked at us and said: “Wow, two beautiful women! Do you write? Come show us some poetry”, as he used to talk. Do you know Pezão? He usually talks that way. Then we were like: “Can we do this?” My eyes were shining, and I said: “Look, I love to write, I wrote so much already but folks used to tear up my stuff.” He answered: “Seriously, girl? But come around here, come around, you are invited to read your poetry next week.” So, we came back the following Wednesday already prepared. I wrote a text and Samanta wrote another one and then we started to become famous because we were the two beautiful women. I don’t know why people saw so much beauty in us (laughs), but they found us both beautiful and they liked what we wrote. We became fascinated and each week we wanted to bring something different, and we never repeated a text in the Sarau. 

Was this in the [Sarau] Cooperifa?

Yes, in the beginning, that was near my house in Taboão [da Serra]. Girl, one day I wrote the cachaça poem. I said: “Man, people are gonna laugh at my face!” But when I walked in and made that scene, ’cause I walked in with an empty bottle and fake-drank it till I got drunk. Wow, it was funny! In the end I became drunk with the booze. It was a sensation, everybody liked it. I became known because of this poem. That was something that happened to me: I did a prank, and it became a hit. Afterwards, I became the woman who could write, how to say it, “well” or whatever.

After that came the poem Formas Feminis [presented below], which was a feminist controversy as well. I was the only woman, the first one that spoke those things in the Sarau. Wow, it was something else! I’d touch myself all over, I’d caress my breasts fully, the aroused nipples, that madness. Everybody was very affected. “Man, she’s crazy!” I already used to walk around nearly naked anyway, because I was young, and my daughter, even more so. We wore some incredibly revealing clothes, we always wore low-cut tops, and short skirts. We started to be known around the literary scene, and we’d always be invited.

In the meanwhile, Ocas magazine began to publish my texts. Nobody gave it much credit. Ocas, that magazine for homeless people. “Ah, this one is a homeless person”, and a lot of people knew me as a homeless poet, many people thought I was homeless. “Ah, that lady, she is homeless.” In several places I heard people say: “Who wrote this that you mentioned?” And I’d say: “Me.” “Is this yours?” “Yes.” “Wow! But you don’t live on the street, do you? How come you are homeless and walk around all clean and write like this?” I said: “No, I’m not homeless. I am in a [destitute] situation.” It was all of that. But I didn’t care, you know? (laughs) I wanted more.

That is when I started to bring my son along, who today is 19 years old. He’d go up on a chair to recite Castro Alves. I had a lot of books at home. I still have a lot of books at home. I’d show them to him, and he’d see the boys rapping and he became fascinated. He began to develop his skills by himself as well. He’d go up a chair and recite. Then, we became a famous trio. Samanta was the rap one, Pedro saw the boys and enjoyed it. Back then there was also Gato Petro, I don’t know what happened to that boy, I never saw Gato Preto again. He was a clever little nigga doing poetry. There was one poem, one rhyme, that sort of cool rap rhyme that my son loved. So, my son began to recite one of his poems called Faveláfrica and everybody used to say: “Wow, the apple doesn’t fall away from the three! He’s just like his mom!” It was something else, and we became kind of an “entertainment”. Until today, thank God. It’s been 14 years already that we are on the road. My first contact with poetry was like that.

It was at the Sarau da Periferia [Spoken Word Session of the Periphery]. That was the jam one. Then we started to attend the Sarau do Binho, and we were there for 10 or 11 years with the Sarau do Binho. Then, we began attending other Saraus, I went to many Saraus. I was discriminated against in the fancier places, but I got that fever and I couldn’t not go. I had to recite. Every chance I got I would recite and write new texts. That is how I became known. They’d say: “She never repeats a poem” or: “That poetry of the woman, with the breasts, ask her to recite that one”, or even: “Wow! Say that one about the cachaça.”

Also, the Samba da Vela [Community]; they gave us a lot of credit. They’d say: “Get that little boy that goes up on the chair, ‘put him’ up there.” Everybody loved it, they’d give us standing ovations and that was something very crazy in my life, the way poetry transformed our lives. I said: “I’d have to be so dumb”, not even dumb, a complete idiot, to go back to cleaning floors. Because I have all the aces. I just need to play my hand. Once Ocas [Magazine] started to publish my writings, I also began to sell this literature. I already used to go to the street to sell little verses. I’d photocopy them, my daughter would draw them, and we’d go out to sell on the street. We got a lot of money selling verses, “sonnets”, selling our poetry on the street. That is when I took part in that first Anthology, the one called Tiro da Pólvora [Gunpowder Shot]. I sold that book as well. Then there was a small newspaper with several poems. I still have it at home, it was the first Cooperifa newspaper, if I am not mistaken. When I realised this was happening, I said: “Wow, we can make money with poetry!” And I began to make money. And to this day, I make my cash this way (laughs). I’m not rich at all, but I survive. 

