Strong Families Blog

Exposing Cosmetic Companies: How Asian Youth Discovered Toxins in Lipstick

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Thu, 23 May 2013 21:33:00 +0000

By Eveline Shen

Image from www.goodlacknail.wordpress.com

Last weekend my 12-year-old daughter came home from her friend’s house with her nails newly painted silver, telling me about the great time she and her friend had at their classmate’s baseball game and then making frozen yogurt. While I was glad that she had fun, I cringed a little inside, knowing that the nail polish had exposed her to chemicals that may lead to asthma, birth defects, and cancer.

Because of loopholes in our laws, cosmetic companies are not required to list what they put into their products. So when our teenagers go to the local drugstore, they have no way to make an informed decision about which products are safe. But what if young people had the resources to find out what was hidden in the products they use? What would happen if they were able to conduct research? What would they learn?

Twelve young Asian women in Forward Together’s youth organizing program set out to answer these very questions. These young women, all from Oakland high schools, surveyed their peers and identified the 32 individual lip products most commonly used. The young women then asked researchers at UC Berkeley to investigate the contents of each product. While other previous studies have detected lead in lipstick, this was the first study to test for the presence of eight other metals: aluminum, cadmium, cobalt, chromium, copper, manganese, nickel, and titanium.

The results of this research, recently published in Environmental Health Perspectives, revealed that all of the lipsticks and lip glosses tested contained manganese, titanium and aluminum, and 75% of them contained lead. In fact, half of the samples contained lead at concentrations higher than the US FDA recommended maximum level for lead in candy. The results were startling to our young women. "It was surprising because we all assumed that they must be safe if they were on our shelves in local stores. We were so sure there were laws to protect us, " stated Catherine Saephan, one of the leaders in the project.

Based on the results of the study, the average use of some of these lipsticks and lip glosses would result in excessive exposure to chromium, a carcinogen linked to stomach tumors. High use of these makeup products could also result in potential overexposure to aluminum, cadmium and manganese. Long-term exposure to these chemicals might result in damage to the immune and nervous systems, as well as reproductive failure.

Currently, there are no US standards for metal content in cosmetics. Compare this to the European Union, which has banned more than 1,300 chemicals and considers cadmium, chromium, and lead to be unacceptable ingredients -- at any level.

"I think the results are important (to youth) because we are constantly aware of our body image and how to physically look healthy,” Catherine said. “But,” she continued, “we don’t really pay enough attention to what we are applying on ourselves. Also, it helps us become more aware of what we buy and to question or research what is easily accessible to the public."

When my first daughter was born, I was shocked to learn that the FDA provides no regulations on the cosmetics industry. Only 20% of chemicals in personal care products sold in this country are tested for safety. This means that cosmetics companies are allowed to continue putting harmful chemicals, some of which have been banned in Europe, into sunscreen, lipstick, nail polish and other forms of makeup. And this is big business– corporations are making a killing by marketing to our kids. Seventeen Magazine estimates that teenagers spend 9.3 billion dollars a year on cosmetic products alone in this country.

Apparently, our young researchers were not the only people interested in these findings. Within days of publication, the results were receiving national and worldwide attention, including US major news outlets such as USA today, the BBC, and the Toronto Sun. When asked to reflect upon how widespread the results of their research were, Catherine exclaimed, "I think it’s awesome! Everybody universally uses similar products that carry these dangerous toxins. If we can help spread awareness and find solutions together, the faster we can resolve this issue."

Dr. Hammond takes it a step further, “I feel strongly that these results mean the FDA should be paying attention to toxic metals in lipstick. Toxic metals in cosmetics should be regulated to protect women’s health in the US.”

One way we can help spread awareness and increase FDA oversight is to contact our legislators to support the Safe Cosmetics Act. The Safe Cosmetics and Personal Care Products Act of 2013 (H.R. 1385) gives consumers, parents, and environmental health advocates a real chance at national legislation that would eliminate harmful chemicals from the products women, men, and children put on their bodies every day. Join young people, researchers, and parents who are working to ensure that cosmetic companies are no longer allowed to put profit over our children’s health.

Eveline Shen is the Executive Director at Forward Together.

Mama's Day Our Way: Building our own narrative

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Mon, 13 May 2013 22:14:00 +0000

By Nina Jacinto

"No matter how hard we fight, when we are denied fair and just opportunities to care for our families and ourselves we can’t thrive. Erosive policies don’t just punish rather than protect—they break us." – Shanelle Matthews

Who is a mother? What does it mean to mother? In my own family, these answers are clear. A mother is a woman who fiercely loves her children. She’s a woman who holds historical baggage – the baggage of colonization, the baggage of separation, the baggage of patriarchy – and does everything she can not to pass it on to her daughters. She’s a woman who scolds, and cries, and shouts, and hugs, and lectures with volume and compassion. She draws out that particular kind of vulnerability in her daughters, that they have locked away from everyone else, because it is too hard to face and filled with shame. She draws it out and says, “It’s ok. You are ok.” And she revives them with her love and her forgiveness and her food.

Over the last 11 days, we have read stories that explore what it means to be a mother, guardian or caregiver. These stories urge its readers to reconsider how our mainstream society, and our government, and our institutions, choose which mothers to celebrate with cards and commercials and diamonds and flowers, and which mothers to shame and cast aside. Collectively, our series is a way to tell Hallmark and lawmakers that we will push back against the stigma of young moms; that we will fight to bring our families together; that we will do what it takes to make sure all mamas have what they need to raise their children; that we will shout love from the deepest part of ourselves so that our mamas know that they have made us who we are.

So many of our amazing bloggers have written letters to their mothers and caretakers, thanking them, recognizing them for their strength and their struggle. Remembering them. And we have heard back from some mothers – telling their children what they should learn, and what it was like to raise them.

We have also been reminded of the mothers who were abusive and destructive –The moms that turn “Mother’s Day” into a trigger for many.

When we bring our stories together, we can begin to tear apart the narrative that values some mothers over others. This narrative is dangerous well beyond the greeting card aisle – it shapes our policies and our access to resources. It affects how we raise our children, and it limits the choices we get to make about our health and our safety and our education and our home. This narrative puts blame and shame on our families, and risks making us feel small, perhaps meaningless. But we are not going to let that narrative take over our hearts and our families. We will continue to tell our revolutionary stories until our families are recognized, until one day that Sunday in May will feel like a day for everybody.

We hope you will join us for our first ever Papa's Day campaign in June, where we will continue exploring the narrative of family and sharing our stories.

Nina Jacinto is the Development Manager at Forward Together.

Pregnancy, Politics and the Policing of Women's Bodies

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Mon, 13 May 2013 02:11:00 +0000

Originally posted at Truthout.org

By Morgan Meneses-Sheets

Standing in line at a DC coffee shop, I wonder if I will get a dirty look. I'm pregnant and I remember a friend who told me that she was once scolded by a fellow customer for having caffeine while pregnant. Another friend, a doctor and an avid runner, was pulled aside while running and asked if her doctor knew she was doing that. Still, bothersome moments like these barely scratch the surface of a grave truth in this country - women's bodies are under constant control.

While pregnant, I have been amazed by the unsolicited advice that I get on a weekly basis about what to eat and not eat, how much sleep to get, whether or not to have sex, if I should carry my toddler who loves to say "up up, Mommy" and asks me to "twirl, twirl." But I am lucky. I have not been drug tested in order to utilize a safety net program, nor have I been randomly drug tested while still in recovery in the maternity ward. I have not been jailed because I was in pain and used medication, nor have I been locked in a psychiatric ward because I refused treatment for gestational diabetes. Continue reading.

Morgan Meneses-Sheets is the program manager for the Reproductive Health Technologies Project, where she manages the abortion program. She has spent the past 13 years advocating on behalf of reproductive health, as well as lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender equality, environmental protection, and health care access.

This article is part of Strong Families Mama's Day Our Way blog series. Strong Families is a national initiative led by Forward Together. Our goal is to change the way people think, act and talk about families.

Say it loud! I nurse, I pump and I’m Proud: Free to breed and feed my sucklers

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Sun, 12 May 2013 20:30:00 +0000

By Shantae Johnson

I always had this vision of myself in motherhood as a revolutionary, holistic, organic afro-centric, hippy

mama. Motherhood challenges me and pushes me to relive my own childhood, while inspiring me to create a better one for my six children.

Society paints a much different picture of black motherhood than I’ve experienced. The “mammy” “jezebel” and “sapphire” stereotypes are in full effect and are played out on reality T.V. They portray sistas as “black welfare queens” overpopulating American cities as a way to deny mothers of color access to many human rights.
When black breastfeeding rates were on the decline, white breastfeeding rates were on the rise. The pendulum swung from black women nursing white babies as well as their own to reluctance or feeling the pressure of being a sole provider.

By the 1970s the spiritual midwifery movement happened and many Black latctivists were on the decline due to more women being in the workforce and formula companies slinging artificial milk to the

new independent mama. My choice to breastfeed my own children in many ways is an act of revolutionary love and protest of my ancestors having to wet-nurse white babies. Black feminism in the works.

I had my first born 12 years ago and struggled with getting the latch right and fought my way through engorgement and soreness. Being a goddess mama and giving formula for me did not occupy the same space. I would be a sellout to attachment parenting.

As a single mom I did breastfeed, but doubted myself at times and what my body could provide so occasionally I gave into formula. Why must a mother feel a sense of failure because she can’t breastfeed or simply gives into social pressures? By my second child, I was so stressed that I nursed her for 5 months and quickly gave up living in the south and having to work, with little to no support.

I worked at a Cancer Hospital in Texas and my boss called me into her office one day about me using a break room to pump. She said that my co-workers were upset that their lunches were in the same room where I pumped and that I needed to let everyone know I was pumping before I could use the room. So I politely went up to all seven co-workers in my department and said, "I ‘m going to go pump my breasts, do you need anything out of the break room first?"

It was ridiculous that I worked at a hospital and couldn’t locate a lactation room. It wasn’t until I stopped pumping that I was able to find one. Needless to say I stopped breastfeeding my baby girl; felt defeat and guilt for not providing her the same duration of nourishment at my breast as her brother. This mama guilt intensified later on in life as she developed a thumb sucking habit and asthma.

By my third child, I was working as a breastfeeding peer counselor and was determined to go hard or go home with this breastfeeding thing. I had a wonderful home birth and was with a partner that had experienced his sons being breastfed and was supportive. He expected nothing less for our new addition but the breast.

I had experience as a doula and peer counselor and knew all the benefits of breastfeeding. I had plans of bringing lactating back as the norm to the African American community in Oregon. I can tell you that this image of the black Madonna and my pride haunted me on challenging days; kept me pushing through raised eyebrows from family and questions of why a progressive working women like myself would not choose to just give in and give formula. I remember at my son’s first birthday, I received many questions from family and some friends of when was I going to give it up. He must be done by now. My reply was when he is ready he will let me know.

I get to start all over again as my family will welcome a little girl into our family of seven in June.

We're almost at Sekou’s second birthday and we are still nursing. The fact that my body helped his to grow without any articfial milk makes me proud. Breastfeeding is truly a family thang as it is the norm for my older children to see babies in laps nursing and they don’t second guess the magic that happens at the breast. They can recognize when their brother needs to breastfeed and brings him to me.

My 12-year-old promotes breastfeeding at his environmental school and my daughter sneaks my books off the shelf about being a doula and the food of love.

There is something about Sekou’s brown eyes looking into mine and the special bond we have that requires my sprit to sit and settle into my role as all my babies Mama.

Shantae Johnson is a doula, a mama, breastfeeding counselor, and has sits on the Backline Board , She has been a Talk Line Advocate with Backline. Advocates provide unbiased and unconditional support before, during and after your pregnancy experience, no matter which options you are considering or what decisions you make. For more information please visit our website or call the talk line at 1.888.493.0092.

