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.

Chichis: Our Medicine

During my pregnancy, I tried not to be anxious about tandem nursing my two-year old and new baby.  "It'll all fall into place", I thought when concerned women, asked "HOW are you going to do it?".   Akinyemi was two years old, and only nursed at bedtime and before naps.  I had it made: he was independent, potty trained and self-weaned!  After I gave birth, my newborn self-latched like a pro and my bosoms were explosive.  The first beautiful nights we spent together were so perfect that my husband, Sherman and I blissfully joked about all the things we would do.  "Having a newborn is easy", Dada boasted- as if he was to credit.

My breastmilk was rich and sweet.  Akinyemi loved it.  He demanded, "chi chi, chi chi!" every time I nursed his brother.  Looking forward to tandem nursing, I gave them both all of the milk they wanted.  After a few days, my back hurt, my nipples were sore, I was parched, sleep deprived, and frustrated.  Instead of my newborn's demands keeping us up, it was Akinyemi.  At one point, he nursed more often than our newborn.  "Empathy, Panquetzani, EMPATHY", I reminded myself as he shrieked, waking our newborn.  I held him and explained that I was tired, my nipples hurt, it's difficult to nurse two boys, laying down, etc.  Here we are, two and a half months later, nursing twice as much as he did during my pregnancy, his cheeks fuller and bowel movements looser.

On really tough nights, I resent that he nurses so often.  His teeth really bother me now, even though he has the same amount as before.  My difficulty with him reminds me of his newborn stage.  Reflecting on my experience as a stressed out, isolated, and confused first-time mom, I realize how my postpartum emotions has affected our current breastfeeding relationship.  It brings back memories of being raised by my teenage mother in Echo Park.  

Mom, 17 and me. Riley High School, Lincoln Heights.

She hated giving me rides, money for school, complained when friends stood over, and a couple of times, plainly called me a burden.  She was 16 when she dropped out of High School, and began    She never had a personal sex talk with her mother, a traditional Catholic who was busy with her job, community work and seven other kids.  She was ashamed to have me in her womb, dreamt of being a 10th grader in High School again and longed to be with my father (he was banned by my grandparents after impregnating my mom).

Raising a child is difficult, and my awesome mother did the best she could.  Nevertheless, her method of raising me always tries to bite me in the ass.   Although it's inconvenient nursing a two and a half year old (who could drink or eat anything else), I know I have made him feel like he's an inconvenience.  It's a horrible feeling knowing your primary caregiver is angry at you for existing and having human needs.  I've had to realize that my anger has more to do with my experiences in utero, as a newborn, and the way I was raised - not my breastfeeding situation.

Now that I am aware of my feelings while nursing Akinyemi, I do my best to hold him when he cries, without judgment or resentment.  I ended this morning's nursing session when it became painful.  He cried and screamed.  I held him, he tried to fight me off, but I continued to hold him, explain my reasoning, and speak to him with empathy.  My husband woke up, asked me to nurse him and end the torture! After a couple of minutes, I let go.  He stopped pushing me away and laid on me with his arms and legs wrapped around me, cheek to cheek like a little monkey.  After a minute of silence, he jumped up and ran around the house, then raided the kitchen for fruit.   I never imagined myself weaning my son, and even though we are just shortening the amount of time during each session, I would still like to try child-led weaning once this newborn stage passes.

Reminding myself to stop, breathe, and deal with the situation appropriately is an every day struggle well worth staying attuned to my sons' needs. If nipples can heal overnight, then given time and the appropriate medicine, so can any other wound.

Two month old and two year old nursing.