Do you support yourself financially with your literature work, presenting and selling books?

That’s it. I still sell the Ocas [Magazine]. I have been selling Ocas for 11 years, and I have been 14 years with the Sarau. I started at the Sarau before I began to sell [Ocas]. When I started going to the Sarau, I was still a maid, a housekeeper. I was a daily cleaner and also a shirt ironer. Once in a while I would work as a daily cleaner. I didn’t work as a [monthly-paid] housekeeper anymore because my mistresses, when they gave references, they used to say: “Ah, this one makes a fuss. She is very good, honest, clean, but she is too quarrelsome, if you hire her, you gonna regret it, girl… She stirs up the other employees, they begin to want their rights, they want the legislation followed.”

Today there are some laws in favour of the cleaners. The cleaners began to have workers’ rights. I fought for that. I’m very proud of it, and I’m honoured to know I contributed to that. We changed things. I’m proud to be who I am, to have changed people’s lives: the children, the women, and the periphery itself. I believe that the transformation I wanted in my life I was able to accomplish through my work with poetry.

This change around income, to be able to live off what I write. I find it very significant, because later on, I also went dancing. I began to do Afro-dance and I said: “Man, I need to connect this.” I began to bring together poetry and dance. I really stood out in this matter. I saw the girls in the theatre and found it beautiful, but I realised no one was doing this work with poetry. So, I began to do it, besides the songs, because now I also sing (laughs). I really mix poetry up with music. Then, later, I went to do belly dance and add it to the poetry. Nowadays people hire me to do a little something here, a little something there. I was hired to participate in a panel as a writer, and I find that so incredible. I thank the Sarau for developing my technique and I may even thank the mistresses’ books. “Hail to the mistresses!” after all (laughs). It was a kind of slavery. I was a “slave”. But I got my award and my manumission letter which are the words and the letters I wrote during the moment of solitude, the moments of sadness in my bedroom out in the backyard. When I came to São Paulo, I became very lonely, very lonesome, very sad. I was far away from my family, far away from my daughter whom I really missed. When I got pregnant with my son, the second child, I was in a relationship that I believed was gonna work out. The guy didn’t want me, but I wanted to have a baby to overcome my loneliness. My kids got me out of loneliness. They did. They brighten my life and my path with their presence. 

How old is your youngest [kid]?

Dandara is 10 years old. Actually, Dandara was born at the Sarau. That was when we did, by the way, the first Chárau [A portmanteau of ‘Chá de bebê’ Baby shower + Sarau]. It was for her. We had nothing, we were destitute, and everybody felt pity. “Man, how is she gonna have this baby? She hasn’t got anything.” So, all the women came together. I remember that Juliana, who was the girlfriend of one of the guys in Cooperifa [Sarau], she did the cards. There was another girl who has a kid today, she helped as well; she sang with another boy. I’m not gonna remember their names now… I “blanked.” They even started a rap group with Jairo [Periafricania]…. They did the invitations and the whish-list, asking for one thing from this person, something else from that person. All I know is that I got loads of gifts and Dandara was born with a silver spoon in her mouth.

She got so many diapers; I asked for so many diapers. Because disposable diapers are incredibly expensive. I ended up giving some of them to other people, because I got lot of small-sized diapers. She was already a fatty because my kids were all “plump.” It’s the Minas Gerais food (laughs). I had a lot of breast milk, I always produced a lot of milk. They’d nurse till they were stuffed, and my milk was very strong. They got fat very fast and the diapers became small. They had those bulky tights, and the small diaper wouldn’t fit. I gave away a lot of small-sized packets of diapers, really, because we got so much stuff at the Chárau. I even got a little mattress for the cradle. I didn’t have a cradle yet, but I got the mattress. Afterwards, the guy from where I live, the owner of the house, gave me a cradle from the building where he worked. Then it was complete.

