Our Voices: I didn’t know I was Black until I had a baby in the United States

I didn’t know I was Black until I moved to the U.S in 2013. I didn’t really know I was African either. There were tiers of blackness, and mine was apparently at the very bottom. Like most people approaching 30, my identity was largely defined by my career or my significant other. Whichever one was most newsworthy. So, after winning a reality-style singing competition in Kenya, I suppose I was a (moderately) famous single mom.

Child birth is the great equalizer. Pregnant moms the world over wrestle with the anxiety of being inhabited by a whole other human. Having my son in Kenya was no different. As a young, first time mom, I was scared. All I wanted to know was that everything was going according to plan. First thing I needed to do, a friend told me, was find a good doctor.

I didn’t grow up around doctors, so being introduced to my gynecologist was a big deal. Each visit, which typically lasted an hour at the very least, inadvertently set my standard of personal care. I remember laughing a lot. Asking questions a lot. Leaving when I was good and ready. I trusted my doctor completely, never once feeling unseen.

It didn’t even occur to me that I was an uninsured Black female, playing typically into the ‘poor African’ stereotype. If this was a concern to my doctor, he hid it well. The individual visits were affordable enough for me to raise on my own. Closer to delivery, the larger hospital bills were spread generously across extended family who willingly shared the financial responsibility of a new addition to the family. This is the Third-World way.

The difference between feeling seen or unseen is subtle. I’d have missed it entirely if I hadn’t had my second pregnancy in America, 10 years later.

A few things were different this time. For starters, my mid-30s body was now considered high risk. An opinion I took quiet offense to. I was also married now, which meant trading in the financial and emotional support of my extended family for spousal support. It’s a slight but monumental cultural adjustment.

After performing for five or so years with Cirque du Soleil, I decided to leave my job (and the accompanying robust health insurance) in order to stay home with the children. But being pregnant and uninsured doesn’t quite work the same way in America, I learned. I was automatically enrolled into the government healthcare system. From then on, I discovered the one thing that hadn’t changed. I was still Black.

I thought I was making choices for myself but looking back, the choices were already made on my behalf. Low income hospitals meant I had to wait over two hours for my first visit with the gynecologist. I had heard good things about her though, from all the nurses who attended to me up until she was available to meet with me. It was different from what I expected but I went along with it. Was this the first-world way?

I was nervous at our first meeting. I was hoping desperately that I would like her. That she would like me. Because relationship matters. I was weary from the wait, my pregnant body uncomfortable. She cut to the chase. Not many pleasantries. Busy, I supposed. She told me how far along I was. I already knew that from my trusty pregnancy app. She asked me if I had any questions. I didn’t. I was hoping she had more to tell me though. She told me when my next appointment was. Then she left.

I was stunned. It was then that I decided to have a home birth.

My search for the right midwife was extensive. There was even more at stake now. My family questioned my decision. In my heart though, I knew that if I couldn’t speak up in that doctor’s room on that day, when I was relatively capable, there’s no way I would when I was vulnerable or in pain. I didn’t trust that she cared enough to know my story. My history. I wasn’t worth her time.

I’m not saying that doctor was racist. I am however aware that a racist system created this dynamic. Where all I had access to was what felt like five minutes. Where that passes as adequate healthcare.

I had it going for me I suppose, that my first language is English. I couldn’t imagine how much worse that experience could have been had there been a language barrier.

It’s easy to dismiss, neglect, or overlook a statistic. Time is the dignity you afford a person you care to know.

At the midwife’s office I sat down nervously, unsure of what to expect. I laughed a lot. I asked questions a lot. I left when I felt good and ready.

That decision paid off. When my husband called to let them know it was time to have our baby, my midwives were there before I knew it. They kept a respectful distance while I labored, casting a reassuring presence in that dimly-lit room where I pleaded agonizingly with God for mercy. Hours later, when it was finally over, they tucked us both in, cleaned up any evidence of the bloody struggle, then disappeared like angels in the night.

And that is the standard of care I will set for my Kenyan son and my mixed-race daughter.

Valerie Kimani is a performing artist, life coach and aspiring writer from Kenya.

This story was originally published June 4, 2021 at 9:07 AM.