This blog post is part of the Strong Families Mama’s Day Our Way celebration. You can read more posts in the series on the Strong Families blog. Strong Families is a national initiative led by Forward Together. Our goal is to change the way people think, act and talk about families.

For my mother: A day without cancer

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Sun, 12 May 2013 18:55:00 +0000

by Cynthia Greenlee

When I found a lump in my breast several years ago, I couldn’t bear to tell my mother. She was already walking in the shadow of cancer — not because she had it herself, but because she had become a cancer caregiver.

My family tree is blighted with cancer. My paternal grandmother had a radical mastectomy in rural North Carolina in the 1940s, a procedure that left her with an open, weeping wound where her breasts

had been. Family legend says that she couldn’t find a white doctor (there was no black doctor for miles) to take her as a patient. She went instead to the local veterinarian, who referred her to a white doctor who didn’t let race get in the way of his oath "to do no harm." On that same side of the family, a great-grandfather shot himself to death after a cancer diagnosis, an act of deadly pragmatism to avoid his cells’ painful betrayal.

My mother and cancer taught me much about what I know about caring and caregiving. When I was a child, relatives often recovered from cancer-related procedures at our house. My aunt Johannah lived in the North Carolina mountains and needed life-extending treatment only available five hours away, but closer to our house. My mother worked nights as a nurse, but was up in the morning to drive Johannah, her sister-in-law, to her doctor’s appointments an hour away. Sister-in-law No. 2 recovered from her biopsy in my sister’s bedroom. When another of my father's sisters was diagnosed, my mother drove over immediately and then took over the kitchen (because we’re black and Southern, and we believe that food, even the food that will clog your arteries, can temporarily beat back a crisis). And my mother did it all with a gentle smile and genuine graciousness. I inherited the smile but can only imitate the graciousness.

In late 2008, my mother’s older sister, Mary, didn’t make it to our family Christmas gathering a few miles from her house in Lake City, South Carolina. We knew something was terribly wrong. She’d been suffering from some leg problems that her small-town doctor assured her were “just arthritis.” “Just arthritis” was soft-tissue sarcoma, an exceedingly rare cancer. We found a sarcoma expert four hours away at Duke University, near our homes; though considered an expert, he had only seen 17 of these tumors in his career. He was excited to see one so large. As offensive as that may sound, we were grateful that her case piqued his interest. Even if he saw her as little more than a mass of cells gone awry, maybe he could save her life.

This began my mother’s all-out crusade to save her sister’s life. Fresh from retirement, my mother relocated to my sister’s apartment near the hospital and took care of Aunt Mary while we waited for the diagnosis and endured the cycle of boomerang hospitalization. Mom juggled all the appointments, the ambulance rides, the insurance claims, the calls from relatives, some of whom were mad that she had “taken Mary so far away.” She and my sisters did the literally heavy lifting of turning Aunt Mary in the bed, getting her to the bathroom, and attending to her comfort. I brought food, especially the soft-serve ice cream she loved; held her hand; and tried to talk in an overly bright voice about everyday things. All this while the doctors were saying that they might be able to save Aunt Mary if they could amputate her leg from the hip down. We were willing to relinquish that piece of her — and accompany her through rehabilitation, finding a handicapped accessible home — to keep her among us.

Aunt Mary had no biological children, but she was my mother. I am grateful that Aunt Mary didn’t believe in that wrong-headed adage, that “children should be seen and not heard.” Aunt Mary managed to laugh at my inane knock-knock jokes when they numbered in the thousands and must have driven her batty. As a schoolteacher, she bought me books, helped me grow seahorses in the summer, and tutored me in the fine art of elementary-school oratory, urging all her pupils to “say it with feeling this time.” Every trip with her was an adventure. When I was 6, she bought me my own coat of many colors -- a hideous fur cloak that shed all over the schoolbus seats but made me feel like a miniature Foxy Brown. As an adult, I would often talk to her on Sundays, after she’d taught Sunday school -- as she had for decades. When she died, I found this picture of me in her lockbox, where she kept the most important documents of her life.

Aunt Mary’s illness and death reordered our family’s universe. My 90-year-old grandmother, once under Aunt Mary’s wing, was now my mother’s ward. And, then, their younger sisters were both diagnosed with cancer.

My mother’s days are once again packed with appointments, as she manages an elderly mother and one sister’s continuing battle with breast cancer. Her mornings are consumed with making breakfast, checking medications, and getting everyone ready for a day of chemotherapy or radiation. The cancer treatment center is 45 minutes away.

We’re now all part of a weird “sandwich generation.” My mother is stuck between caring for her mother and sister, and my senior father, who lives in our family home in another state. Cancer, in its tyranny, demands that she be elsewhere. My sisters and I shuttle between our elderly father, the demands of our lives as young professionals and students, and caring for our mother, who has become everyone’s caregiver.

We can’t totally shoulder her burden, but I keep my phone on all night to take her early morning calls. Sometimes, she needs to talk at 5:45 a.m., because that’s the only time when everybody else is asleep. I send her checks and weekly shipments of her favorite artisanal bread that she can’t get in the small town that has become her primary home. Whatever we do, it’s not enough, and this is not the life I want for my mother.

I grew up in a family that said never to say the word “hate.” You didn’t hate anybody or anything, though we all really did.

But for the record: I hate cancer with a violence that surprises me. I hate that black women are struck with more virulent types of breast cancer, and I hate the health disparities that mean we get less and later treatment. That said, I can’t stand that breast cancer tends to be all people think about when they think about women and cancer. I detest that rare cancers aren’t common enough or lucrative enough for more research into their causes and cures. I’m angry that I can’t see my mother as much as I used to because she’s doing the work of keeping other loved ones alive, often to the detriment of her own health. Then, I feel ugly and selfish for those thoughts, or the moments where I insist that I have to do my own work and live my own life. I hate that cancer has left gaping holes in my family tree and that it will likely one day invade my body. So far, I’ve been lucky: That lump was nothing more than the patently unglamorous lumpy-breast syndrome.

More than anything, I hate that my mother, who is almost 70, is spending her twilight years tethered in place by cancer. And I hate that people who do nothing to help salute her and say that “she’s strong.” I know, from experience, that cancer kills strong, black women. I know that what doesn’t kill you – caregiving, for instance — can make you sick.

On this day, I wish my mother a full night’s sleep. I want her to have a day without having to think about cancer. On this day, I hope she can browse an antique store as long as she wants, run out to lunch without notice, ignore the ringing phone. I wish her a day when she doesn’t have to be strong.

Cynthia Greenlee is a doctoral candidate in history at Duke University, a Southerner by birth and choice, and a reproductive rights advocate based in North Carolina. She is a participant in the Strong Families project Echoing Ida. Follow her on Twitter at @CynthiaGreenlee.

This blog post is part of the Strong Families Mama’s Day Our Way celebration. You can read more posts in the series on the Strong Families blog. Strong Families is a national initiative led by Forward Together. Our goal is to change the way people think, act and talk about families.

Honoring the Truth of Our Mothers’ Humanity: Notes from the Daughter of a Single Black Mother

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Sun, 12 May 2013 15:00:00 +0000

By Taja Lindley

At age nineteen, my mother carried and birthed me. Her parents wanted nothing to do with their unwed, parenting daughter (respectability politics) and her romantic relationship with my father was ending. So, for most of my life my mother raised me on her own with the support of her friends, sisters, and lovers.

Daughter of a single mother is an identity that I have claimed proudly, and also with resentment and contempt. If there were a relationship status for my mother and me, it’d be “it’s complicated” . . . because it is.

My mother is not perfect. No mother ever gets it right. And as the oldest of three siblings I can tell you firsthand: a lot of mistakes are made. The firstborn is usually the trial child, the experiment, the one who parents the parent, the one who gets to see their mother in her rawest form.

Raw is seeing your mother manage her feelings about her lover. Raw is seeing your mother lose her temper and experience the depths of her anger and rage. Raw is knowing how much money is NOT in her bank account. Raw is getting homeschooled about sex in the second grade because your mother doesn’t want you to accidently become pregnant . . . like her. Raw is taking care of yourself and your younger sister when you come home from school because mom has to work. Raw is your mother hitting you and then regretting she did. Raw is your mother hitting you and not regretting it. Raw is your mother loving and marrying a man you hate. Raw is waking in the middle of the night because your mother is having a panic attack and she needs you. Raw is co-parenting yourself and your siblings. Raw is teaching your mother how you want and need to be loved. Raw is to know your mother’s insecurities with love and affection, from men and her family. Raw is to know that your mother lied to your sister about who her father is, and being an accomplice in her lies. Raw is to see your mother’s humiliation and pain when her husband cheats on her. Raw is to see your mother’s joy when she remarries the man she divorced for infidelity. Raw is when your mother puts you on punishment for minor transgressions because she cannot admit that she can’t afford to send you on that school trip. Raw is to hear your mother’s true feelings about her parents.

There are no walls, no shields, and no protections or hushed voices for the daughters of single mothers.

And part of me feels guilty to for writing these truths.

Having public conversations about my mother has been challenging because to tell the truth about our relationship feels like airing dirty laundry, standing against her, testifying against her.

And I ask myself: do my personal experiences and feelings about my mother stand in contradiction to my Black feminist politics? How can I defend single Black mothers and dislike parts of my childhood? How can I stand up against the shaming and blaming of Black women and yet blame my mother for her choices?

That guilt is exactly the point of this writing; I don’t wanna have to forget or go through selective amnesia to be able to love and celebrate my mother.

No mother is perfect, but Black women, especially those who may have been pregnant teens and/or are single moms, are under a lot of surveillance—by the state, by our communities, and by the media. Any fuckup is seen as characteristic of our families: our mothers become pathologized and their mistakes are used against them. There is a defensiveness that follows where I only share the strengths of my family or I silence the parts that do not fit neatly into the defense of Black mothers.

So I am choosing to tell the uncomfortable truths instead.

My relationship with my mother is a far cry from flawless, but it’s one of the most important and influential relationships in my life. While I don’t agree with all of her choices, I appreciate her hard work. And, more importantly, I value the lessons I learned in spite of—and because of—her choices.

I learned to be independent and self-reliant at a young age. My ability to take care of myself expedited my maturation process, allowed me to take advantage of opportunities, and encouraged me to question authority, stand up for myself, speak my mind, and exercise my personal power.

Even though I question her decision making, I know she made hard choices and always did her best to put her family first with her limited income. She went hungry so I could eat. She was self-sacrificing and worked multiple jobs so we could survive. The fact that I knew just about everything that was happening in our home and why is the foundation of my commitment to living in honesty and in truth. Seeing her in her rawest form has driven me to be my authentic self.

And as I begin to see my mother with compassion and to better understand the context of her choices, my commitment to reproductive justice is strengthened. My mother’s experiences with love, limited resources, and respectability politics are a reminder that marriage is not a solution for poverty and that motherhood is a reflection of who we are, even when we are not our best selves.

And for that, I say: thank you mom.

Our mothers should be celebrated in the truth of their complexity and humanity—their contradictions, their mistakes, their successes, and their journeys.

Understanding my mother’s complexity and humanity with compassion is one of the toughest things I am learning to do in my journey of healing and forgiveness. To know the truth about my mother and to love her anyway has been, and continues to be, one of the most challenging responsibilities of my life.

I am celebrating and honoring the lessons I learn by seeing my mother for who she really is, not who I wish her to be. This Mama’s Day I am loving my mother through her imperfections, learning to forgive her for her mistakes, enjoying the parts of myself that come from her, and growing through our relationship.

As a young queer woman of color, daughter of a single mother and the eldest of three sisters, Taja Lindley is acutely aware of the challenges facing women today and excited about transcending our challenges with art, critical thinking, healing and entrepreneurship. Taja is a self-taught multi-media tactile visual artist, performer, full-spectrum doula and reproductive justice activist inspired by women and girls of color. She is a participant in the Strong families blogging project, Echoing Ida. You can follow her on Tumblr and Twitter.