Man, this is so good! That was also the value of being a poet whom stood out. The people were supportive, and to this day people have solidarity towards me. That’s when our life began to improve from hardship and poverty. Then I started studying, and doing courses. I got a bunch of certificates to improve, to develop, and to boost my writing, which I still want to improve.

Do you feel like going to college or something like that?

I don’t. I think it is a pain in the ass. Yesterday I was with some scholarly mates. They are doing this post-doctorate thing, writing some theses, some madness. I said: “Man, is this to study or is it to make you crazy?” I realized I am too “old” for this kind of thing. I don’t want it (laughs). I have no intention of going to college, but I intend to broaden my studies with the body. To do some work with the body to improve my performance to do with poetry and improve my dancing; with this body and these words that I write. Also, I want to improve my spoken word, I want to do some work like the one Denise Abujamra does in narration. I really like Abujamra narrating, so I want to improve the word in this sense as well, working with my voice. I want to sing, to sing my poetry. This is what I want to improve. But college… for me… it is a bore, totally out of the question. It is not because I am a writer that I should study Literature. If I went to college, I’d do “body”, something with the body: either Theatre, which I love, which I find enjoyable, or Music. Maybe I’ll go to college to study Music, but Literature – no way.

Have you done music and theatre workshops or have you learned by yourself?

I did. I am always learning guitar, to demystify this mystery that is the guitar. I also sing. In an institution that I do not want to name; they had a choir singing. It was very good, and the person spoke a lot about my voice. I learned that I have some good stuff in my voice. I need to know how to use it and enhance it. Maybe I’d like to do those grandiose courses, but not college. I don’t intend to go to college. 

What about your kids? They went or are going to college?

No. Samanta hasn’t done it. She is a hairdresser now. She has moved to that field, and it’s been years since she’s been doing that. She doesn’t want to [go to college] but she has her courses in her field, mostly of hairstyling for afro-hair. Pedro Lucas… it would seem like he wants to go, but God only knows because he is in a difficult phase of his life at school. It is a “bizarre” situation he’s got at school. Dandara is going for sure. She is very dedicated; she really likes to study. Now, Pedro, not so much, and he had a lot of conflicts at school.

Has he not finished [secondary school] yet?

He has not finished yet because of the conflicts. He is very intelligent, but the teachers didn’t accept the stuff he would say. He tried to go to USP [São Paulo University], to do some workshops at USP, and he suffered racism there. A lot of racism, and he is impacted, he is shocked; so, he needs time. He is different from us. One suffers institutional racism every day, but I’ve been around the block, and it is not my first rodeo. There is that. I wish I had a degree to pay back for all this racism I suffer. Maybe a degree would place me in a different situation, but I don’t think I’ll have time to be at a university. Besides, the knowledge that I have, no university could give me or surpass what I already know. I am beyond academic knowledge. Classroom knowledge is limited, and my knowledge is not limited. 

Do you think this knowledge is not important because you already work as a writer? You don’t need to study literature to be a writer…

Yes, I think it is already important. This doesn't mean that I don’t need to learn, as I have already done. I did several poetry workshops, I did one course with Marcelino Freire, I did workshops at the College of Sociology and Political Sciences, I did one at USP with the professor Marcos Ferreira on education. I did a couple of courses with him, and others I just went to the classes, so that I could tune my writing, but I think that… Then again, if I had not done those courses; I would not write so neatly. I think that I write kind of “neat.” It is not all perfect, or wonderful. I have to improve, but I have to improve without having to be an academic. I think Academia is important, but for us girls who are past 29 years of age, we are already a bit “out of date”. Just a little (laughs).  

What about your books? Have you already published books? Have you participated in edited collections?

Girl, I was doing the maths the other day, I think I have reached my 13th participation in poetry collections. I find this glamorous! I feel… [amazing] (laughs). And I have one book, Palavras Inacadêmicas [Unacademic Words]. 

This one is fully yours?

Yes, that one is fully mine and is a self-published book, but it is totally sold out. I haven’t been able to re-publish it yet. I tried with some colleagues, and I’ve been told “no” right away. But I saw the publication of books from several mates, so there is a way. They just don’t want to collaborate with me. Thus, I am waiting for the right moment, because everything in this life has its right moment. I am going to be able to publish my book, which is one of my greatest dreams in terms of Literature, to re-publish Palavras Inacadêmicas in a way that is more formal. I got a lot of money with this artisanal book of mine, selling it in events, and book fairs. Because I wander around a lot looking for culture that interests me. I sold a lot [of books]. I raised my kids by selling this magazine I have worked with, since 11 years ago, by selling my book, and with the collection that each poet gets a share.

