Let's Hear Each Other's Voices

I haven't written in forever.  An experience with the state temporarily crippled my fingers, but arthritic pain transformed into fire and now I have much to say.  One- take control of your life; two- anything you do may be illegal and you might be threatened, coerced, or punished for it; and three- in the words of my husband, "It's time that we wake the fuck up and take our freedom".

Beautiful to watch father and son.

How do we do that?  As mothers, we have so much to lose- our children would perish without us, or be scarred for life.  We are nurturers and protectors- how can we put ourselves on the frontlines of what is happening today?  Well, in case you haven't noticed, we've been on the battle front since 1519, and in 2011, we remain here.

Take Juana Villegas, who was wrongfully pulled over after a prenatal visit to her Doctor and unjustly arrested without explanation, leaving her three crying children in the car.  Later, she is forced to give birth shackled, hands and feet, and to top it off, she was immediately separated from her baby.  We are not all born equal if we are denied the nutrient and antibody rich first colostrum, baby's first food and building block for health. We do not have equal rights if our birthing mother is alone, shackled, pleading for one hand to be let free while in labor.  And when we are separated from our babies right away, not knowing if she is dead or alive, in a nursery or with her father, every human right has been barbarically violated.

We, indigenous women, keepers of the earth, face an intricate legal system, well organized, and strategically placed to disenfranchise us, intimidate us and to maintain the delicate balance where we live just within the margins.

The case of Nancy Jacinto, a young woman on trial, facing first degree murder and the death penalty, is another example.  After the accidental drowning of her two year old son, she was immediately imprisoned.  Pregnant and perpetually famished, she asked for more food.  They denied her.  She wrote letters home about her hardships, injustices in prison, and prison guards tore them, breaking her motivation to advocate for herself.  Like Villegas, and too many others, she was forced to give birth to her baby in shackles.  The same routine: separation; isolation; and this time, foster care was used. Jacinto's children had capable, willing relatives who cared for them often in the past, but instead, the family unit was dismembered. These tactics are developed to destroy the family unit, traumatizing our babies and remaining children, birthing them into the world with violence and subservience, in hopes that they will always be submissive and hopeless.

It used to be difficult to fathom that I could be arrested for an infraction and give birth shackled, have my family unit destroyed and be in a position where there is nothing anyone can do about it- it's all legal.  It sounds too much like 1492, 1519, Colombus and Cortez's European invasion tactics.

I will never forget seeing hospital shackling first hand.  A female sheriff at a local Los Angeles hospital, twiddling gray, metal chains in her hands stood outside the imprisoned mother's door, bracing herself.  I felt the woman in the hospital room begging me to enter- pleading for anyone to hold her, tell her she's doing beautifully, that she is a goddess, the gatekeeper of humanity.  My client was in the next room, I couldn't doula them both, but I could not ignore the situation.  When the viking walked out of the hospital room, I stopped her.

"Did you just shackle the woman giving birth in there?" I asked, concernedly.

"Yes, ma'am, we do it to all the women in here it's just protocol", she responded with sincerity.

"Well, how do you FEEL about that?", the pseudo-psychologist in me kicked in.  Her confidence crumpled, her pale face heated red.

"Well-uh-it's...It's my JOB", she played the confident cop role, but clearly, she is accustomed to being belittled.

I wanted her to ask herself the question she should have before blindly following orders.

"Yes, but how do you FEEL about it, don't you think it's wrong?  I mean, where is she going to go? What can she do?", I asked without making a scene, I didn't want to get kicked out.

"Well, it's my job, and you know what she's- she's not in there for doing something good, these people- she- she probably did something violent- she did SOMETHING to get in there--" she was stuttering and rambling.

"Well, can't you refuse? You feel bad about it, you have feelings, you don't HAVE to do that..." I tried explaining to her stiff, blinking surface.  It was too much emotion for her, she broke a sweat and said,

"You know what- I don't have to talk to you- I'm not going to talk to you. Thank you." she turned her back and kicked her heels away.
"THANK YOU", she said again to silence me.

We are on the front lines.  Our children born disenfranchised, without an equal opportunity.  If we choose to raise them outside the margins, we wait for the folks in suits to coerce us into staying in line.  If there is an accident that our family may never recover from, rather than being supported, they seize the opportunity to kick us while we are at our lowest, bewildered that there is still worse that can happen.

We can't fix the system, it's not broken.  It is the systematic suppression of creating children who reach their full potential.  It's A 500 year old, well-organized campaign, followed by legalistic procedures, and financed by the occupying elite.  We risk our families living our life style, being who we are, and I risk that the wrong people may read this, writing to you.  But as my father always said about my mother, "I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't". 

