By Camille Lester, M.S., NCC

“You got the light, so, count it all joy”-Solange

Latest reports from the CDC detail a chronic and pervasive concern plaguing Black women that prompted the CDC to make recommendations for swift and urgent action. What is the concern you ask? Black women and breastfeeding. When examining the state of breastfeeding in the Black community it is imperative to give honor to the history that continues to inform our present. Black women and breastfeeding have a complex and rich history. While news outlets, health agencies, and motherhood blogs are urging active and prompt action I am called to truly unpack this “phenomenon,” is it authentically a ‘Black woman problem’ or rather societies limited window into the true lived experience of Black motherhood? Additionally, in what ways can professionals and practitioners further unpack this phenomenon and in turn, intentionally create spaces that liberate Black women from all walks of life.

Historically speaking, as we trace the intricate history of the Black woman and her body, it becomes apparent that she did not have the privilege to rightfully own her body since the beginning of the era of chattel slavery. An institution in which, the bodies of Black women were used by the systems of white patriarchy and supremacy for sexual and capitalistic gain. One slave recounted “. . . women who had sucking children suffered much from their breasts becoming full of milk, the infants being left at home; they therefore could not keep up with the other hands: I have seen the overseer beat them with raw hide so that the blood and the milk flew mingled from their breasts” (Davis, 1971, p.3). Additionally, embedded within this institution, Black women lost the rightful agency over their sexual freedom as well; Angela Davis (1971) discusses that, “the Black family as a functional entity was outlawed and was permitted to exist only when it benefited the slave-master… the slave family as a family unit benefited the slave owners only when, and to the extent that such unions created new slaves who could be exploited” (p. 5). It would be assumed that within this historical system, Black women were conditioned to feel powerless to the process of growing, sustaining, and welcoming life into the world. However, as this very system beat Black women down, it failed to fully lesson the light that remained. Research largely supports the fact that despite being chronically disempowered by the brutal force of circumstances, the black woman was assigned the mission of promoting the consciousness and practice of resistance in her family and community (Davis, 1971; Wallace, 1979, Clarke, 1971). They were a light; a beaming light, that transcended all expectations, restrictions, and laws. Even as she was suffering under her unique oppressions of blackness and gender, she was, essential to the survival of the slave community (Davis, 1971; Wallace, 1979). The Black woman and her mere existence equated life, wellness, and perseverance.

A history that is often not widely found in society’s narrative of Black women and motherhood is the very real truth that Black women have a lengthy record of utilizing their ‘light’ to nourish, sustain, and protect Black life. Consequently, Black women’s accomplishments and contributions to midwifery are often overlooked. Interest and inclination to birth work stems back to practices and traditions that began pre-colonization. Within the African and slave communities Black women were noted as spiritual healers, family counselors, breastfeeding consultants, postpartum doulas, nutritionists, and family planning counselors – they were actively involved in advocacy and resistance work against any form of oppression that may have met their communities (Jett, 2017; Davis, 1971). This rich tradition was passed down, from healer to healer and was practiced long after slavery ended into the new world and beyond.

My theoretical approach to therapy has been informed by the third wave/social constructivist movement and I practice from the narrative model. I have learned there is great power in the stories about our lives we hold as truth, and that there is great liberation involved in taking back the pen, to re-story and re-author life’s most difficult narratives. As a result, I have found it extremely difficult to accept the CDC reports, blogs, and news articles that call for targeted parenting, modeling, and education for Black women as complete truth. The more I began to unpack this “phenomenon” the more I began to note the two distinct narratives that exist within American society with respect to Black women and motherhood.

There is the aforementioned narrative that is informed by ancestry, tradition, and is centered on the Black woman’s persistent dedication to family, survival, and being the light that nourishes. Whilst the other (which notably receives far more airtime) perpetuates a narrative of Black women being less than, unfit, and less educated on motherhood than their White counterparts (Green, 2010). I have truly struggled with understanding why the latter narrative receives more play than the former but overtime I began to realize that there is a chronic systemic crisis in America with respect to the Black woman, her health, and her experience of motherhood.