I sold all of my books. There are people who write and have their books for more than 10 or 11 years at home, piled inside boxes to this day. Not me. I keep one volume as an example of all the books I sold. There was one book edited by Ocas as well that was pretty cool. We wrote it with a psychologist who cared for us in a project back then when I was in a destitute situation. This book, as well, I sold all the copies that I was given. I got some good money with it. I always made good money with Literature. The ones I participated in, that I wrote in, people liked it.

I already sold [books] in two countries, ’cause I had the opportunity to visit other countries and I sold them there as well. I think it is important for us to be always publishing. That’s why I want to re-do Palavras Inacadêmicas. I’m sure I’d even buy a house with it. I got to buy a house, because “I’m done” with paying rent. So, instead of going to college, I’d rather “chase” a house, a piece of land, anything to stop paying rent. I believe there is this possibility through Literature, Art... Maybe through the Acting that I’m performing, the Music. They might give me the chance to accomplish this plan, because it is a necessity.

This book Palavras Inacadêmicas, did you do them manually one by one? It was not done by a publishing house or anything like that?

No, it was like this: there was one professor at USP, who was in Occupational Therapy at USP, her name was Débora Galvani. She works with women who were imprisoned, women who were homeless, women who sold Ocas and so on – as was my case in this here world. Although I was not homeless, I was not incarcerated, but I was destitute and I needed that support. Both the psychological support, as the one from this professor, and the one from the journalists that volunteered to help us out. Because it was in the Writing Workshop by Ocas that I learned a lot on how to write in a more organized way. Then, they started publishing my texts as an appreciation of my work there, as a participant and a magazine salesperson within the project.

This professor came to me and said: “Pilar, you write very well. It is a waste if you can’t show this, publicize your work. Let’s make a book or maybe a CD of you reciting what you recite; it is so beautiful when you recite and so on.” I said: “No, in that case, I want to do a little book.” So, we did it. I wrote the book and these students who took care of us (it used to be a different group each semester), the professor placed them in charge of typing and organizing everything. There were several collaborations, so much so that several hands participated in the book that was done. One of the girls amongst the students, her mother works in the magazine; the mother contributed to the graphic design and the editing.

The journalist Alderon [Costa], who was at Ocas then (he is a photo-journalist), he did the cover that was a photo of me. I was very pretty. I had just given birth to Dandara. Dandara was on my lap, but it did not show. I had a huge smile, and I had wonderful braids in the picture. The cover was super cool, and flashy, although it was my picture. But there were some problems with the printing.

A while ago, one professional at Ocas wanted to contribute and he fixed this book; now the file is all tidy and the pages are all correct. It was all a bit messy before because no one was a professional. The book was done like that. The idea of the book appeared like that. Everybody says: “This is your book!” A lot of people have it. However, I suffered a lot of racism, and ugly discrimination at the printing firm that I used in USP. So much so that I became disgusted. But people would say “No, we are going to continue.” That is why the lady at Ocas called Nobuco [Soga], who was one of the directors back then, she said: “We are going to look for a collaborator to help you with this book because it is very beautiful. You are not going to be left without your book because you were discriminated against.” So, it was fixed. I sold for a long time. They made almost one thousand copies, and I sold all of them. If we were to do the maths, there were 1.400 copies, give or take, of Palavras Inacadêmicas that I sold on the streets. The people who have one are lucky (laughs), it is very cool! 

I want one! Is there none left? You are now planning to take this same book somewhere else, to another project? Do you plan to include new stuff?

I’ll include new stuff when I find a collaborator, who I am sure is gonna show up eventually. At the right time, everything happens. Or I’ll have the money myself to do some project. I haven’t written anything yet for the book. I didn’t feel sure since there was no one to collaborate with, and I don’t know how to do it on my own. However, as soon as I have a chance, I’ll put it out there. Everybody asks for it and a lot of people heard about it but could not access it, they were not able to buy it. People ask for it. Thus, I’ll be able to survive on my Literature, I’ll be able to sell my book. Nowadays I am selling the collection of Sarau do Binho. They launched the Antologia Além dos Quartos [Beyond the Bedrooms Anthology], which was organized by Jaque Romiu and Priscila Romiu, the two sisters. The book is super cool, and erotic. It collects Black Feminine Erotic poetry.

