Reproductive Justice in the time of COVID
“Hey sis, rest is not a reward”: Exploring ways to advance reproductive justice through joy, rest and liberation
We recently published qualitative findings from interviews we conducted as part of the COVID-19 Storytelling Project in a paper titled “A Qualitative Analysis on Sexual and Reproductive Health Needs and Issues During COVID -19 Using a Reproductive Justice Framework”[1]. The findings we published are a continuation of reproductive justice work that communities have been leading long before the pandemic. These findings have inspired me to seek out those who have been doing this hard work for decades. The paper also highlights the relationship between rest and joy as pathways to reproductive justice, particularly in the context of covid where existing disparities have only worsened. I want to explore the ways in which we center our joy, rest, and liberation in reproductive justice work, especially when working within a culture that continues to show us they do not value our lived experience.
So often throughout different spaces, be it nonprofit, tech, medical or research, Black folks, and other communities of color are charged with leading discussions, interventions and other initiatives to advance health and reproductive justice. And this is how it should be, right? Nothing about us without us! No doubt. The leaders of the reproductive justice movement defined it as “...a human right to maintain personal bodily autonomy, have children, not have children, and parent the children in safe and sustainable communities [2]. And as the reproductive justice framework promotes, we absolutely should be up front and center, leading, demanding power, taking up space, and in turn receiving agency, resources, and adequate compensation for our efforts. But what happens when we go home? Or close our laptops, and try to shake off the day, are we able to come home to ourselves? Is our value defined by what we do for the movement? How is our rest connected to the larger movement?
Here in Los Angeles, the movement has been sustained by many organizations such as Black Women for Wellness and California Latinas for Reproductive Justice. These impactful groups have locked arms with the community and have been fighting for equity for decades. Black Women for Wellness (BWW), a nonprofit formed in 1997 to support the well-being and health of Black babies, support systems change and policy and advocacy [3]. BWW provides health and reproductive health education to the community as well as advocate for policies and research that support environmental justice. This intersection of reproductive justice and environmental justice is critical to the work of centering joy and liberation. We know that Black people have been denied access to green space through divestment and redlining [4]. Personally, access to parks where I can walk around, lay out under some trees, and just experience life is so vital to my well-being, allowing me to restore so that I may continue doing this work.
California Latinas for Reproductive Justice (CLRJ) is another well-known and appreciated organization that centers the experiences of Latina/xs by employing a reproductive framework to promote the human rights of Latinx community [5]. CLRJ focuses on supporting access to quality education, living wages, and violence prevention as pathways to reproductive health. Both of these organizations center their priority population and provide resources and leadership opportunities for both Black and Latinx folks to advocate for reproductive justice.
These organizations remind us that this work requires stamina, yet, have we thought enough about what we need to maintain that stamina? We cannot keep pouring from an empty cup. As Tricia Hersey promotes through her “Nap Ministry” work, “rest is resistance” [6]. Choosing to step away, or literally lie down for a nap, when the world would rather see you work until you die is itself a revolutionary act for us Black folk. But not just individual rest, a collective rest where we encourage and hold space for one another to take the time we need to fill our cups. One where we can extend grace and allow one another to be.
Reproductive justice movements have advanced community-based demands by taking to the streets. Protesting. Being loud and proud. But how do we take care of ourselves in ways that allow us to be able to be our best when we show up? White supremacist capitalist culture teaches us that we must cope with our struggles by working harder, pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps, but as Audre Lorde says “the master's tools will never dismantle the master's house.” Is there a way to imagine a different way of being as we do this work. One that allows us to focus on our individual and collective healing so that it benefits ourselves and the movement? One that allows us to prioritize our joy, liberation and pleasure as pathways to deep healing. We acknowledge that rest and joy may look differently depending on the community, and that we can hold both joy and grief at the same time.