Speak. Sing. Write. Laugh. Scream. We need each other's voices.

Doulas DO Come in Color!

I looked everywhere for a midwife of color who would attend my birth for a discounted fee.  Finding a midwife in general who would care for me at a discounted fee was difficult in itself.  I settled for a hospital birth with a CNM through Medi-Cal, wrote a birth plan, and educated myself extensively.  I was pissed that I couldn't find a doula of color.  Of course, I had no money to pay for one, but I at least wanted to bargain, haggle, or just communicate with a woman who could feel like my sister.  It was my first baby, I had no cash, no experienced friends who were educated in holisitc childbirth, and a family of women who wouldn't stop projecting their birth traumas onto me.

After the most self-affirming and empowering experience of my life, natural childbirth, my life took an unexpected turn.  By six months postpartum, I became a trained doula, and attended my first birth.  Doula Panquetzani was on demand: moms of color, whose parents were monolingual Spanish speakers, requested I attend their births; contacted me for support; asked me for advice; and borrowed educational resources.  Through these women, I found other women interested in becoming doulas, midwives, childbirth educators, and sisters to women like me.

In 2009, a fellow midwifery student, Cristina, and I formed: Ticicalli Yahualli (the Healer's/midwife's House).  Our circle grew into a collective and has supported numerous Indigenous women in their journey to motherhood.  Our community doula program assists childbearing women who could otherwise not afford to be sistered.  We support each others' educations through fundraising and teaching the skills we learn to all women in our circle.  We try our best to remain conscious of the fact that after a 500 year culture of being colonized, we may bring internalized oppression to the circle.  We hold internal healing circles and hold each other accountable for our actions, with respect and empathy.

Throughout my second pregnancy, birth, and postpartum periods, I finally had birth workers of color to support me.  As more women grow pregnant bellies, our education and experience grow, and we are more capable of lending a hand.  Currently, two of our sisters are studying in Veracruz with Naoli Vinaver, a partera tradicional.  We have come a long way, and I am proud that my fellow Indigenous birth workers can offer empathy, support and creative community solutions.

Grateful for my new sisters.

Itzix: an Unassisted Birth Story

Reading birth stories helped prepare me for my births.  As touching as they were, I longed for a compilation of birth stories by those who shared similar social and cultural experiences, values, and history.  This is a call out to mothers of color: Please share your birth stories with one another.  Narratives help us heal, teach empathy, and serve as education.  If you are a mom of color, please take the time to share your experiences in giving birth by posting, even if only a link, a word, picture, or a brief comment.  Soon we will have our book.  This is the first part of two in birthing our second child.  

 

Parte uno

Part one

CE. 

February 19, 2011 

Chicome Itzcuintli

         I wake up next to my husband around 8:30am. My two year old son had spent another night with my mom. I'm having slight contractions, so i jot it down in my birth journal, knowing that this would be the day that, you, my precious stone of jade, would come into this world. My contractions are 3 or 4 minutes apart, and i feel uterine cramping in my lower pelvic area. The quiet room is still. I hold my breath, and thrust my arms in joy, allowing my nesting instinct to take over. I tidy up the house and make myself a breakfast fit for a fat queen. Since my husband is asleep from a long night, i video tape bits and pieces in between contractions. The more i squat down to clean and bend over, the stronger the contraction. I welcome the contractions, knowing that you are one sensation closer to being in my arms.

          I lay down beside my husband. Mother nature gives me a break while i lay down and we nap side by side. After a couple of hours, I wake up with INTENSE downward pressure. My hemorrhoids burn and are causing more discomfort than my actual labor pains. SHOOT... I never picked up that witch hazel!

"Sherm, you need to wake up... I'm in labor."

For the next four hours, I wait for him to "situate" the birth pool. I hop in the shower to alleviate some burning and I hear my son's voice.

"Sherm, Sherm, Who's there?" I shout from inside the shower.
He tells me my mom is dropping off Akinyemi.

"Well tell her to take him back! I'm in labor." I walk out of the shower to find my son in his high chair, and a new box of toy cars.
Overbearing Grandma comes in handy I think, as i gobble down a large plate of spaghetti... Akinyemi is glad to leave with grandma, but one of the perks of being a community organizer, is having a busy home.
I sit by the kitchen window massacring my food, when i see Edgar's stupid Che Guevara hat and glasses peer into my window. I'm pretty pissed, but I don't want labor to stall like last night when Sherman and I argued over making tea too slowly.

"What do you want, fool? I'm in labor!"  I shout through the window.
"Oh, what the fuck, fool, I thought you'd already be pushing and shit" He imitates a woman screaming and cursing Sherman.
"Sherm! Edgar's here! Sherm!"
He comes in from hooking up the hoses in the garage and assures me the pool is almost ready.
Laying down in my bed, I side-lie and breath, feeling my bottom stretch open.