We are selling it. I already sold all that I had yesterday and the day before in some events. I am a [good] salesperson, there is no denying it. There was another Literature launch that I have not seen yet, the one called Herdeira de Aqualtune [Heiress of Alquatune {Ezgondidu Mahamud da Silva Santos}] which was organized by Amanda Negrasim. I have not even seen the book yet. So, there are these three anthologies that I take part in, which is an honour for me, to be respected and invited. Everybody invites me to the Anthologies, which is very cool, and one can make money as well, with anthologies.

Pilar, how do you see the movement of Peripheric Literature? You have been involved in it since the beginning, what do you think is changing, what is happening?

It has improved a lot. I always deeply thank the good forces of the Universe for the changes and improvements, and I am a collaborator for this change. Now the marginalized people have access to this Literature, they are not going to be like “fools” anymore, like suffering, oppressed people. I think back at the oppression the periphery used to suffer heretofore, the violence. Literature brings about a great change. Because, for example, one thing is for my son to be a boy whose mother is single, who lives in the periphery, who is Black, and poor. Something completely different is for him to be the son of a single Black mother who lives on the periphery, who is poor, but who is a poet. This completely changes the context of the young man who is my son in relation to the police, who kills, or in relation to this violence that reaches the child. Most of the women who suffer violence are Black, nearly always Black women from the periphery. This violence reaches me differently because I know how to defend myself. I may know how to dodge it. The literature helps me in this sense as well. I also always try helping the life of other people.

I have done work in communities, with my literature, with my dance, and with my body. I see these women creating courage, all of a sudden, to denounce something, because we went there and we spoke. They’d seen me perhaps reciting a more daring poem, I am denouncing stuff as well. I am valuing my body, and she began to value herself. She wants to ditch the husband who pesters her because he does not see that she has beautiful Formas Feminis, as I say in the poem. It is always this poem I present for the peripheral women. There was this housekeeper who worked with me in Belo Horizonte when I was a child. I was a child, and I did the house chores, but there was also another maid. She was always saying: “I am ugly, I am hideous, my breasts are sagged, my butt withered away.” I do a poem that says all of us women have bodies, as I say in Formas Feminis, that she ought to value herself. I recount how much I changed my life and how much I still change. There is another poem Eu Sou Uma Garota Ousada [I am a Bold Girl], that I wrote not long ago. It is not even around still, I don’t recite it that much these days, because I have yet to memorize it. But I already did two community performances where I recited it to the women and they said: “Wow! I am the girl there in your song.” There is also a song, a melody. She felt like that.

So, this change I do daily. In every event that I participate in, the communities where I go. Regardless of payment, I go into the community, even with no pay; I’d go. The child, as well, that listens to me, that sees me, that watches my performance; the teenager who sees my acting, she says: “Wow! I want to do theatre so bad! Now, seeing you, I am gonna run after my dream.” One 16-year-old Black girl who has straightened hair not because she wants her hair like that (nothing against those who do), but because she’s required to straighten her hair and it feels like an imposition. She sees me with a headscarf like a turban, and she wants to change because she has seen me. Because she’s seen my 10-year-old daughter with an Afro and a turban: “Ah, she is the poet’s daughter.” This, for me, is a fundamental change. The periphery is waking up.

Also, the opportunities in the [cultural] fairs, the opportunity to have gone to Buenos Aires, all the Saraus that went there. Even yesterday Ana Haddad was there, and I met her, we spoke about that. I said: “I went there [to Buenos Aires].” So, she thinks: “Wow! She is everywhere.” The woman saw that I existed. So, I talk to the wife of the current mayor of São Paulo. Right now when we can see everybody is expecting some improvement, everybody is concerned with what is going on, all this corruption, this madness that has become of PT [Partido dos Trabalhadores {Workers Party}], the political issues in our country. Because we are writers. So, it changed our lives.

I left the broom behind; I left the condition of cleaning floors – not to dismiss whoever cleans the floor. If I need to clean the floors today, I will clean the floors, not maybe with the same capacity I used to have, because today I am at another stage, and I think it would be hard for me to clean the floor. But this is the change I had in my life and this is the change I bring with me to the periphery. “Look here, folks, it is possible. Let’s change this business and leave this position of pity. It is possible to leave this condition of being a house cleaner and not getting any rights. Go after your rights. You got to inform yourself, empower yourself.”