This blog is part of the Strong Families Mama’s Day Our Way celebration. You can read more posts in the series on the Strong Families blog. Strong Families is a national initiative led by Forward Together. Our goal is to change the way people think, act and talk about families.

My Daughter, Not My Self

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Sun, 12 May 2013 15:00:00 +0000

By Jessica York

Jessica with her daughter

In January 1990, after giving birth to my one and only child, I asked myself, “What have you done, bringing a child into this imperfect, troubled world?” I had seen Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror” video and I was thinking about how I could possibly make the world a better place for my daughter. Already for nine months, I had carried her with me everywhere and we were as one,. Moments after her birth, however, the realization that she was someone separate from me hit home. I knew how to answer my own question: My daughter would have different experiences from mine, her struggles and triumphs would be different, and she would live in a world of the future I could not even envision.

Some mothers hold onto the belief that their daughters will grow up just like them—that looking at their daughters will be like looking in a mirror. Thankfully, I never held that belief or even that desire. Sure, being true to oneself is not always easy, especially while raising an independent daughter. Still, I think it beats the alternative, and owning my own mirror has allowed me to give my daughter the same option.

In 1977, Nancy Friday wrote her landmark book, My Mother, My Self, about daughters separating and distinguishing their identities from the identities of their mothers. In her book, Friday talks about a mother’s greatest gift being an unquestionable love that is so firmly rooted that daughters know they will never lose it in spite of making different choices about such important things as careers and whom to love. I had that kind of unconditional love from my mother, who always encouraged me to be true to myself. My mother was not perfect, but she sure knew how to love. And even though I was just 13 when she died, my older sisters and brother filled in, providing a strong love that continued to hold our family together these 37 years.

Yes, at times, my path has been hard, and I’ve had to make changes. Divorcing my husband and raising my daughter mostly without his parental guidance has sometimes been scary. My being a non-Christian has sometimes caused my Catholic and Baptist siblings concern. But I feel fortunate to have found a faith home in which I could raise my daughter to be true to herself. My daughter and I are Unitarian Universalists. In our faith tradition, we often talk about giving children roots and wings: the roots hold them close and anchor them. They are the foundation, the unquestionable love Nancy Friday speaks of. The wings allow them to fly wherever they need to, even knowing that those wings may take them to places where we cannot follow.

Our Unitarian Universalist community is not perfect, but it is a community that believes that love is the most important action we can take. We believe that all families deserve respect and support, as well as the chance to be exactly the family that feels best for the people in it. I know that the religious community that my daughter and I belong to, along with our family, has given us the courage to be the people we are today.

Looking in my own mirror, alongside my daughter, I see that she holds many of the same identities I do. She is female, Unitarian Universalist, able-bodied, English-speaking, a Southerner, and a lover of cats, horror movies, and ice cream. Yet she is still her own person and carries other identities that I do not share. She is lesbian, bi-racial, and grew up middle class. Far from being the cause of consternation, however, these differences bring me much joy, knowing that she has received the message of “Be thyself” and flown with it.

When I look into the mirror of motherhood, I see myself and I see my daughter, for all that makes her unique and all the traits we share. I also see the best thing I have ever done.

Jessica York is the Youth Programs Director at the Unitarian Universalist Association and a proud black mama of a 23-year-old.

This blog post is part of the Strong Families Mama’s Day Our Way celebration. You can read more posts in the series on the Strong Families blog. Strong Families is a national initiative led by Forward Together. Our goal is to change the way people think, act and talk about families.

Por mama's day!

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Sun, 12 May 2013 14:30:00 +0000

By Paola Toquica

Para ti adorada mamita en tu día, a pesar de los miles de kilómetros que nos separan, te mando abrazos, besos y todo mi amor agradeciéndote por ser la mejor madre del mundo y estar a mi lado en cada paso de mi vida.

Cuando decidí escribirte un mensaje en honor al día de la madre pensé que sería sentarme frente al computador y listo… todo empezaría a fluir sin mayor complicación. Me equivoque. Los días pasaban y las ideas se agotaban rápidamente. Las letras iban y venían, aparecían y se borraban…empecé a preocuparme. Pensé ¿seré a la única persona que le cuesta tanto escribir un mensaje del día de la madre?, pronto y antes de que entrara en pánico, me di cuenta que las palabras y las letras nunca serán suficientes para decirte cuanto significas para mí y cuan agradecida estoy por tener la mejor mamá del mundo a mi lado.

Me siento muy afortunada por tenerte a ti como mi guía, mi luz y mi compañía en los mejores, peores, normales, felices y aburridos días de mi vida. Mamita siempre estas a mi lado incondicionalmente, contigo puedo ser realmente yo…nunca me juzgas y siempre me consientes. Te confieso que mientras escribo esto mi corazón se pone triste, mis ojos se llenan de lágrimas. La distancia que nos separa hoy me rompe el corazón en pedacitos… nunca te lo digo para que no te pongas triste, pero a diario deseo estar a tu lado y compartir todo lo que la vida nos ponga en el camino. Eres el mejor regalo que me ha dado la vida y por la cual doy gracias infinitamente. Estos miles de kilómetros son una difícil prueba que vamos a superar y un día, ojalá muy pronto, estaremos juntas otra vez.

No solo eres la mejor mamá que alguien pueda tener, eres además la mejor mujer que conozco: emprendedora, divertida, inteligente y entregada. Que afortunados somos quienes te tenemos en nuestra vida. Tú eres el motor que hace que nuestra familia sea fuerte, unida y amorosa. Gracias por cada día ser la primera en levantarte y usualmente la última en acostarte sólo para estar segura que todos estamos bien, gracias por haber pasado muchas noches en vela cuando estábamos enfermos, gracias por hacer muchos de nuestros sueños realidades, gracias por arreglar nuestros problemas con tus palabras de aliento y coraje, gracias por cada cosa que haces.

Te confieso que si algún día llego a ser madre quisiera que mis hijos me quisieran tanto como yo a ti. Quiero que me vean como su héroe, así como yo te veo a ti.

Mamita espero poder verte pronto. Cuento los días para que estemos reunidas otra vez y así mi vida este completa definitivamente. Te prometo luchar por mis sueños como me has enseñado siempre. Te llevo en mi corazón cada minuto que pasa deseándote lo mejor de la vida, sólo eso te mereces.

Te amo con todo mi corazón y te deseo un hermoso día de la madre, acuérdate que ERES LA MEJOR DEL MUNDO y me siento muy feliz de tenerte en mi vida.

Este blog es parte de la organización Strong Families: Celebrando el día de las madres a nuestra manera. Usted podrá leer más mensajes sobre esta serie en el blog de Strong Families (Familias Fuertes)

~*~

For my beloved mom on your day, despite the thousands of miles that separate us, I send you hugs, kisses, and all my love thanking you for being the best mother in the world and for being by my side in every step of my life.

When I decided to write a message in your honor I thought it would be a lot easier than it really was. I sat down in front of the computer and I thought . . . everything is going to flow. I was wrong. The days passed and the ideas were quickly exhausted. The letters came and went, typed and erased . . . I started to worry. I thought, am I the only one who’s having a hard time writing something for their mom? Soon enough and before I panicked, I realized that words and letters will never be sufficient to tell you how much you mean to me and how grateful I am for having the best mom in the whole world.

I feel very lucky to have you as my guide, my light, and my company on the best, worst, normal, happy, and boring days of my life. Mommy you are always by my side, no matter what I do or don’t do . . . unconditionally, you are there for me, I can be myself with you . . . You never judge me and always comfort me. I confess to you that as I write this letter my heart is sad and my eyes are filling with tears. The distance that is keeping us apart today breaks my heart into pieces . . . I never tell you this, because I don’t want you to get sad, but every day I wish to be together with you and share all that life brings. You are the best gift that life has given me and for which I am infinitely thankful. These thousands of miles are a difficult test that we will overcome and one day, hopefully soon, we will be together again.

You are not only the best mom that anyone could ever ask for, you are also the best woman I’ve known: entrepreneurial, funny, smart, and dedicated. How lucky we are to have you in our lives. You are the engine that makes our family strong, united and loving. Thank you being the first one to get up and usually the last one to go to bed just to be sure we are all ok. Thank you for all those sleepless nights when we were sick. Many thanks for making our dreams come true. Thanks for solving our problems with your kindness and courage. Thank you for everything you do.

I confess that if I ever become a mother, I want my children to love me as much as I love you. I want them to see me as their hero, as I see you every day.

Mom, I really hope to see you soon. I just think of the day that we can be together again . . . and know that on that day my life is going to be complete. I promise you I will fight for my dreams as you’ve always taught me. I have you in my heart every minute, wishing you all the best. You deserve nothing but greatness.

I love you with all my heart and wish you a beautiful Mother's Day, remember that YOU ARE THE BEST IN THE WORLD and I’m very happy to have you in my life.

Paola Toquica a dreamer, traveler and adventure woman. Loves the new beginnings and the great ends.

The Original DREAMer: My Mom

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Sun, 12 May 2013 14:00:00 +0000

By Hemly Ordonez

My mother began her life in the U.S. as an undocumented domestic worker cleaning the homes of Anglo families in North Hollywood. My mom, my tias, and my Abuelita Nina (may she rest in peace) are the mamas in my life that seamlessly weaved a tapestry for me of what it meant to be both Guatemalan and a citizen of the United States; they taught me the values that have come to define my life; and they demonstrated how to build a strong immigrant family. My mama is the original dreamer in my life, the glue that holds us together. I never would have been able to be where I am today, as a college graduate and a state policy strategist, without her.

In 1974, my mother, Maria Ester, was a college student seeing the beginnings of a civil war in Guatemala when she found out that she would soon be a young mother. She decided to emigrate to the U.S. in the only way she could afford to—as an undocumented immigrant. She found herself in downtown Los Angeles, with her husband, and eventually my tias and tio as well, trying to forge a life together. Together they all raised my older brother as an American citizen born in this country, and ten years later they would come together to raise me too.

The birth of my brother in 1975 ensured that my mother would qualify to access a pathway to citizenship in the U.S. While the immigration process was not perfect then, the timing of their entry between 1975 and 1980 allowed my father, my tio, and my tias to qualify for citizenship or apply for amnesty by 1986. In addition, my mother was able to sponsor my Abuelita Nina to take care of me. This pathway to legalization is what dramatically shifted the lives of my family. My family managed to stay together, became citizens, and moved to access different employment opportunities outside of downtown Los Angeles. This meant that my mother, who began her career as a domestic worker, came out of the shadows and with a Spanish/ English dictionary in her hand took the California civil service exam. Documentation and citizenship opened up this opportunity and my mother became an employee for the state of California at the Employment Development Department, where she has worked for the past 20 years. Life as I knew it would not be possible without my mom’s, my tia’s, and my abuelita’s access to immigration laws that supported family unity.

As the shifting immigration climate after 2001 began to tear families apart, I understood just how bad it was when the devastation eventually caught up to my family. I was a rising junior in college at Georgetown University and had come home to California for the summer. My mother gathered my family and we caravanned to visit relatives an hour outside of Los Angeles. I learned that my tia had died crossing the Arizona desert in the arms of her children. My tia and cousins had attempted to immigrate without documentation to escape extortion in Guatemala and the United States was not the same place that my mother had immigrated to 31 years earlier. We attended the funeral and tried to figure out what we could do to continue to support my cousins. It was clear in that moment that uniting my family was central to how we were going to work through this tragedy together.

My mother was the original dreamer in my life and so was the mother of my cousins, my tia, who died trying to give her children something better. The prevalent anti-immigrant climate in Arizona and the current debate on comprehensive immigration reform are personal. In order to build strong immigrant families and secure the future of my family we must have comprehensive immigration reform that sees our humanity. This means that we must have a clear and accessible roadmap to citizenship, respect for family unity that is LGBT-inclusive and ensures that immigration enforcement is sensitive to family needs, and that there is access to health care. I will continue to advocate for comprehensive immigration reform that recognizes all the mamas in my life and honors the experience of my mom, Maria Ester Ordonez.