In the birth pool, an hour before giving birth.

Stepping into the birth pool is ecstasy.  Sherm shows off his two pressure hoses.  I'm slightly disappointed the "midwives' epidural" doesn't alleviate all of my pain.  Night falls on the city of Compton and my doula arrives.  Martha is my close friend and new doula, but she is calm, hands-off, and has keen instincts.  I try not to critique her doula approach.  Stay focused.  Forget her burrito breath, we all get hungry.  She sticks to my birth plan and gives me my special teas, drinks and juices.  My husband is in the garage, catching up with her husband.  I get tired of laboring without him and send for him.  Right away my contractions kick in.  Whew!

"That tea WORKED, huh Martha?" I surprisingly remarked.
"Yeah...fast.  Where do you feel the contractions?" She decides to time a few again.

I grunt and feel like I should stand.  Daddy keeps telling me it's too hot in the house with the heater and pool, complaining that he's uncomfortable.

"DON'T COMPLAIN" Sherman knows I mean it and doesn't reply.

He helps me get out of our Eco Birth Pool in a Box into my large, luxurious bath towel.  We lay in bed for a little bit listening to native tunes.  We cuddle, kiss and have an intense erotic moment before falling asleep.  I switch sides and call for Martha to massage me with some lavender essential oil and shea butter.

"You're opening up" Martha says in her usual nonchalant voice.

"No shit, that's why it hurts", I think to myself.

Too late to go over birth affirmations. I feel cramping in that same localized pelvic area and my whole pelvis shifts to accommodate you, my precious stone of jade.  Naturally my breathing pattern changes to a faster, more shallow grunt.
A little dizzy and disoriented, I stand on the bed.

"You're leaking"one of them says with concern.

I saw my waters rupture earlier that afternoon and realize I'm not looking at the remaining liquid.  Dark red spots of blood splattered the chux pad.  I didn't want to transfer to a hospital, so Martha calls a midwife friend. Stuck in limbo for a minute, I give myself permission to let go and push once I hear the fateful words:

"It's fine, she says, the baby's coming soon."

I collapse, back first into Marthas arms and grunted. After the intense moment ends, I lean into my husband the same way.  I feel him struggle to keep balanced.  Immense comfort and pleasure overcome me knowing that he is physically exerting himself with me.  My primal grunt is so loud that I don't realize the deep place it is coming from.  Sherm asks me to change position.

"No, hold me!" I demand, feeling another rush about to overcome me.

I submit to the animal in me and we roar, dangling and squatting- fully supported by my rock, my man.  My doula helps instruct Sherman, so that he holds me more comfortably, and after that third push, I feel burning.  I touch my perineum and free myself from my husband's arms.

"What's wrong?", he confusedly asks as I laugh in amazement, mouth and eyes wide open.
"Nothing, she can feel his head!" my doula replied because I wouldn't.
"He is here!" I thought to myself and paused in amazement.

Overcome by peace, I cherished the last moments of you, Itzix Chicome Itzcuintli, in my womb.  I touched your wrinkly head and my thin perineum with my cupped hand and positioned myself slowly into a one-legged half squat.

Sherm laughs and shouts:

"I see his face! Whoa...I see his eyes! hahaha".

While Sherman's amazement of your head creeping out of my vagina sets in, you rotate.
All of the births I've ever seen flash before my eyes in an instant- and I have a vision of you splashing out.  Just then, you squish out with a burst of water into Dada's hands.  You slip, face first into the world, purple and still.  Daddy picks you up and hands him to me while I come back into my head and surroundings.

My husband, usually mellow, warns me anxiously:  "He has the cord wrapped around his neck! He's not breathing!  He's NOT BREATHING!"

I feel disoriented, in the clouds, yet ultra calm.  Doula instincts kicking in, I reassure dad and unwrap your cord.  As I stimulate you to breathe, I notice you have a little bit of meconium in your fresh baby anus. Your breathing is slow, quiet, and calm.  Finally, you give a little cry and I rub into your skin the little vernix you have left on your birth day.

"It's a BOY!" my doula announces, we knew it all along.
"Oh I LOVE you, baby! It's 9:55pm" Martha proclaims.

My brother walks in with bright red hair, looking stressed out.  We cover you up, make sure you're warm and still breathing.  We fall in love. We are calm. tired. ecstatic.  You quickly bob over to my breast and latch all by yourself. You are so wise, my little Itzix.

Seconds after birth, photo by our doula.

Borgia Codex, Tlazolteotl gives birth (I also birthed in this position)

http://indigemama.com/