I strengthened myself. Today, I am a writer. I can see the house cleaner eye to eye, as an equal, telling her: “Girl, seek your rights.” She listens to me; she respects me because she sees I changed my life. I am always in dialogue with these peripheric women, with the elderly women. Also, on the matter of the body, I communicate with those elderly women who judge and devalue another woman because she shows a bit more of her flesh, or the woman who speaks slang, or is a single mother. I show up with my poetry. the way I recite Formas Feminis or some other more erotic poem, I make the change right there and then. “Wow! She’s got the courage to say what she did with a man in bed…” But look out, I am no tramp. I did what I wanted, nobody forced me to do anything. So, stop judging the women who do whatever they want. We are free.

This sort of change is what I believe the poetry, the Sarau, this dialogue with writing, brings about all these possibilities for change and transformation that I think I have been doing. I, my children, and other poets that I also see around. I really like the boys; they do a lot of transformation as their poetry is more political. The strength they bring with their ideas, the willingness inside their poetry and music, in the roda de coco [popular rhythm and dance from Northeastern Brazil] or the drums. These boys, for me, are doing a change in Zona Leste [Eastern district of São Paulo city]. There will be no more “moron” youth after seeing those boys nowadays. I admire a lot these young people. They are engaged, they are activists, whatever you want to call it. They represent something. This is transformative. The peripheric regions are transformed and we attract attention. Because if we went to Buenos Aires, it was because we attracted attention. Or why would they call a group of peripheric people to go to the super fancy literary fair? We empower. We transform. – I am not sure I answered your question.

What about Sarau do Binho? I am interviewing you as one of the poets who take part at the Sarau do Binho. How is your relationship with the other poets there? Is it near to your house? Is it a community? Are you friends?

We are close friends. We are like a family in Sarau do Binho. It was funny. Just a while ago, at the beginning of the year, once Carnaval was over and everything was dull, nobody doing nothing, whatever, Binho continued to function during Carnaval. We went to the Public Library twice and did some other gig I’m not going to remember now, maybe at the Sérgio Cardoso Theatre. I said: “Folks, right in the middle of Carnaval and here we are, reciting poetry!” When we realized, there was a Binho-family, because we are just like a family. As the saying goes: “One swallow doesn't make a summer”, you ought to have the whole crew. I think this has to do with Binho’s [Robinson de Oliveira Padial] sincerity, his honesty; the way he treats all of us with sincerity. He’s like that: “Folks, whoever wants to come, come. No one is forced to do it.” I’ve heard some criticism like: “Ah, they pay is always scanty, because he shares the money amongst everybody.” Man, I was dommed if it was not for this scanty pay. This income for me is glamour! During the Carnaval, for instance, I was totally broke. One day, a little bit of money came around. Suzi [Soares], who is Binho’s wife, said: “We’ve only got this much to pay, unfortunately. It is a pittance, but whoever wants to join, whoever wants to go [will be welcomed].” I said: “What?” I haven’t got nothing, that money was my salvation; I was able to buy fruits and veggies because there was none left in the house, and my fridge was empty, almost haunted. I said: “Thanks to my literature.” I always quote Pow [Litera Rua], as Pow says: “Pilar, man, we ‘gets’ this money because we ‘goes’ there and recite, man. We ‘speaks’, Pilar.” “Isn’t it, Pow?” In Buenos Aires we hugged, we even cried saying: “Man, Pilar, ‘we’s’ good. We changing things.” I said: “Isn’t it?” Man, this is so powerful and... I think that in the same way in which Sarau do Binho gave me some structure, I think it is also giving structure to Pow. Because Pow was a boy nobody looked at, he was a nobody. Today, he is teaching, he is being invited [to stuff]; he is getting paid to do some work with youth. I think the Sarau do Binho as a trademark has supported a lot of people; in the same way the trademark Ocas also supported me. The same way that my having been a house cleaner back in the day is a trademark; it is a foundation, and it is important for me to carry this foundation.