Curated by Hemly Ordonez the State Strategies Manager at Advocates for Youth

Love, Guilt, and Coming Home: 3 Mamas share their journeys

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Sun, 12 May 2013 13:00:00 +0000

Posted courtesy of SPARK Reproductive Justice Now

Echoing Ida is pleased to share these encouraging and profound interviews with Southern Black women who are making waves, changing lives, and keeping their families strong. We are grateful to be able to post and link to these interviews courtesy of SPARK. Read below to be inspired, teary, and ready to take action.

For Mary Hooks, raising her daughter and changing the world is all in a day’s work! She is an organizer for Southerners on New Ground (SONG) — an organization that engages in grassroots efforts with queer people, people of color, immigrants, undocumented people, people with disabilities, working class, rural and small town communities, and their allies throughout the South to make sustainable social change. Her 5-month old daughter, Porter, joins her on the road connecting with people who are redefining the region for vulnerable communities. At home, Mary proudly shares space with an amazing group of friends that infuse service to their neighborhood as a daily practice. In fact, they will hand out gifts to women living in the West End community of Atlanta, GA this Sunday for Mother’s Day.

In SPARK's Mama’s Day interview she dishes on birthing with support, the "sacred no," self love, and movement-supported parenting. Check out her powerful interview here!

***

Raised in South Carolina, Tracee McDaniel left the South seeking community as a transsexual woman only to return years later more in love with her family and southern roots. Tracee is the founder of Juxtaposed Center for Transformation Incorporated--an Atlanta based advocacy, consulting, and social services referral organization working to improve the quality of life for all Transgender and Gender Non-Conforming community members. She shares her incredible journey, activism, wisdom for families, and newly published book Transitions: Memoirs of a Transsexual Woman with SPARK during their Mama’s Day celebration with Strong Families!

Check out the full interview where Tracee talks about re-building familial relationships, a mother's guilt, and coming home.

***

Marilynn Winn is the extraordinary strategist behind Atlanta 9to5’s Ban the Box campaign that ensures employment opportunities for Georgia’s formerly incarcerated family members. She is also starting a new organization called Women on the Rise led by women impacted by incarceration both in and outside of prison. This Mama’s Day we celebrate Winn’s wisdom and loving energy with an intimate sit-down interview where we discuss family, tips for mothers, and how our society can support mothers and families beyond the holiday.

Read the full interview where Marilyn shares advice for feeling empowered after incarceration and maintaining dignity through adversity.

This blog post is part of the Strong Families Mama’s Day Our Way celebration. You can read more posts in the series on the Strong Families blog. Strong Families is a national initiative led by Forward Together. Our goal is to change the way people think, act and talk about families.

Not Happy Mother’s Day

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Sat, 11 May 2013 16:30:00 +0000

Trigger warning: This post contains language around emotional and sexual abuse that may be triggering or difficult for some to read. Please take responsibility for your own well-being.

By Michelle Palladine

Many women, indeed, many people use the phrase ‘I hate my mother, she makes me crazy’ followed by a ranting of how horrid their mother is for nagging at them to wash the dishes, do their homework, watch their weight, get married, have a baby, or any number of things that might, truly, drive an adult to growling distraction. Very few of these people actually dislike their mothers when it comes down to it, though. I daresay, even fewer of them despise even the very thought of her. But this is what Mother’s Day means to me. It is the day I hate most of any day in the calendar. I have learned to stay home and not even venture to the grocery store just to avoid a stranger’s well wishes of ‘Happy Mother’s Day.’

It’s not happy for all of us. For some of us, it’s a reminder of the horrors we endured as children and somehow survived.

Not long ago, I was having an online discussion with some friends and one of them was having crazy-making issues with her over-critical mother. Many of us, myself included, gave virtual hugs and well meaning advice, followed by thoughts on the type of relationship this woman had with her mother, taking into account all we knew. A few of these women knew some of my childhood history, but not all of them. As many online conversations do, this conversation morphed a bit into how grateful this woman’s mother should be for the fact that her daughter (my friend) is the primary breadwinner in the home. I commented that I thought my friend was a far better person than me, because I would have let the woman that gave birth to me go homeless before living in the same home with her. Indeed, when that opportunity almost presented itself, her homelessness or my own suicide were the only options I saw. So I told them all why.

You see, the woman that gave birth to me truly was a rarity. She was a child molester. My first memories of her are of being sexually poked and prodded, having things inserted into me so that she could gauge a reaction. I have no idea if she took great pleasure from her work or not. I know that at five years old I took a piece of a toy (like a Lincoln Log, but narrow as a pencil) and jammed it repeatedly into my vagina until I passed out. Fortunately for her, the housekeeper found me and she was able to take me to the hospital without my father ever knowing. In my twenties I was told I still had scar tissue from this self-mutilation. I remember thinking that I wanted to destroy it, destroy whatever it was. I wasn’t old enough to understand sexual feelings or any of the like, I just knew that what was happening to me felt wrong and that if I destroyed the part of me that it was happening to, it might not happen anymore.

I was born in the early 1960s in Canada. Anyone who doesn’t understand how different things were back then needs to buckle up. For one thing, it never occurred to me that I could lie to my parents, especially after trying it a few times unsuccessfully at a very young age. I learned early on that my father was much more fond of me if I never made any noise and did exactly as I was told. At around three, I began to give off the earliest signs of child abuse by crying every time I was left alone with the mother. My father was flattered, of course, because he had no idea that when he was home there was some semblance of protection from her.

After we moved to America in the mid-60s, I became the target of a child molester on the way to school. His name was Mr. White. You see, at age six, I walked almost a mile to school each day. The mother was too depressed at leaving Canada to bother driving us and my brother would often leave me behind since I was two years younger and well, as little sisters often are, just a bother. To his credit, he usually only left me when the school was in sight.

There was a house on the corner above the school owned by an older man (he was probably in his late 60s or early 70s at the time). He used to stand out in his yard and offer us candy or change if we would stop and talk with him. Many of the kids told me he was creepy, but he already saw a victim in me, and so I wasn’t terribly hard to catch. Even Thomas, the old crossing guard told me not to talk to him and made me throw out the candy that Mr. White gave me. He would only tell me that he was a bad man, but since he didn’t say why, I just thought Thomas didn’t like him because Mr. White was white and Thomas was black and that sort of thing still went on, even in California.

Mr. White used to slide his hand down the neck of my coat and clothing and I’m sure he masturbated, but I was too young and didn’t know what that was anyway. There came a day when he tried to drag me into his house and, to the best of my memory, I ran away. I have some duplicate memories of that day, so I honestly don’t know what happened. I remember after school I told my brother, who informed me that I had to tell our mother or he would. I told her and I remember she called my father at work, who came home and called the police. In those days, the police didn’t handle things the way they do now. The officer talked to me and asked me what had happened. I was scared because I didn’t want to get in trouble and I didn’t really want Mr. White to get in trouble either, but I told the truth because that’s what I had been asked to do.

The police seemed to know all about him and I remember they told my father they were going to arrest him finally. They left and when they came back it turned out Mr. White had offered my father a thousand dollars if he didn’t prosecute. He would pay the money by the end of the month and move within the week. I remember my father spoke to me about the money, telling me it would be easier for me not to have to face a judge or a courtroom and, ultimately, I asked if I could be allowed to buy a new toy horse with some of it.

At this point, of course, the mother retired to her room in tears and my father helped the police clear off. The money? Who knows. I seem to remember my brother and I both got a new toy over it, but that’s it. Second molester down and now I begin to exhibit more signs of abuse by not cleaning myself completely after going to the bathroom. The mother’s answer to this, rather than trying to reason with me or understand and educate herself, or heaven forbid, help me, was to humiliate me and call me names in front of the entire family, which continued for a few years with growing support from the rest of my family along the way. Some of this isn’t fit to write about, even in light of the things you’ve already read.

By the time I was eleven, I only showered when instructed, I rarely washed my hair, and I was definitely the odd child. I had two or three close friends, but that was it. No surprise that one day a counselor at school asked me if things were alright at home. I was silent a long time. I just sat there, trying to formulate my answer, weighing all my options. The weirdness of having a mother who took naked pictures of me for art projects that never happened. Knowing that I might go to a foster home just for telling. Just as I was starting to answer her, she asked me if things were alright between me and my father. Had she waited, my life might have been very different, it could have even been horribly worse. But she didn’t wait and I answered her honestly. Things were fine between my father and I. Sometimes he was mean, but he worked a lot of hours. So yes, things were alright between us.

Between twelve and fourteen, I changed symptoms of abuse and began to masturbate excessively. I dressed as seductively as I could get away with, with little or no restrictions from either parent.

At about age fourteen, I was regularly menstruating and wanted to use tampons rather than pads. The mother bought them and gave me a short verbal instruction on how to insert them and sent me off with the package and the written instructions. You’re wondering how this could possibly go wrong and be the moment that I finally stood up for myself? Here it comes. Being a virgin, the tampon got trapped by my hymen, only I had no idea what a hymen was. I was terrified. I thought it was some part of my intestines. You see, I was one of those dreadfully lucky girls who had an incredibly thick hymen (about a quarter inch). I was also flexible enough to be able to see that the tampon was caught on something. I didn’t know what to do and after probably an hour and a half of trying to get the thing out, I had to go and get the mother. I will probably never forget that feeling of aloneness. My father was asleep in his lounge chair and my brother was out with friends.

I remember she came into the bathroom and had me lie back in the bathtub. I’d had the sense to try to take a bath and move the thing around, but had had no luck. She looked and informed me that it was stuck and how. I told her to get it out of me. She began to try to sexually stimulate me with her hands. The moment I realized what was happening, I kicked her away and screamed at her to get the hell away from me. She, of course, started to cry. She didn’t know what to do. She was only trying to help. She wanted me to relax. She was scared. She. She. She. I yelled until she left the bathroom and I locked the door.

About a half hour or so later, she came back to the bathroom door and knocked. I told her I wanted to go to the hospital. She told me that she would take me, but I would have to tell my father why. I should mention that at this stage in my life, my father and I rarely spoke. Right around this same time, he beat the crap out of me by picking me up and throwing me on a tile floor after trying to choke me. For good measure, he kicked me a couple times too. Since she knew I wasn’t about to share this kind of thing with my father, she had the upper hand. She would come back in, she said. She knew what to do. She wouldn’t try anything, she promised. I had to forgive her, I had to trust her. I was fucking fourteen and I had no choice. So I let the woman that had molested me and controlled me my entire life back into the bathroom to see me naked, yet again, to pull a tampon out of the place I’d tried to destroy years before.

A few years later, I would again be at her mercy when I had to fight my brother off. Again, I couldn’t tell our father; there was only her. I remember thinking back then that I must not love my brother or my father, because I didn’t want to have sex with them.

She never tried to molest me again. Instead she settled for trying to sleep with my boyfriends, or trying to get me to talk about my sex life, attempting to seduce my brother when he was nineteen (I walked in on them), and telling me daily how she was going to kill herself and I’d come home to find her dead. She spent two years alternately kicking me out of the house and begging me to come home a week later until I just left for good. I was not the daughter she wanted. I was ungrateful. I was all of these horrible things that made her sick, gave her a heart condition, caused her heart attack. That’s who I was. When my first husband raped me, she told her bridge club because it was so horrible for her. It took me years to be able to have sex with a man without feeling that she was there in the room, watching. Even to this day, I have dreams I have to force myself to wake from because they are of the twisted farce that was ‘family.’

There is so very, very much more that could be told here, how when I first told my father about her abuse, he was incredibly supportive. Then years later, he denied it had ever happened and insisted that I admit I’d made it all up. How eighteen years went by without my speaking to him because he was more comfortable with a lie than the truth. But I’m exhausted. I don’t owe this woman love or gratitude or forgiveness. Truth be told, I’m glad she’s dead. And while I don’t believe in hell, I wouldn’t be terribly bothered if she were there.

