Ana’s RJ Story

by Ana Pierre-Louis

Moving to Miami at the age of nine was a big shift. After settling into life in South Florida, I recognized how much closer we’d be to our cultures. In proximity and language to my Salvadoran side, but being a Haitian kid in Miami meant that I had an entire diaspora to connect with. CCD at St. Mary's, being asked if I eat cat, being on lockdown while your friends got all the freedom, lots of konpa in the house, and our food. Being a Haitian kid in Miami was everything to me. Beautiful, heartbreaking, and life-changing. 

Right around the same time, I got my period and my father’s sex talk came with the arrival of my cycle. He said something along the lines of “You can get pregnant now - so, don’t!” The church did the rest by guilting me into fear of what I didn’t know and barely understood. Most of what I learned in my early years was from school, friends, songs, and books (“The Coldest Winter Ever” was formative for me). I didn’t even set foot into an obstetrician’s office until my late 20’s. 

Over time gaining knowledge of my body, who I am, how I want to care for myself has come with plenty of questions about my femininity. How do I want to express it - or not? How does the world pin that against me? How do I want to harness my sexuality? How do I live a full life despite what it means to be a black woman in America? Becoming more informed about my choices, and exploring what I wanted bolstered my instincts. It empowered me and gave me the know-how to navigate this patriarchal, white supremacist world. It also put me at odds with our traditions.  

When I became pregnant for the first time, I knew I had to fly to O’Cap to share the news with my dad and grandma. I was met with lots of joy and congratulations, and right away things shifted. We were to tell no one out of protection, and I’d have to eat all of the right things. However, there was a “problem,” I was vegan. After much back and forth, we compromised. I would eat fish occasionally and have a boiled egg every morning. 

There was a clear threshold I was crossing at this point. I was entering adulthood in the eyes of my elders. Traditions and pearls of wisdom were bestowed upon me as a mother raising her family. However, being 30 going on 31, not everything aligned with how I’d come to live my life. Before leaving, my grandmother gave me a beautifully embroidered pink sheet with scalloped edges. A delicately pressed baby ensemble hid in its folds. The head covering fit on the palm of my hand and the intricate lace on the matching dress showed its age. This was what my father wore when he was baptized at just a few days old. It was what I was to use for my baby. My heart swelled and broke simultaneously. Here was another unspoken promise I would have to break. I detest going against her wishes - my grandma, who goes to church every morning and prays for me. I hugged her and thanked her. I was reminded of the gap - generational, or cultural. An Americanized thirty-year-old I wondered what my family would think of my queer friends, I wondered what they would think if they knew: as a young woman I considered abortion during a pregnancy scare. What about contraception? or any possibility outside of the heterosexual family unit? 

I often contemplate how isolating stigma can be and how these are the times we need to support each other the most. Isolation is also being suffered by families detained in ICE facilities. I especially hold the ones crossing the Mexican Border in my heart. The pregnant women weigh heavy on my mind. Suffering from malnourishment and inhumane living conditions. Some, leaving the facilities with no babies and unnecessary medical procedures. I’m done calling our people strong. It gives the impression that we got it, or that we will inevitably suffer because our ancestors did. Even though we could all use a little less weight on our shoulders; we need each other.

I cried on the way home from Haiti. Sobbed on the plane over the Caribbean sea knowing it would be a while until I would return. When I arrived I was barely showing, but I was now coming home with a proper pregnant belly. I was excited to relish in that for the first time. I thought about the elder Haitian woman I met at the airport on my way to Haiti. She knew I was pregnant, made sure I had water and walked with me to get food. The lady at the Haitian lunch counter always remembers my vegan order. Our neighbor, Ms. Yvette, cooked for me and gave us mangoes during my second pregnancy. Every elder Caribbean woman reminds me of my grandma. All of them going out of their way to make sure their collective grandbabies are okay. 

Despite our generational differences, I receive their love and I’m honored to have carried my grandmother’s great-grandbabies. It’s because of them that we are. I’m grateful for sisterhood. I know every one of us holds some version of this story. Southern Birth Justice Network is holding space for us to find common nuances in our lives. These are what connect us back to the whole. Join us April 15th, from 6-8p Est for a Haitian Women’s Reproductive Justice Speak Out. We want to hear from you.