The research suggests, the primary area of concern is the health care system. Providers in Black communities are less likely to support or promote breastfeeding education when compared to working in white communities (Cricco-Lizza, 2006; Phillip et al., 2001). In fact, hospitals with more than 12.2% of African Americans in their area are less likely to receive the required support to be designated baby-friendly (Green, 2010; Phillip et al., 2001). Additionally, doctors and nurses are less likely to focus on building and maintaining close, trusting relationships with expectant and new Black mothers (Cricco-Lizza, 2006; Phillip et al., 2001). Sadly, many new and expectant Black mothers have expressed varied levels of distrust and anxiety about the ways they are treated by nurses and physicians while in care (Cricco-Lizza, 2006; Chapman & Escamilla, 2012). Lastly, doctors and nurses are more likely to suggest and recommend formula as the ‘normal’ option to Black and Latinx women compared to other races (Morrissey & Kimball, 2017; Cricco-Lizza, 2016).

The second issue is centered on marketing and visibility, or rather, the lack thereof. Black motherhood is notably captured less in advertisements, magazine ads, TV programs, and social media platforms when compared to white women and white motherhood (Morrisey & Kimball, 2017). Additionally, many mommy forums and social platforms which are widely maintained and created by White women, are noted to be overwhelmingly exclusive and are not welcoming to Black or Latinx women who attempt to join and contribute (Morrisey & Kimball, 2017). In many ways, the Black woman is silenced, isolated and brushed aside by the health care industry and her true narrative excluded from mainstream society. Could this inform the disparity?

Minus the hype, in recent years, breastfeeding rates have risen with some of the greatest improvements being in the Black community (Green, 2010). According to the latest official report from the CDC the percentage of Black women who chose to breastfeed increased from 47.4% to 58.9% over an eight-year period. Additionally, of all infants born in 2012, 66% of Black women chose to breastfeed (Green, 2010; CDC, 2013) Notably, while that is an improvement, breastfeeding statistics show that compared to other races, the Black community is still marginally behind other races: 75% of White women and 80% of Hispanic women choose to breastfeed (Green, 2010; CDC, 2013). While there is room for improvement, Black women have made major strides over the last few years; to me, these major strides and actual percentages are a far cry from an urgent health care crisis.

It is apparent multiple systems designed to support and foster women and mothers have chronically failed Black women, I am called to wonder how we as practitioners and professionals can pick up the torch. The light is there. Does society readily dim, cover, and make it so that shining ones divine light is difficult, yes. As mental health professionals, we must readily reject the narrative that Black women are a problem to be fixed, and honor the light that inherently glows within. Most importantly, we can intentionally create and hold space that is affirming and safe for Black women by way of focused and culturally aligned psychoeducation and outreach. Secondly, we can create manuals or frameworks for support groups for new/expectant Black mothers, that can be shared with other professionals to use in their respective areas of work. Lastly, we can focus our energy on advocacy within our own places of employment to secure and ensure that clients and families are welcomed into a breast-friendly environment.

Since last July’s ABPSI conference, I constantly challenge myself to live and dwell in the spirit of Ubuntu; the concept that I am who I am, because of who we all are, who we have been, and who we will always be. Black motherhood is divine, it is informed and guided by our past, a past where our ancestors were the light against all odds. The Black women and breastfeeding “phenomenon” is complex, yet I urge you to ask yourself how can you live out Ubuntu? How can the work you do create pathways that empower Black women to remember, they have the light and that the glory will forever and always be within them.

References:

Adams, R. (2014). Study suggests reason why black mothers breastfeed less than white moms. Parents. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/well- rounded-ny/-black-mothers-are-less-l_b_11342758.html.

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. (2013). Progress in increasing breastfeeding and reducing racial/ethnic differences — United States, 2000–2008 births. Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report, 62(5), 77-80.