Someone said to me once that we have to love our mothers because they fed us from their bodies. I cry bullshit. I am here to speak up for the thousands of us, perhaps the tens of thousands of us who had nightmares for mothers and absentee fathers and who are still strong and good and kind in spite of everything they put us through.

Michelle Palladine is a paralegal, living and working in Palm Springs, California. She is also a professional belly dancer and an international costume designer.

This blog post is part of the Strong Families Mama’s Day Our Way celebration. You can read more posts in the series on the Strong Families blog. Strong Families is a national initiative led by Forward Together. Our goal is to change the way people think, act and talk about families.

Searching for the perfect card

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Sat, 11 May 2013 16:12:00 +0000

by Renee Bracey Sherman

“How come you have black mother?” an inquisitive young boy asked me. We were four, playing at a park near my childhood Chicago home. I stared at him blankly but never responded – I had no idea what he meant.

For many years I never understood why so many people would ask me that question. Growing up biracial was a challenge. Greeting cards always showed mothers and daughters with the same skin tone and light eyes; the books in school reflected “diverse” families, but separated the white family from the black one. Mine was never represented.

My father told me about the frustration she endured every time she’d take me to the zoo or park. “She’s so cute. Are you babysitting?” they’d ask. As a young mother, she was angry that people would make assumptions that she couldn’t be more than my nanny because of her chocolate skin. Having to claim your child to complete strangers wasn’t covered in the parenting guide.

My mother put herself through nursing school, and by walking across the stage with me in her belly, she taught me the importance of a good education. I’ve got her deep dimples, smile, and laugh. She raised me with her belief that it’s never too late to learn something new – she learned to figure skate in her 40s and participated in ice shows with my brothers and me. How could she not be my mother? Why do our skin colors even matter?

Each Mother’s day, birthday, and any other day you buy a card for, I comb the card aisles looking for the perfect card. One without images of people or some cheesy line about how she taught me to cook and sew. I search for a card that captures all of the intangible life lessons that she instills in me everyday. Until now, there haven’t been cards for that.

I’m thankful for the Mama’s Day card campaign. It allows me to say what I truly feel and have an image that reflects my love for her. I created a card that gives me the power to show her what I love about her. The Mama’s Day cards make me thankful for everything she has given me, especially her love.

Renee Bracey Sherman is from Chicago, Illinois where she graduated from Northeastern Illinois University, studying economics and sociology. Renee found a passion in working to break down barriers of multiple oppressions that women/people of color/LGBT/low income/immigrant folks face each day by sharing stories. By day, Renee is a fundraiser for Wikimedia Foundation and in her spare time, she volunteers for ACCESS and serves on the Board of Directors of Young Nonprofit Professionals Network San Francisco Bay Area Chapter. Renee is excited to be an abortion doula and tweet for Bay Area Doula Project, and to support those accessing abortion in the Bay Area.

This blog post is part of the Strong Families Mama’s Day Our Way celebration. You can read more posts in the series on the Strong Families blog. Strong Families is a national initiative led by Forward Together. Our goal is to change the way people think, act and talk about families.

To the mothers who never were

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Sat, 11 May 2013 16:00:00 +0000

By Andrea J. Serrano

"I don't know how to be in my body after this little being has been there.

In all reality, it wasn't even a fetus. It was an embryo, no bigger than a poppy seed. In all reality, I only had a few minutes to feel like I was pregnant before the doctor said that he was worried and I immediately felt afraid. The blood came quickly and while it wasn't bad at first, it was bad by Saturday and by the time I went to the hospital for a follow-up, I knew it was over. In all reality, _______ and I have only been together for two months, I'm traveling to Tucson and New Orleans this spring, moving into my little house in June, etc.

In all reality, my brain doesn't get a say in this one. I am utterly heartbroken." *

If someone asked me to sum up how I've been feeling for the last few months, the first word that comes to mind is isolated. I've completely spun myself into a cocoon, and as I slowly emerge from it, I realize that I didn't know that I was so far away. Everything around me was still functioning and I imagined I was as well. I got up and went to work every day. I hosted two poetry events and even played a gig with my band. I attended birthday parties and hung out with my compañero,** my family, and my friends. I was fine—at least that's what I kept telling myself and everyone around me. But the fact remained, in early February I found out I was four weeks pregnant and within three days of finding out, I had a miscarriage.

I've written several versions of this blog. I wrote out all the details of finding out—going to the doctor for what I thought was a urinary tract infection (which I did have) and walking out knowing I was pregnant and possibly miscarrying. I wrote about the medical ordeal and I wrote a long description of the emergency room and the characters that were there. I wrote about sitting in a nearly empty church on Holy Thursday almost two months after the miscarriage and having an argument with Creator asking why? Why would you let me be pregnant if you were going to take it from me? How could you? You knew how scared I was of that happening—why would you do that to me?

I haven't been able to finish this post because I am still figuring out how to be what I keep telling myself and everyone around me—fine.

I had a chemical miscarriage, which my doctor described as something wrong with the embryo and my body rejected it. "It happens to about 25% of pregnancies," he said, "it's just that no one talks about it." While my compañero, my mom, and the rest of my family and close friends responded with a lot of kindness and tenderness, I wiped away the tears, and as quickly as the miscarriage happened, I told everyone I was fine. I blamed my sadness on the hormones and once those leveled off, I told myself to shake off the pain that I felt deep in my heart. But the sadness had also seeped deep into my womb and washed over me like sheets of cold rain. Still, I convinced myself that I was being dramatic. I was only four weeks along and didn't even have a chance to adjust to the idea of being pregnant. My Catholic-Chicana sensibilities told me that there are people who have suffered much more than I suffered, and therefore I had to get over it.

Obviously, nothing about me was fine. I've always looked at pregnant women's bellies with longing, but after the miscarriage I was jealous of pregnant women to the point of resentment. I was angry all the time and I couldn't walk through the baby section at any store. I still can't. My compañero, who showed so much patience and kindness and continues to do so, didn't know how to reach me because I kept my feelings bottled up. Snapping at him and being distant from him allowed me to hold onto my anger, which is no surprise, because anger is what shields me from pain. I realized at one point that the miscarriage felt the same as a break-up. I've been through enough break-ups to know there would be some real feelings I would have to accept, but I wasn't ready to face the fact that I felt broken. Even though every doctor reassured me that my miscarriage was not an indicator about my ability to carry a baby to term, I felt defective. As was the case with other heartbreaks, I felt like damaged goods. I felt far away—and I almost felt better that way. This was a hurt I didn't understand, and I tried to talk myself out of it. I kept telling myself that it just wasn't my time and, hey, at least now I know I can get pregnant.

None of that mattered, however, because I wanted this pregnancy and this baby.

A few weeks after the miscarriage, I went to the doctor for a follow-up appointment. The clinic, which is a women's reproductive health clinic, was much nicer and calmer than the emergency room I had been at a few weeks earlier. The doctor I saw once again explained what a chemical miscarriage was, but she also said "just because you weren't that far along doesn't mean you don't get to be sad." I felt tears well up that I quickly swallowed. Instead, I just nodded. She left the room so I could change into a hospital gown and as I lay back on the exam table, I noticed there was a mobile hanging above me. Little paper hummingbirds floated above me and I felt a brief moment of happiness and peace. I took a picture of them because I wanted to remember them.

The Mexica (otherwise known as the Aztecs) believed that hummingbirds were the spirits of warriors who died in battle. I have always loved hummingbirds but when I learned this, my respect for them grew even more. I even have a hummingbird and the word "guerrera" (warrior) tattooed on my right bicep. If I was writing a fiction piece, that would have been the moment that my character would have had an epiphany about her loss, but in real life, it took some time to realize that not only was I a warrior but so was the little spirit that was intertwined with my own.

When I sat in a church on Holy Thursday, I asked Creator why, but when my anger quieted, I found myself having a conversation with that little spirit. I apologized for not communicating sooner and I thanked it for coming to me. In a flood of tears I released everything—the baby, my anger, my fear, my sorrow. I allowed myself to be torn wide open by my own emotions. When I spoke with my compañero about it, I could almost hear the relief in his voice and he said I even looked lighter.

I still find myself feeling angry sometimes. I fantasize about being pregnant and sometimes feel impatient about our decision to wait; my compañero and I decided that we need more time together to cultivate our relationship. I'm afraid of miscarrying again. I'm afraid that it was a fluke and I'll never get pregnant again. I'm afraid that I'm waiting too long. I don't know how to not be afraid, but I'm also fine with that—only this time I'm really fine and not telling myself that I am in order to survive.

I am a warrior, and while I am forever changed by having had a miscarriage, I can only move forward. Completely afraid and brave all at once.

*This text comes from an email that I sent to two dear friends about a week after my miscarriage.
**Compañero literally translates to companion, but it's the term I use for my boyfriend.

Andrea J. Serrano is a poet and community organizer from Albuquerque, NM. She writes a semi-regular blog entitled "And Yet, I'm Still Here" at http://andreathepoet.blogspot.com

This blog post is part of the Strong Families Mama’s Day Our Way celebration. You can read more posts in the series on the Strong Families blog. Strong Families is a national initiative led by Forward Together. Our goal is to change the way people think, act and talk about families.

Querida Madre

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Sat, 11 May 2013 15:00:00 +0000

By Sebastian Sanchez

Querida Madre,

Desde el primer momento que oí tu vos, mientras descansaba en tu vientre de amor, fuiste mi gia para estar listo a dentra a este mundo. Este mundo lleno de odio, amor, muriendose de hambre, lleno de paraisos, y con justicia contra la injusticia.

Pero miento, en realidad ya no puedo recordarme de tu vos del prinsipio. Tu vos de haora Madre, me da el sentido en seguir los pasos que me esperan en el pasillo de la vida.

¿Si te acuerdas de el pasillo en la casa de tu madre, mi abuela? Ese pasillo me presentó a mi cultura Colombiana, los sabores de tu comida, el calor de tus abrazos, el miedo de los gritos afuera de mi ventana en la madurgada, las balas que llagaron a nuestra puerta, el machismo hacia las mujeres pero nunca cuando era el tiempo de placer, pero mas importante la seguridad de mi familia.

Tu seguridad, alegria, y fuerza ah dibujado el camino que vamos caminando.

Me recuerdo cuando te fuiste de mi lado, pero por solo un segundo, para poder enseñar a tus hij@s una nueva vida. Me recuerdo verte despues de muchos meses sin saber que este era un nuevo pasillo. Este pasillo no ha sido facil, y nadie dijo que iva ser. Me recuerdo mi primer dia de la escuela en nuestra nueva vida, donde nadie hablaba mi idioma, y me sentia aislado. En esos tiempos lo unico que me hacia feliz era estar a tu lado. La unica manera de estar a tu lado era cuando corria en los pasillos donde trabajabas. Para mi eran pasillos de divertad y un sentido de escapar realidad. Pero en realidad eran los pasillos que limpiavas para darnos un hogar y comida. Me recuerdo cuando corria en los pasillos que limpiabas, y sin sentido no sabia que era lo que vivia en tu mirada. Pero haora si se que era, lo pude ver en tus ojos lo cansada que estabas y aunque en ningun momento te dejabas por vensida. Fueron muchos pasillos, muchas veses eran cinco a seis pisos llenos de laberintos que llevavan el sudor de tu trabajo duro.

Adaptar a una nueva vida no es facil, pero tu sudor y esfuerzo desde el primer dia demuestra la posibilidad en llegar a nuestros suenos. Quiero que sepas que cada amor y esfuerzo que tengo es por ti.

Esta pasillo no ha sido facil, pero tu nunca te as quejado y nos has enseñado el sentido de vivir. Me as enseñado que nuestras vidas esta conectada con cada accion que deseamos tomar. Tu decidiste tomar el pasillo mas duro, y en esa decicion as podido darnos el sueño y la major vida que una familia pueda tener.