Resting and doing less, unapologetically, is the move for us Black folks, taking our time, saying no to carrying the burden of advocacy and education of the masses. Going where we are celebrated, not just tolerated. This newly popularized movement of “quiet quitting” is old news for us as we have been doing this for generations…holding onto our dignity and quietly leaving spaces where we have not been valued, seen or heard, returning to our chosen families and communities. Our quiet strength is firmly rooted in our collectivism, the reality that many of us thrive because we exist in an ecosystem of caregivers, mentors, play cousins, aunties, grandmothers, and best friends. They are the soil that nourishes us.
Rest is also the soil that sustains us. Science provides evidence of this as stress reduction is clinically proven to reduce the possibility of adverse birth outcomes for Black people [7]. Safely planted, we can reflect, restore and grow. Beyond simply surviving to thrive. As a childfree woman who wants to have children eventually, I want them to come into a body that is well rested and nourished.
For me this looks like going to the ocean, crying and writing, releasing, laying under my favorite trees at my local park, saying no to requests that I do additional work and not feeling badly about it, moving my body, taking mental health days, and really just shifting from doing more to being more. It is hard to make this shift, as it goes against everything I have been taught to be as a Black woman working in predominantly white institutions. But I am enough, we are enough.
In the famous words of Congresswoman Maxine Waters, I am “reclaiming my time.” Reclaiming time that was taken away from my ancestors who were forced to care for everyone else but not afforded the time needed to care for themselves. Advancing the right to bodily autonomy and self-determination includes finding out what rest looks like for you. I hope you will read the article [1] published in the fall 2022 installment of the RACE Series in Ethnicity & Disease and are inspired to continue on our collective journey toward reproductive justice. And to my beautiful Black folk, put your phone on silent mode and find out what brings your spirit peace and joy. It is our time to be still. To breathe. To come home to ourselves. Just to be.
About the Author
Nicole V. Jones is a researcher, health equity strategist and healer of systems whose work focuses on improving health outcomes through dismantling systemic racism, particularly in the healthcare system. Nicole advocates for philanthropic investments in Black community-lead strategies and organizations whose work centers Black joy, healing and safety, with a focus on birth equity. Nicole is a recent MPH graduate of the UCLA Fielding School of Public Health where she worked closely with the Center for the Study of Racism, Social Justice and Public Health as a qualitative researcher. Currently, Nicole is a Program Officer at First 5 LA and serves on the management team of the African American Infant and Maternal Mortality (AAIMM) Initiative which seeks to reduce Black infant and maternal mortality by disrupting the pathway to physiological stress through promoting safe and joyous births. Nicole has worked on a number of racial equity-based health initiatives including doulas, anti-racism trainings for hospitals and guaranteed basic income pilots to improve Black maternal and child health outcomes. She is a proud, third generation Los Angeles native who loves to travel the world, particularly the African Diaspora and learn about the richness and nuances of dance, food, birthing and healing from different cultural lenses.
You can contact Nicole at her LinkedIn page.
Reference
1. de la Rocha P, Sudhinaraset M, Jones N, Kim C, Cabral, Amani B. A qualitative analysis on reproductive health needs and issues during COVID-19 using a reproductive justice framework. Ethn Dis. 2022;32(4):357-372; 10.18865/ed.32.4.357
2. Reproductive Justice. (n.d.). Sister Song. Retrieved September 25, 2022, from https://www.sistersong.net/reproductive-justice
3. About Us—Black Women for Wellness. (n.d.). Retrieved September 25, 2022, from https://bwwla.org/about-us/
4. Lewis, J. (n.d.). Walking on a Redline: Did Discriminatory U.S. Housing Policies Affect Greenspace Development? Environmental Health Perspectives, 129(3), 034004. https://doi.org/10.1289/EHP9033
5. What We Do | California Latinas for Reproductive Justice. (n.d.). Retrieved September 25, 2022, from https://californialatinas.org/about-us/what-we-do/
6. The Nap Ministry. (n.d.). The Nap Ministry. Retrieved September 25, 2022, from https://thenapministry.wordpress.com/
7. Liu, S. R., & Glynn, L. M. (2022). The contribution of racism-related stress and adversity to disparities in birth outcomes: Evidence and research recommendations. F&S Reports, 3(2, Supplement), 5–13. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.xfre.2021.10.003
