The Voldemort of Women's Health

Photo courtesy of  FlickrHiveMind

We've got a problem in this country, and no one's talking about it. In fact, we're pointedly not talking about it. Discussing it means over-sharing, making people uncomfortable, or, -- dare I say it? -- publicly showing emotion.
Let's get serious for a moment and talk about facts: between one fifth and one third of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. 

I know. I should have warned you that this would be sad. But the truth is, I have some questions, and someone's got to hear them -- someone's got to listen to these women.
Let's start with this: where is the public support for the women and their partners who are suffering the effects of this trauma? Why isn't it okay to tell people you or your partner miscarried when they ask you what's wrong? Why is it more socially acceptable to tell them your aunt passed away, or your grandfather has cancer? 

What are we so afraid of?

Defined by the brave and brilliant Laura Benanti as "the Voldemort of women's issues" in an article for Huffington Post, miscarriage is perhaps the most taboo of women's health issues. Truthfully, no one wants to discuss women's health at all: it's easy to make big claims about it (looking at you, Jeb Bush, who thinks $3 per person seems like too much money to keep all us pesky women safe and healthy!), but harder to actually confront. And it's true: no discussion of health care is easy because being sick is messy business.
But this is not about the state of privatized health care in the United States, or even the attacks on women's health care services (which is an enormous enough topic to deserve its own post). It is about the uneasiness and stigma surrounding miscarriage.

Think of the mothers you know. Of every ten you can name (and I'm sure you know three times that many), anywhere between one and two have miscarried. According to some statistics, 10-25% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. That's a huge percentage; why aren't we talking about it?

Is it our uneasiness when it comes to women's health care? Is it because we're afraid of hurting those women who have miscarried by bringing up a sore subject? Is it because we don't know what to say?

With this many women standing in solidarity over this common experience, maybe it's time to figure it out.

For one thing, we can no longer pretend this doesn't happen. Erasing the stigma is the first step, and the only way to do this is to be vocal. When we have conversations, topics are normalized. When topics are normalized, they become socially acceptable. When they become socially acceptable, women and their partners do not have to hide their grief over their lost pregnancies.

That's not to say that every couple wants to talk about their grief; it just means that those who do want to should not feel forced to avoid sharing the reason for their sadness in fear that it will be met with an inevitable cringe or awkward pity.
An easy claim, sure, but realistically, what should we say to these people?
Try beginning with, "I'm so sorry."
Or, "Is there anything I can do for you?"
Or, "My sister miscarried last year, and it hurts your whole heart, doesn't it?
Any one of these lines may work, or they may not. Ask any woman in your life what she would have liked to hear after she miscarried (remember that one-fifth of them did). But the cycle of silence must end if we ever want to create a world in which these women and their partners can openly feel their emotions. The problem is too big to ignore any longer, and these couples deserve our attention. They deserve our sympathy, and they deserve our care.

In the words of Albus Dumbledore, fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself
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Barbie and Representation of Black Women

Limited edition Zendaya doll
Photo courtesy of Misee Harris

When I was a child, I loved Barbies. My sister and I were fortunate, and our collection amounted to about twenty. We created worlds for our blonde Barbies, our brunette Theresas, our lone Ken (who was, depending on the game, the father, the boyfriend, the brother, or the murderer in our games). What we didn't own was a black Barbie.

That's not to say Barbie is inherently racist; I mean, she has a black friend! Christie, Barbie's primary friend for many years, was introduced in the late 1960s (although she's gone through some changes through the years; her original face design was discontinued almost immediately for being an offensive stereotype of black women). She was discontinued in 2004 to make room for Theresa, who is ethnically ambiguous enough to pass for either Latina, Italian, or white.
So what about all the black little girls who are discouraged by toy store aisles filled with pink and white? 

This week, the Mattel corporation (which produces Barbie and her friends) announced that they will be creating a limited-edition doll based on actress Zendaya, a popular face in children and young-adult television in an act of media convergence. This is huge news for young black girls; they will finally see a doll that looks like them, and indeed, one that looks like a woman they admire! Perhaps the positive publicity about this doll, and demand for diversity, will compel Mattel to pull Christie out of retirement. 

It's easy to dismiss this as trivial nonsense, but that's a privileged opinion. Representation matters. If you can't relate to Barbies, maybe you can relate to science fiction. Nichelle Nichols was the first black actress to appear in a non-stereotypical role on television when she signed on to Star Trek in the 1960s. When confronted by racist producers and crew members, she considered quitting the show, but was urged by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. himself to stay on the show because, "[Nichols is] an image for black America. We look on that screen and we know where we're going." She inspired Americans and her presence demanded attention, letting everyone know where the world was going: toward equality. In particular, she inspired black women: the first black woman in space, Sally Ride, was chosen because of Nichols's work to diversify NASA. 

I am delighted by the news of the Zendaya doll, even though I am now too old for Barbies, because of what she will represent. Black little girls are finally being given a chance in their own corporate market, sure, but mostly, I am delighted for the future  these girls will inhabit. Will a Barbie doll tangibly change their futures? No, of course not. What can change their futures are the ideas she inspires. A little girl seeing a doll on shelves that looks like her teaches her that people who look like her can achieve the same things that other people can -- people who have been up on those shelves for decades.

(To dismiss an obvious counter-claim: I have very little concern about the objectification of women by making them into Barbie dolls. These dolls are representative and not objectifying -- they are modes of imagination rather than simple plastic bodies.)