Con orgullo y amor,

Tu hijo Sebastian

Este blog es parte de la organización Strong Families: Celebrando el día de las madres a nuestra manera. Usted podrá leer más mensajes sobre esta serie en el blog de Strong Families (Familias Fuertes)

~*~

Dear Mother,

From the first moment I heard your voice, while resting in your belly of love, you were my guide to entering this world—this world full of hate, love, starvation, full of havens and justice against injustice.

But I lie; I cannot recall your voice from then. Mother, your voice now has given me guidance to follow the steps in the hallway of my life.

Do you remember the hallway of your mother’s house, my grandmother? That hallway introduced me to my Colombian culture, the flavors of your food, to the warmth of your embrace, and to the fear of the screams outside my window past midnight, bullets at our doorstep, and machismo towards women, but never when it was time for pleasure—and, more importantly, to the safety of my family.

Your safety, joy, and strength have and continue to draw the path that we are walking.

I recall the moment you left me—but for only a second—in order to introduce your children to a new life. I remember seeing you after a few months, without knowing that this was a new hallway. This corridor has not been easy, and no one said that it would be. I remember my first day of school in our new life, where no one spoke my language, and I felt isolated. In those days the only moments that brought me happiness were the ones by your side. To be by your side, I strolled in the hallways where you worked. To me, these hallways granted me joy and an escape from reality. But these were the corridors that you would clean every night in order to give us food and a home. I would run in the hallways that you cleaned, without any sense of what lived inside your eyes. There were many hallways, at times five-to-six floors of mazes that carried the sweat of your work. But now I know, I can see in your eyes how tired you were—but there was never a look of defeat.

Adapting to a new life is not easy, but your sweat and effort demonstrates the possibility that we can reach our dreams. I want you to know something: know that all the love and effort I hold is from you.

This has not been an easy hallway, but you never complained and you have taught us the meaning of life. You’ve taught me that our lives are forever intertwined with every action we choose to take. You decided to take the longer corridor, but that has allowed our dreams to become reality, and it has allowed us a better life than any family could have.

With pride and love, your son,
Sebastian

Sebastian is a youth leadership advocate, social intrapreneur, book worm, documentary-film addict, and an YP4 alumni.

On being a proud teen mom: I don't hate myself as much as you wish I did

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Sat, 11 May 2013 14:30:00 +0000

By Gloria Malone

The problem with being a teen mom is that I don't hate myself nearly as much as you wish I did.

My humble pride and my happy life upset you because I do not embody the self-hate and stereotypes you want me to.

My existence challenges everything that you’ve been told to believe about me, which makes you uncomfortable. And instead of getting to know me, you cast hate and anger at me. Hoping that your negativity will tell me to quit, hoping that I will amount to the nothing you desperately want me to be, and hoping that your negativity will give you a voice for a moment.

I am a proud teen mom. My family is happy. I graduated high school on time and with honors. I am a college student, and I am looking for a Master’s degree program. I've been published in The New York Times and other major news publications expressing my views. My daughter is intelligent, healthy, and happy. I'm on my way and I won't let you get in the way.

When you do choose to hear my accomplishments, you seek to belittle and change them so they make you feel comfortable: "You're an exception, not the rule," "So what? You think you deserve a medal or something?", "Big deal. You did what you were supposed to do," or, "That only happened because you’re a statistic and need to be the proof that ___ is diversified."

What you fail to realize is that your negativity and hate comes from within. The anger you feel comes from you beginning to realize that, instead of thinking for yourself, you've been trained to think—that is what upsets you.

Fortunately for me, your projected self-hate is something that I have encountered since I became pregnant at age fifteen. I've worked too hard to let your projected self-hate determine whether or not I will graduate or continue to be the best parent I can to my child.

In fact, your negativity reminds me to speak louder, to encourage others to speak, and to do what you do not want us to achieve—our own greatness.

The problem with being a teen mom is that I don't have as much of a problem with my existence as you want me to. The problem is you.

Gloria Malone is the author of the blog Teen Mom NYC.

An ode to my mother, in tattoos

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Sat, 11 May 2013 14:00:00 +0000

By Paloma Ibañez

I spent the other night on Pinterest making a list of all the tattoos that I would consider getting. Before I knew it I had a list of 37 possible ideas, and without realizing it as I was making the list, 22 of them turned out to have a direct tie to or to be inspired by my mom.

This is my mom as told by my future tattoos:

1. Birds – swallows & seagulls
My first and so far only tattoo (but not for long) is a dove, my namesake—Paloma. Though I am really named after popcorn. My mom expected a boy and wasn’t prepared to name a little girl, so she went with her favorite food, palomitas. When I was a child, she read to me The Happy Prince about an altruistic swallow and as teen gave me a copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull; both books shaped who I am today. At the very core, my mom has always been a protective mother hen, but when she knows the wind is right, she has always nudged me out of the nest to spread my wings and fly.

2. Classic Pooh, Robin, Piglet and Crew

3. Bears In Pairs

4. Where The Wild Things Are
One of the greatest gifts my mom ever gave me is the love of reading. She’s a prolific reader and at different moments in my life she has pulled a book off her shelf and handed it to me, and it has always been what I needed and said what she couldn’t.

5. Swordfish

6. Not all those who wander are lost
There are so many great books that she gave me—Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea and the brilliance that is J.R.R. Tolkien. These stories have been my sources of strength when I have needed them the most.

7. Sea Turtles
She doesn’t know it, but my favorite animal is the sea turtle because I thought it was hers first – turned out it wasn’t.

8. Elephants – a mom & calf
The love that elephants have reminds me so much of the love my mom and I have, and we always seem to get excited together when we talk about elephants.

9. Butterflies
During some recent late-20s angstful growth, my mom told me one of her favorite kid stories of me – singing about butterflies and beauty. She reminded me that it is in my nature to pursue happiness.

10. My mom's one line cat
My mom doesn’t seem to have a lot of stuff from her life before she had me. I still feel like there is pain in the past that we haven’t talked about yet. But one thing that was always around is a picture of a cat that she drew in one fluid unbroken line. The expression on the cat’s face is one that I have caught glimpses of on my mom’s.

11. Katsushika Hokusai’s – Mount Fuji Seen Below a Wave at Kanagawa
One of my favorite things I love saying in my personal story is that my mom is a fiery redhead, who was born in Kansas, ran wild and free in Arizona, and grew up in Japan and traveled the world. Without ever thinking about it my mom brought Japanese culture into our home. It was in the food I ate, the stories she told, the philosophy I grew up with, and the art that I love.

12. Sequoia tree
We took a trip to Northern California the summer after my junior year of high school. It wasn’t a good year for either of us. Her sister had passed away—the only family member she really had left—and a skeleton came out of her closet. We weren’t getting along or doing so well and then I was raped. I didn’t tell her what happened because I was so angry and hurt from the preceding incident. We were both in pain, more than either of us was willing to admit or show. But somehow we managed to go on this trip to see the winding streets of San Francisco where she had been one of the first girls on a skateboarded and to see the red woods that she camped under as kid. The giants of Kings Canyon in all their glory also told stories of fragility and vulnerability; in that trip we began to make our peace.

13. Pine trees

14. Sunrise sunrise
These are the lyrics of a Norah Jones song from her 2004 album, the year I graduated high school and set out to be the first college graduate in my family. It was the CD we listened to as she drove me up the mountain (only 4 hours) to my new home in the pine trees. It was when I asked her to turn the car around and when we stopped. And as much as she wanted me to go to the university in my home town, she asked me what I wanted. She gave me the saddest, yet reassuring look that made me feel brave again, brave enough to follow through with one of the best decisions I have ever made. I chose NAU and Flagstaff and a life in the same pine trees and meadows that she ran wild in as a child.

15. Que sera sera – in my mom’s handwriting This is what she says, or even better when she sings it to me, when I’m in a worried or anxious. And everything always feels better.

16. World map

17. Sail boat & waves

18. Compass – nautical sign

19. North Star
My mom is a sailor and an explorer. I don’t say “was” even though it’s been 27 years since she was at home traveling on the sea, because it’s in all her stories, far away looks, and the spirit that comes alive when she is by the ocean. She’s inspired in me a love for travel and adventure, challenged me to meet what’s at my horizon, to follow my dreams, passions, and gut, and most importantly taught me that I am my own best navigator.

20. The road less traveled
She re-sent me Robert Frost’s poem, “The Road Not Taken.” Frost’s words gave me strength to end a 4.5-year relationship and an engagement, and it has made all the difference.

21. Oscar and the Red Balloon
Oscar is who I would have been named after if I had been a boy. I am just now beginning to understand her love of the boy in the film The Red Balloon. And I am so thankful for how our relationship has changed and is changing, and that my mom will always be my mom, but also my best friend.

22. Coordinates of my home in Tucson, AZ
My mom didn’t grow up with roots. As a kid she moved around, and as an adult she continued to move around on her own. I always thought I would be the same. Actually I wanted to be just like her, an adventurer who could go anywhere that the current took me. Ties and roots to a place were something I wouldn’t have. But because she is who she is, she built a home like she never had, and I got to benefit from it. When I left home to make my way in D.C. it was a life-changing experience, and the most profound part is that I found out I do have roots and ties to a place because of my mom’s love.

I should also note that my mom strongly dislikes my tattoo, and quite literally panicked the first time she saw it. I sent her my list of tattoos without any of these stories and unprompted she wrote back to say if I get a compass, she’ll get an anchor. Turns out there is some Sailor Jerry in my mom, too.

Paloma Ibañez is the Advanced Leadership & Alumni Program Manager at Young People For (YP4).

This blog post is part of the Strong Families Mama’s Day Our Way celebration. You can read more posts in the series on the Strong Families blog. Strong Families is a national initiative led by Forward Together. Our goal is to change the way people think, act and talk about families.

Mamas in the South Continue the Fight for Reproductive Justice

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Fri, 10 May 2013 18:00:00 +0000

Originally posted at Flyover Feminism

By Bianca Campbell

Too often public discourse on the reproductive and sexual rights issues of women living in the U.S. South, as well as the Global South, describes women as perpetual victims of their location and circumstances—especially Brown and Black women. In an effort to highlight the gross social and economic disparities, these narratives lose sight of the fierce feminist organizing happening in these regions. Even well-intentioned reproductive justice leaders can forgo balanced remarks by focusing on the injustices. This is simply detrimental to our movement.

Instead, let us foreground the dynamic reproductive justice work happening in the South and debunk the myths that we are helpless, uneducated, and in need of rescuing by the North! This Mama’s Day join SPARK Reproductive Justice NOW as we honor three amazing Black mothers and celebrate the resilience of women social justice leaders who continue to pave the way for our reproductive freedom in the South and the nation.

Continue reading...

Bianca is a doula and reproductive justice organizer at SPARK Reproductive Justice Now. She is also proud to be a member of Echoing Ida, using the potential of social media to promote the reflections of Black women.

This blog post is part of the Strong Families Mama’s Day Our Way celebration. You can read more posts in the series on the Strong Families blog. Strong Families is a national initiative led by Forward Together. Our goal is to change the way people think, act and talk about families.

My disability made me a better mother

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Fri, 10 May 2013 17:00:00 +0000

By Karen Hagrup

Dear Daughter,

As you think about becoming a mother yourself, there are a few things about what being a mother has meant for me that I would like you to know.

In my process of growing up and starting to live my own life beyond the narrow expectations of my parents, becoming a mother was the most daring and profound choice I made. It was also the most rewarding.

As you know, at the age of three and a half years I contracted polio. My parents were told by some local people in their small community just north of the Arctic Circle in Norway that they must have sinned and that God sent them my polio to punish them. My mother strongly denied that idea. My polio, she argued, was a blessing in disguise. But my disability also became a key aspect of HER life narrative, a story about faith and doubts, struggle, grace, and submissiveness.