I cannot forget my background. It strengthened me back then to be who I am today. So all those trademarks, all those evidences that bring us here, I think is what mantains the Sarau do Binho. There is a lot of friendship amongst all of us. Well, not everybody. There is always one who says nastily: “Ah, this thing here is going to happen with Sarau do Binho...” But we visited cool places, tried a lot of cool foods, and went to a lot of cool concerts. We did all the SESCS6 with Sarau do Binho. How is it possible for someone to say: “Man, I don’t even want to go there for this pittance. Fuck that.” The person who is thinking about the pittance is an “idiot.” Fuck the money. There were times when we got no money at all, but we had fun, we had food, sometimes tasty food. Man, we got good money to go to Buenos Aires. But even if we had gotten nothing, just for the fact of going there, of getting into a plane [it was worth it]. My son got into a plane for the first time in his life at 19 years old, what do you think of that? “Man, this is crazy, so crazy.” And Pow said: “Man, I’m flying on a plane, I’m nervous!” Pezão is some 60-plus years old. Who brought Pezão? The Sarau do Binho. The only “guy” who took 14 people. Suzi said: “Folks, let’s give up our quota so we can take more people, the more the merrier.” More than once, we gave up receiving the pittances so that everybody could go. This is such a delight in life, the very thing of human value.

Because I want to change the world, I want to value other people, regardless of whom they are, how they are, what colour they are, and what nation they’ve come from. I find this poetry, this joint union between Sarau do Binho, schools, corporate cultural sponsors, and public libraries – all those opportunities for me to show up every day reciting and performing my poetry. Me, Tula Pilar. It is an honour and it is so huge that I shout: “Long live Sarau do Binho and long live all the peripheric Saraus!” I don’t want to undermine anyone because all of them opened their doors for me, as they still do. All of them invite me, but I can’t go to all of them anymore. A lot of people get angry at me because I don’t go, but it is because I can’t go anymore, I don’t have the time. Beforehand I used to walk, I hitchhiked, I’d humiliate and embarrass myself, but I’d go. I had time. I was another person. Thank God now that I am grandiose, I am glamorous, but I never undermined anyone. “Long live all the peripheric Saraus, long live all the rush, all the poets and all the poetess,” because I love everyone. I respect and value everyone. I believe people should all come together. [Alessandro] Buzo said something very cool when we were in Buenos Aires concerning this honesty, this sincerity, that we had to be there in that group. Because there was some...... stuff there. Some disrespect from one group to the other. And that was unnecessary, at least I think so. Because we went in the first round. There was one round the first week and another round the following week. Whatever Buzo said, I agreed: “That’s it, Buzo.” I am always going to repeat his words at that moment, tho I’m not gonna remember precisely what they were, but the meaning was something like: “Folks, let's keep this bond, this respect because we all can do it, all the groups, remain together.” We really need to be together. If it is all ours, it is all ours for real, as Binho makes it real. Binho is honest, he pays us. Suzi is glamorous, whatever she can do to help, whoever she can “bring on” [she does]. I thank her a lot, because she placed me in many events as well, making this name Tula Pilar that I am today. I thank Sarau do Binho, Suzi, all the mates, and my amazing children. 

Do you want to mention something else you might have forgotten?

No.

Formas Feminis Feminis Forms
por Tula Pilar Ferreira by by Tula Pilar Ferreira

Formas femininas, formas perfeitas Feminine forms, perfect forms
Para eles, és bela dos pés à cabeça To him, thou is gorgeous from head to toe
Olhar penetrante, quando quer, provocante A piercing gaze, at will, exciting
Sem tirar as sobrancelhas conserva a beleza No plucking eyebrows, preserve the beauty
Essa coisa de pinça agride a natureza This tweezer-thing only hurts nature
Face com pele de princesa A face with princess-like skin
Boca carnuda grande sensual A big sensual fleshy mouth
Sorriso branco como leite A smile white as milk
Um sorriso que nas mentes provoca deleite A smile that turns heads

Nariz afinado   Distinguished nose
Queixo arredondado Rounded chin
Ombros comportados Proper shoulders
Costas lisas proporcionais  Proportional smooth back

Seios fartos auréolas bicudas Full breasts, pointy areolas
Quando frio, se arrepiam em baixo da blusa When cold, they shiver under the blouse
Cintura com medidas de manequim Mannequin sized’ waist
Abdômen não é de atleta, mas este corpo completa The abdomen is not an athletes, but this body fullfills
Com um piercing no meio, isso é feio With a piercing in the middle, that is ugly
Tatuagem, bobagem! Tattoo, taboo!
Agride a beleza It attacks the beauty
Derrota a feminilidade Defeats femininity
Uma crueldade  A cruelty

