Black life at the intersection of birth and death Mwende FreeQuency Katwiwa
My name is Mwende Katwiwa
and I am a poet,
a Pan-Africanist
and a freedom fighter.
I was 23 years old
when I first heard
about Reproductive Justice.
I was working at Women with a Vision,
where I learned that Reproductive Justice
was defined by Sister Song as:
One: A woman’s right to decide
if and when she will have a baby
and the conditions
under which she will give birth.
Two: A woman’s right
to decide if she will not have a baby
and her options for preventing
or ending a pregnancy.
And three: A woman’s right
to parent the children she already has
in safe and healthy environments
without fear of violence
from individuals or the government.
I’ve always wanted to be a mother.
Growing up, I heard
all about the joys of motherhood.
I used to dream of watching my womb
weave wonder into this world.
See, I knew I was young.
But I figured,
it couldn’t hurt to start planning
for something so big, so early.
But now,
I’m 26 years old.
And I don’t know if I have what it takes
to stomach motherhood in this country.
See, over the years, America
has taught me more about parenting
than any book on the subject.
It has taught me how some women
give birth to babies
and others to suspects.
It has taught me
that this body will birth kin
who are more likely
to be held in prison cells
than to hold college degrees.
There is something
about being Black in America
that has made motherhood seem
complicated.
Seem like,
I don’t know what to do
to raise my kids right
and keep them alive.
Do I tell my son not to steal
because it is wrong,
or because they will use it
to justify his death?
Do I tell him
that even if he pays
for his Skittles and sweet tea
there will still be those
who will watch him
and see a criminal before child;
who will call the police
and not wait for them to come.
Do I even want the police to come?
Too many Sean Bells go off in my head
when I consider calling 911.
I will not take it for Oscar Grant-ed
that they will not come and kill my son.
So, we may have gotten rid
of the nooses,
but I still consider it lynching
when they murder Black boys
and leave their bodies
for four hours in the sun.
As a historical reminder
that there is something
about being Black in America
that has made motherhood sound
like mourning.
Sound like one morning I could wake up
and see my son as a repeat
of last week’s story.
Sound like I could wake up and realize
the death of my daughter
wouldn’t even be newsworthy.
So you can’t tell me that Sandra Bland
is the only Black woman
whose violence deserves
more than our silence.
What about our other
dark-skinned daughters in distress
whose deaths we have yet to remember?
What about our children
whose lives don’t fit neatly
between the lives of your genders?
See, apparently,
nothing is a great protector
if you come out of a body
that looks like this.
See, there is something
about being Black in America
that has made motherhood sound
like something I’m not sure
I look forward to.
I’ve written too many poems
about dead Black children to be naïve
about the fact that there could one day
be a poem written about my kids.
But I do not want to be a mother
who gave birth to poems.
I do not want a stanza for a son
nor a line for a little girl
nor a footnote for a child
who doesn’t fit into this world.
No.
I do not want children
who will live forever
in the pages of poetry,
yet can’t seem to outlive
me.
(Applause)
I was invited to the TEDWomen conference
to perform a poem.
But for me, poetry is not
about art and performance.
It is a form of protest.
Yesterday,
during rehearsal,
I was told that there had been
two to three recent TED Talks
about Black Lives Matter.
That maybe I should cut down my TED Talk
so it could “just” be
about Reproductive Justice.
But that poem and this talk
is fundamentally about
my inability to separate the two.
I was 21 years old –
(Applause)
I was 21 years old
when Trayvon Martin was murdered.
Trayvon Martin, a 17-year-old Black boy,
a Black child,
reminded me
reminded us
how little this nation
actually values Black life.
The hashtag #BlackLivesMatter
became the most recognized call
for Black people and our children
to live in safe environments
and healthy communities
without fear
from violence from individuals
or the state or government.
Months later,
when George Zimmerman
was not held responsible
for murdering Trayvon Martin,
I heard Sybrina Fulton,
Trayvon Martin’s mother, speak.
Her testimony so deeply impacted me
that I found myself constantly asking,
what would it mean to mother
in the United Stated of America
in this skin?
What does motherhood really mean,
when for so many who look like me
it is synonymous with mourning?
Without realizing it,
I had begun to link
the Reproductive Justice framework
and the Movement for Black Lives.
As I learned more
about Reproductive Justice
at Women With A Vision,
and as I continued to be active
in the Movement for Black Lives,
I found myself wanting others
to see and feel these similarities.
I found myself asking:
Whose job is it in times like this
to connect ideas realities and people?
I want to dedicate this talk and that poem
to Constance Malcolm.
She is the mother of Ramarley Graham
who was another Black child
who was murdered before their time.
She reminded me once over dinner,
as I was struggling to write that poem,
that it is the artist’s job
to unearth stories that people try to bury
with shovels of complacency and time.
Recently,
Toni Morrison wrote,
“In times of dread,
artists must never choose
to remain silent.
There is no time for self-pity,
no room for fear.”
Yesterday, during rehearsal,
when I was told that I should
“maybe cut the Black Lives Matter
portion from my talk,”
I found myself fearful for a moment.
Fearful that again
our stories were being denied
the very stages
they deserve to be told on.
And then I remembered
the words I had just spoken.
“In times of dread,
artists must never choose
to remain silent.
There is no time for self-pity.
(Applause)
There is no time for self-pity.
And no room for fear.”
And I have made my choice.
And I am always choosing.
Thank you.
(Applause)