Many old feelings of love and hurt come up when I think about my mother. I called her “Mamma” all her life. Her hugs were giving. I remember that she let me come into her bed and put my cold polio leg between her warm legs until I was ready to go back to my own bed and sleep.

Before I started working to have my first child, I had studied a fair amount of developmental child psychology. While I loved my mother deeply, I had also started realizing that the way she cared about me did not empower me, encourage me, or even validate me as an independent and strong woman with power and personal agency. I decided to be a very different mother than my own mother had been for me.

I was determined that I would try not to limit my daughters in that way. From your early life, I wanted you and your sister to have the opportunities to make choices, to realize your potentials, and to feel your own power with all the support and encouragement I could give you.

When, as a married woman, I started working on becoming pregnant, my mother told me not to do that. I asked her why, and all she was able to tell me was that it would not be easy or good for me. Since I was already wondering if my polio would somehow have a negative impact on the baby, I went to a doctor for advice. He made me feel like I was worrying about nothing. It was reassuring in a negative sort of way.

As my first pregnancy progressed, I realized that I was afraid of the birth process, and that if I could not get over some of that fear then my body would be so tense and uptight that the birth might become more difficult than it needed to be. So I started painting. I painted images of tranquil openings.

When your older sister was about six months old, I went alone to Norway to show her to my parents and other family. I brought her along in a small, simple stroller and managed to bring her and my luggage with me there and back to the U.S. At the time I was wearing a brace, and I had not yet started using crutches, but I was not as strong physically as I had been before the pregnancy. My mother saw that I was strong enough to do this, but as usual, she worried about me more than she admired me.

When I studied child development in graduate school, I came across research suggesting that newborns smile more at a human face than any other image placed in front of them. And I found that both my babies paid attention and smiled at me very soon after birth. This positive reaction to me, I decided, should remain the basic tenor of my relationship with my daughters forever. In every way, I wanted to be the most positive thing in their lives.

Adults run after children to keep them safe or to control them all the time. I still see parents running after their children. Just calling their names does not work; the children do not pay enough attention to that. As a disabled mother, I knew I would not be able to function that way—I could not run after you girls. I had to find another way to ensure my daughters’ safety. Here the story becomes quite complicated.

To remain a truly positive thing in your lives, I decided to use all the creativity I could muster to keep your positive interest in me, so you would come to me when I called you. Instead of telling you “no” or “stop,” I used redirection. That is, I got you to switch your attention to me because I said or did something I thought you would find funny or interesting. It is amazing how well that worked. I realize it is also a form of control. But I paired it with some other equally basic ideas.

Frequently, I observed parents demand that their young children sit still and keep quiet in situations where that did not seem necessary. They were often the parents that did the most running after their kids, grabbing them and putting them back in a chair with nothing to do. If I knew that I had to keep you girls close by, I explained to you why that was, and I brought along something for you to do.

If we were waiting for a long time in, for example, an airport, I would let you wander off freely as long as you could see and hear me. I told you to come right back if you were scared of anything like strange pets or other aggressive children. So from the earliest possible time, I created situations where you had some clear freedom to self-regulate your behavior. And when I called you back, I made sure that I was again the most positive and interesting thing around.

I think that having a disability caused me to become a better mother. Not that you need to be disabled to do what I did. But since I wanted my daughters to be safe and I could not run after them, I had to find another way to bring them back to me. And since I also wanted them to grow into independent and strong woman with power and personal agency, I had to give them early chances to be in control of their behavior and emotional reactions to the world around them.

I have been both a daughter and a mother, and it is hard for me to keep the thoughts and feelings separate. I hope one day that you, baby girl, get to understand this too, because you have said you wanted to be a mother and I know you will be a good one. And I want you to know that I did love my mother, but that I figured out how to love my daughters the best I could, and that the connecting part is how every day I love myself more and more too.

Love, Karen

Karen Hagrup, artist, anti-ableist, progressive visionary and activist, lives with her life partner, Barbara, in St. Louis, MO, where she gardens, writes, laughs out loud, and devotes much of her retirement, in part through volunteer work for Organizing for America, to making the world a better, safer place for everyone.

My mother's fight to show that all families matter

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Fri, 10 May 2013 15:00:00 +0000

By Laura Nixon

Several years ago, my mom worked as an elementary school librarian in the small community where my sister and I were raised in rural, northeastern Indiana. One day, she got a phone call from a parent who was upset that her daughter had brought home the children’s book And Tango Makes Three. This book is based on the true story of a couple of male penguins who came together as a couple to raise a baby penguin in the Central Park Zoo. It is a story about family, but this parent thought it was a story about an objectionable “lifestyle.”

My mom explained to the parent that the collection of books in the school library reflected the stories of different kinds of families and that the book would remain on the shelves. Following their conversation, the parent wrote a letter to the editor of our town newspaper expressing her opinion. And following publication of that letter, a number of churches in the community encouraged their parishioners to call upon the school district’s Superintendent to remove And Tango Makes Three from the school’s bookshelves. My mom also received emails from members of the community asking to see the book because “my pastor said the devil is in this book.”

Based on the actions of these church members, the Superintendent removed the book from the collection available to students. When my mother met with him to express her disagreement with his decision, she also added: “Our oldest daughter, Laura, is gay. And decisions like this are the reason that she could never return to live in this community.”

I believe my mother spoke up for this book—and spoke up for me—because of what critical race theorist Mari Matsuda once pointed out about love and family: “The urgency of our need for a precious one's safety is an elixir we might carry as we organize the world to end inequality.” My mother understood that it was important for children to understand that loving families may look different than their own. This will help end inequality. And she understood that it was important for LGBT youth—whether their presence in our school district was acknowledged or not—to see a positive future for themselves as a member of a family. This will help ensure their safety.

The National Center for Lesbian Rights has always advocated for the safety and equality of all families. In fact, protecting families in the lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) community was the work upon which the organization was founded in 1977. Since that time, through our Family Protection Project, we have advocated on behalf of LGBT people and their families by securing their rights to adoption, second-parent adoption, family and relationship recognition, and access to affordable reproductive technologies. Our work on behalf of LGBT families also happens in our Immigration Project, where we represent undocumented LGBT people in deportation proceedings so they can remain with their same-sex partners and children in the United States. We think of LGBT families in our growing reproductive justice work, due to the disproportionate rates of unintended pregnancy among LGBT youth, which may lead them to begin families earlier in life. And although some people may not think of abortion access and contraceptive equity as LGBT issues, we understand that these are important family planning tools for LGBT youth as well as needed safeguards for health for all LGBT people.

In many parts of the country, we are seeing swift and welcome change in how people think about LGBT families. The Supreme Court’s decisions in June about California’s Proposition 8 and the Defense of Marriage Act may make a big contribution to this change. However, we have also seen that the pace of change is uneven, and we are committed to standing with LGBT families in underserved areas, including rural communities across the country.

My mom lost the fight to keep that book in the elementary school in our rural community. However, by taking an unpopular stand on behalf of her family—and the family I may have someday—she won over the hearts of her family, friends, and even some of her colleagues who now know our family’s story. In fact, in a touching tribute to her courage, they continue to give her penguin-themed gifts for Christmas every year.

Laura Nixon is a Law Students for Reproductive Justice Fellow at the National Center for Lesbian Rights. Prior to joining NCLR, Laura was a Fellow in the Office of the General Counsel at the City University of New York and a (temporary) Legislative Fellow at the Center for Reproductive Rights. She graduated from The City University of New York (CUNY) School of Law, where she was editor-in-chief of the CUNY Law Review.

This blog post is part of the Strong Families Mama’s Day Our Way celebration. You can read more posts in the series on the Strong Families blog. Strong Families is a national initiative led by Forward Together. Our goal is to change the way people think, act and talk about families.

It Takes a Child to Raise a Village

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Fri, 10 May 2013 14:30:00 +0000

By Anna Hirsch

Anna with her friend's oldest child

My Mama's Day story begins in a place that is unfamiliar to many: polyamory. If you don't know that word, that's probably because you've never known any way to have a romantic relationship other than with one other person, or with one person at a time. That's the way most people do relationships and it may be the only way you've ever learned relationships can be. But the truth is that you have always had the power to choose how your relationships work. I didn’t know growing up that one day I would be married and have a boyfriend. But here I am with two loving and committed relationships. Plus, my husband and my boyfriend are friends.

Yes, choosing to be less fearful and less insecure and to invite more love into my life has not always been easy. But it is a choice that I make every day, willingly and happily. And it has transformed how I love myself and how I treat others in almost every way, including how I understand family and build community.

A year and a half ago, I leaned into my sister's cheek while she clutched my hand. Instead of telling her to breathe, I just breathed deeply myself, letting her hear my love in every calm inhale and every strong exhale. I couldn't do what she was doing. And neither I nor my sister could do what that little baby inside her was doing. But all of us somehow were working together to reveal the mystery of life.

I am so grateful for that first birth experience, watching my sister become a mama. Yet some of my dearest polyamorous friends are still surprised to hear me say that. You see, this woman is not my biological sister. She is my friend and someone whose camaraderie I have cherished. She is also one of my husband’s sweethearts.

After a year spent preparing for the birth of an adorable, smart, incredibly delightful baby, we adopted each other as sisters. We also adopted each other as sisters because we had decided—like many of my closest friends—that love is thicker than blood, and that love is abundant. It was love that gave me the courage to ask my friend to be her birthing companion. We were a team, in fact, with both of the potential fathers pitching in as well.

No, it was not the pregnancy that my husband and I had been hoping or planning for, but when she decided to keep the baby I knew firmly that I was not about to disappear on my dear friend who I loved. And though there was some relief to find out later that my husband was not the father, the relief was mixed with love for this new little being and incredible gratitude for my friend and how she cared deeply for my feelings, all while grappling with her own frustrations and questions about the future. Together we chose love, for ourselves, for the baby, for the future, and because of that choice we both gained a sister. It is a very happy thing for me to have discovered that family really is right there waiting for me in every person that I meet if I allow myself to care about them.

Every day that I wake up and choose polyamory I know it is because I cannot just turn love off. I found this out again with my sister. I love both of her children like they are family. I cannot fit that love into tidy compartments. Love simply flows through me. I love consciously and actively. My love will always be available to everyone, including myself. I choose to love myself through my insecurity and fear. And I owe a lot to a little baby who came into the world loving and only knowing how to share her love with whoever showed up to care for her.

Today, I dream of a village where people work together and help each other. I dream of a village where everyone has the chance to enjoy their lives. This village is awakened over and over again by the unconditional love of children. What we can learn from children about how to be nonjudgmental of each other and how to play and learn together is infinite. The arguments young people have are deeply rooted in their needs, not in ideas about how relationships should be and not in bigotry or even in systems of oppression, which must be learned.

What I have learned is that when family comes into my life there is no response except yes. This experience, this mama, my sister, and her children, have helped me see that I can have the village of my dreams, simply by showing up with love.

Anna Hirsch, awesomeness whisperer, is an activist, artist, counselor, and runner who lives and loves in Oakland, CA, and invites you to visit her blog www.newpolyanna.com to learn more about polyamory and to check out her portfolio at www.activisteditor.com to learn about hiring her for your editing/writing needs.

An abortion provider reflects on motherhood, her own abortion for ‘Mama’s Day’

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Fri, 10 May 2013 14:00:00 +0000

Via 4000 Years of Choice

Originally posted at Raw Story

By Dr. Pratima Gupta

As an abortion provider, I know abortion rhetoric too often ignores the complexities of real women’s lives. Choosing adoption, ending a pregnancy, or raising a child is a personal, often complicated and emotional decision. But one thing is pretty simple: that decision is better left to a woman and her family. I know this firsthand.

When I met the man of my dreams we talked about having a family of our own. We worked to build our careers and our lives together. As a doctor, a provider, and an advocate, my career took off, lobbying for increased family planning access and speaking at town hall meetings and rallies in support of comprehensive reproductive health care for all.