Na sequência, o quadril de um remelexo sutil Next, the hips give a subtle sway
Coxas roliças com pele de veludo Plump thighs with velvet skin
Dentre as coxas, esse belo espaço peludo Between the thighs, that beautiful hairy space
Região tentação, faça pouca depilação Temptation zone, do little waxing
Este ato ás vezes diminui a volúpia Doing so occasionally reduces voluptuousness
Voluptuoso é o traseiro, musculoso, arredondado Voluptuous is the rear, muscular, round

Até os joelhos são desejados Even the knees are desired
Ah! Joelhos de pura sedução! Oh! Knees of pure seduction!
Num cruzar de pernas até provocam ereção Even crossing ones’ legs provokes erection
Pernas grossas, roliças Thick, plump legs
Panturrilhas firmes, bem trabalhadas Firm, crafted calves
Os tornozelos, um colírio para a rapaziada The ankles, a tonic for the guys’ eyes
Pezinhos delicados, que coisa bela! Delicate little feet, what a beautiful treat!
Merecem sapatinhos de Cinderela Fit for Cinderella’s slippers
Tens poder de sedução Thou hast the power of seduction
Pro teu homem isso é provocação For thy man, this is provocation
Suas curvas perfeitas o faz delirar Thy perfect curves drive him mad
Com duas cabeças se põe a pensar With two heads he ponders
No fim desse ato concluído, o ato When the act is completed, the act
Um gozo de puro prazer A joy of pure pleasure for
Lembrar de você Remembering you
De suas formas femininas Remembering your feminine forms
A essas formas, a sensatez In these forms, wisdom
És de mais rara beleza, talvez Thou is of the rarest beauty, perhaps

Notes

Works Cited

Barboza da Silva, Rosimeire, and Lennita Oliveira Ruggi.“‘A língua também é um lugar de luta’: repertórios carolíneos para a
contemporaneidade.” Eixo Roda, vol. 32, n. 2, 2023, pp. 305–30.
Ferreira, Tula Pilar. Palavras Inacadêmicas. Edição da autora, São Paulo, 2004.
Ferreira, Tula Pilar. Sensualidade de fino trato. São Paulo: LiteraRua, Selo Sarau do Binho, São Paulo, 2017.
Freitas, M. and Faustino, C., editors. Pilar: futuro presente. Uma antologia para Tula. Oralituras, São Paulo, 2020.
Jesus, Carolina Maria. The Trash Room: Beyond All Pity. My life in the slums of São Paulo. The diary of Maria Carolina de Jesus,
translated by David St. Clair, published by E.P. Dutton & Co., Inc., New York and Souvenir Press, Ltd, London, 1962.
Lobato, Monteiro. The Yellow Woodpecker Ranch, Underline Publishing LLC, London, 2021
Lobato, Monteiro. The Adventures of Little Nose, Underline Publishing LLC, London, 2025
Silva, Lívia Lima da. A literatura fora do lugar: a constituição de poetas e escritores nos saraus das periferias de São Paulo,
Escola de Artes, Ciências e Humanidades, University of São Paulo (USP), , 2016, MA dissertation in Cultural Studies.
Available at: https://teses.usp.br/teses/disponiveis/100/100135/tde-12062017-125057/fr.php
Teixeira, Fabiana. “Breve Louvação Preta”. Pilar: futuro presente. Uma antologia para Tula. Edited by Freitas, M. and Faustino,
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Torres, Brenda and Nascimento, Sabrina. “Perfil: Tula Pilar, resistência”. Pilar: futuro presente. Uma antologia para Tula. Edited
by Freitas, M. and Faustino, C., Oralituras, São Paulo, 2020, pp. 111-118.

Translator’s note

This translation was inspired by the memory of Tula Pilar Ferreira and by the workshop Galway Translates, organized by Michelle Milan in 2019. Thanks to Dandara Pilar Ferreira, Tula Pilar's daughter, for authorizing the publication of the poems in original and translated versions. Thanks to Lívia Lima da Silva for authorizing the translation of the interview. Thanks to Stephen Gaffney for proofreading. Thanks to Rose Barboza introducing me to Carolina and Tula and for her unflinching support.

QUOTE AS:
Lennita Oliveira Ruggi. “My trophy is a pen”: a tribute to Tula Pilar Ferreira by Lennita Oliveira Ruggi. The Living Commons Collective Magazine. N.4, July 2026. p. 117-146