The time came when we decided we were ready to take the big leap and become parents. I was thrilled when I got pregnant, and in my excitement I didn’t follow the advice I give my patients to wait to tell people. We told our family and friends right away.

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Pratima Gupta, MD, MPH currently practices and provides abortions at Kaiser Permanente East Bay in Oakland, CA, and the University of California, San Francisco. She is also the volunteer medical director of St. James Infirmary, a free clinic in San Francisco for sex workers and transgender individuals.

A tribute to two strong mothers

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Thu, 09 May 2013 21:30:00 +0000

Originally posted at Choice USA

By Samantha

Mother’s day comes every year in May, and every year I realize I have no idea what to get for my mom. What do you get for the woman that has everything? My mommy, the lady that loves me unconditionally, how can I ever repay you for deciding to be a mother again and dealing with a baby girl as inquisitive and stubborn as me? You did it by yourself, 24 hours a day – rain, sleet, or shine. You went to work, late nights and early mornings, bus rides, and soggy days caught in the rain. Many tears shed so tired, but never stopping, you are a queen. Never fitting the classic narratives of the white housewives on Mother’s Day cards, you were always strong, the rock, and always teaching me to be a strong, black Jamaican woman that takes on the traditions and heritage of the powerful women of my past, and uses it to pave my future.

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This blog post is part of the Strong Families Mama’s Day Our Way celebration. You can read more posts in the series on the Strong Families blog. Strong Families is a national initiative led by Forward Together. Our goal is to change the way people think, act and talk about families.

How the Maximum Family Grant rule hurts families

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Thu, 09 May 2013 21:09:00 +0000

By Melissa Ortiz

Melissa and her family

Most families who receive welfare live in dire poverty. Even with the aid that California Work Opportunities and Responsibility to Children (CalWORKs) provides, families frequently cannot afford to obtain the basic necessities of life. One factor that determines the amount of cash benefits a family receives is family size. However, currently in California the Maximum Family Grant (MFG) law (also known as the family cap) prohibits an increase in grant money even if a family’s size increases due to the birth of a child. This policy is intended to control impoverished parents’ choices about the size of their families and when to conceive through the threat of economic hardship. Melissa Ortiz is a mother that is currently impacted by the MFG rule. Below is her story.

"My name is Melissa Ortiz. I am the mother of four children: 19-year-old James, 15-year-old Vanessa, and 14-month-old twins, Dominic and Gabriella. Dominic and Gabriella, are punished by the CalWORKs Maximum Family Grant rule. Being a mother is hard work, but I wouldn’t change it for all the wealth in the world. It is a gift for me to be in their lives and to help shape them from infants into adults. I was born to do this.

James has graduated high school and is going into the Fire Academy at Chabot College. Vanessa is captain of the Junior Varsity Cheer Team and a member of the track team. The twins are constantly watching, learning, giggling, and needing diaper changes. I love waking up in the morning and seeing their faces and having them crawl all over me, demanding that I get up. Today, we went to the park and I flew a kite for them as they crawled and walked. I have had a very hard life, but my children more than make up for it because they all bring me so much joy.

The happiness I get from motherhood is not without pain. My pain, in part, stems from having a mother who abused drugs and alcohol and neglected her kids. I was in the foster care system from 10 to 18 years old. Being hurt by my mom has taught me lessons and has helped me to prioritize my children. Maybe it is the pain that I have experienced from the loss of a child that made me want to keep the twins. On April 29th, 2008, before the twins were born, I gave birth to a child when I was only six months pregnant. My water had broken and my body went into pre-mature labor. We named the baby Neveah (heaven spelled backwards). My baby only survived three hours because her organs were not developed enough.

After Neveah passed away, I was more depressed than ever. I couldn’t get out of bed. I would just sleep, cry, and eat. I gained lots of weight and was up to 300 lbs. If I had to run an errand, I would do it in my pajamas. I wanted to have a baby and felt such a loss when she passed. For four years, I tried to get pregnant. I consulted with my doctor who told me that it wasn’t going to happen because there was so much damage caused from a cervical cancer biopsy for which I had a cyst removed and from the removal of the “after” birth with Neveah. After a long time trying, I gave up on trying to have a baby.

In 2011, I started seeing both a therapist and psychologist who helped me see that I was in an abusive relationship. I kicked my husband out, got a divorce, and decided to use the lap band method to lose weight. I decided to do me. I started dating my current husband, Gustavo. I got pregnant. I didn’t think I could get pregnant, but I think there was something about the weight loss that facilitated the pregnancy. I was in shock. Gustavo and I talked about the possibility of having an abortion. However, having suffered the way I did with the loss of Neveah, there was no way I could have an abortion. I was already attached to the twins. I told Gustavo that if I had to do it alone, I would. When Gustavo went with me to the first ultrasound appointment, we could see their bodies and hear their heartbeats. On January 29th, 2012, I gave birth to the twins.

What does it mean that the children are subject to the MFG rule? It means that the children cannot get aid because the State wants to punish me and them—me for choosing to be a mom again while on welfare, and them for being born into poverty.

People think the worst of you when you are poor. They think you are less of a mom and that you are a bad mom if you choose to bring children into the world when you are poor. Even more insulting is the idea that poor women like me are controlled by money more than we are liberated by our emotions, experience, and sense of knowing what is right for our families.

It has been rough living off of $516 a month. We didn’t have money to buy car seats and had to depend on our friends and families to help. A relative ended up using their SSI money to buy us one car seat. We didn’t have money to pay for diapers, wipes, shampoos, and toiletries. I had to go to charities, wait in line, and hope that the charities had diapers that day. There were times when I was in line for two hours only to have the charity run out of diapers. My family has a difficult time trying to pay utilities bills. I am constantly trying to pay just enough to not have services get shut off. It’s very stressful.

I am here to tell you that as a mother, we are not becoming mothers to collect welfare. I want to work, but it has been hard. The economy has been tough. I try to put myself out there by volunteering and trying to build my resume so that I can help myself, and help other families in need. I volunteer for Jenosis Ministries Church, which is how I have been able to get some of the diapers for the babies, because without them, my babies would be without diapers, wipes, and soaps.

I am trying my best to be a great mom. Like so many parents, I cried when my son James graduated and walked across the podium. My children, like other children, do not need to be punished and treated as less than and given less than what is necessary to survive. The MFG rule is not good for my children or California’s children.

I am asking you to stand with me to repeal the MFG rule, so that poor children are not harmed and women are not forced into sterilization and other contraceptives that might not be right for them."

You can take action today to support mamas like Melissa! At this moment AB 271 (Mitchell) - a bill to repeal the Maximum Family Grant in California- is in suspense in the Assembly Appropriations committee. It is critical that this bill move off of suspense and to the Assembly floor for a vote. Please send Appropriations Chair Mike Gatto a Mama's Day ecard with the following message: "All families matter. Don’t balance the budget on the backs of poor families. This Mother’s Day support AB271 and repeal the MFG." at assemblymember.Gatto@assembly.ca.gov. And be sure to share your card on Twitter and Facebook!

Melissa Ortiz is a mom of four children, including Gabriella and Dominic who are subject to the Maximum Family Grant rule. For Mother’s Day, Melissa will be spending time with her children and her husband’s mother as they celebrate motherhood together.

This blog post is part of the Strong Families Mama’s Day Our Way celebration. You can read more posts in the series on the Strong Families blog. Strong Families is a national initiative led by Forward Together. Our goal is to change the way people think, act and talk about families.

Mommy, why aren't you married to a man?

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Thu, 09 May 2013 17:00:00 +0000

Originally posted at Kathryn Cloward

By Kathryn Cloward

Several years ago, my son and I had just finished our bedtime routine of brushing our teeth and reading a story. I turned the ceiling fan light off in his room, and the glow of a single nightlight allowed us to see each other.

He was sitting in his bed fumbling with a stuffed animal as I kneeled on the floor next to him when he asked, “Mommy, why aren’t you married to a man?”

In my peripheral vision I could see the photo of Landon, my partner Tara and I hanging on his bedroom wall as I replied, “Well, I was. I was married to daddy. But now I am with T.T. now.”

“But mommy, you’re supposed to be married to a man.”

The baseball-sized lump in my throat took shape and tears formed in the corners of my eyes as I choked out, “Oh Landon, no. Where did you hear that?”

He looked down at his stuffed animal and shrugged his shoulders.

I leaned in as close as I could to him, cradling his face in my hands as I continued: “I need for you to know that there is nothing, and I mean nothing, wrong with me loving T.T. and T.T. loving me. Everyone is free to love who they choose to love. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

His eyes didn’t shift away from mine as he nodded and smiled.

I smiled, too.

As Landon slid down into the cocoon of his bed, I tucked the sheets and blanket around his body. I kissed his forehead and said, “I love you so much boo-boo bear. See you in the morning.”

And his little voice responded as usual, “See you in the morning, too.”

I walked down the dimly light hallway to my bedroom and with tears gushing down my face, plopped onto my bed. I buried my face in my pillows and wept.

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Kathryn Cloward is an award winning author, songwriter, publisher, and entrepreneur.

Journey of a young mama

noreply@blogger.com (Forward Together) — Thu, 09 May 2013 16:00:00 +0000

By Soraya Medina

My daughter inspired me to continue doing what I had always loved to do.

This story begins 14 years ago. I almost completed high school in Los Angeles in 1996. But I was struggling. I was very rebellious, I didn’t get along with my mother’s boyfriend, and at 17 I thought I knew everything. My father lived in Florida and was worried about me. I wanted to leave my home at any cost, especially because of my mom’s boyfriend. I even joined and then dodged the Navy!

Later that year the police and my parents made me return home after 2 days of living with my much older boyfriend. After being remanded to my father’s custody in Florida, I had had a difficult and isolating junior year. In Florida I failed a couple of my classes because of lack of support and because I went through extreme culture shock.

When I returned to California for my senior year, I was so behind in my classes that taking Saturday school and summer sessions did not save me. I ended up needing one more class, but it would be 3 years before I was able to make up those credits in continuation school.

By then I was 20 years old, 8 months pregnant, and working 2 jobs, while my boyfriend had 0 jobs! I finally got my diploma through writing about my community involvement in Los Angeles. My daughter Sienna was born in 1999, the same year that Toyota released a minivan by the same name. At 21, I was too cool for a minivan, though in need, and had no driver’s license anyway. Again, I had 2 jobs, one working as a teacher’s aide for LAUSD in a special education program and the other, an evening job, working for a jeweler—2 jobs, because I needed the extra income. But is it “extra” when you don’t make enough with just 1 job and you have a baby?

Higher education was not a priority, as I was not sure about what I wanted to study. It was hard to stay up studying, and then get up to play with my baby girl, but I enjoyed every minute. I had to return to work when she was 6 weeks old. I was lucky to find a nice babysitter that did not charge too much. This was huge because there wasn’t a child care program for us. We got by.

Sienna’s dad finally found work, and bills were just barely getting paid. He found work as a bike messenger downtown and helped me with Sienna when he was home. But by the time Sienna was a year old, her dad and I had broken up. I had to navigate through the child support system and move around for a while before we found our way.

Looking back on this journey, my daughter inspired me to continue doing what I had always loved. This included learning about health and the environment as it relates to women and starting in 2007 becoming very involved with California Latinas for Reproductive Justice.

I think of myself as a life-long learner and I know that women hold families together. I’ve grown so much since having my first daughter 14 years ago. Since then I’ve been in and out of the community college system, still trying to find my way. The deepest knowledge I have gained has been by falling on my face and getting back up. As a young mom, I still would have appreciated more help from my parents, programs, or even school. So this mother’s day, I ask you to think about helping a young mom get the support and services she needs to make it to her daughter’s or son’s 14th birthday!

Soraya Medina is a mother, RJ/EJ activist, and alumni of California Latinas for Reproductive Justice’s LEA program.