Don't Forget About Them.

A glimpse into my prison doula journey.

I was first introduced to the intersection of Prison Abolition and RJ work when I was working on a ‘Stop Forced Sterilization Campaign’ at the age of 20. I watched and helped facilitate a documentary screening of ‘Belly of the Beast’, a documentary that centers on the work of formerly incarcerated survivors of forced sterilization and their dedication focused on passing legislation to stop forced sterilization in California prisons. It was radicalizing, but also living every day radicalizes me. I was already working in Reproductive Justice, but never thought about the connections with prison abolition and the protection of incarcerated birthing people. My work in prison reform briefly paused because I honestly did not know what to do next. However, I started doing Prison Doula work in late 2024, and it has changed my life.

I currently work at an abortion fund, and was tabling at an event that centered on the passing of the Reproductive Freedom Act. As I was tabling, I met a woman who was a doula, and we bonded over our shared work. She then proceeds to tell that she does her work in prisons! I said, “sister, I need those details!” That night, I looked up the organization, and I missed the deadline by one day; I reached out to the facilitators, and they told me to apply anyway, and I was accepted.

The day I was supposed to embark on my drive to Alabama, my cousin went into labor a week early, of course. We birthed that baby, and I got right on the road. I spent my last for gas and a hotel, and was able to make it 30 minutes before the welcome dinner. I was exhausted, but I was full of adrenaline. This journey felt so timely.

I was in a room full of doulas, peer support facilitators, and formerly incarcerated mothers. This space was triggering, educating, and exhilarating. We all came from different states. I was the only one from Georgia. We talked about the political and racial climate of our specific state and how we can maneuver this work together.

Throughout my 3-day training, I learned about the experiences of pregnant incarcerated people and how Black people are disproportionately affected by the prison industrial complex, family policing, and carceral punishments. There is little to no informed consent in jails nor prisons. Our mothers and parents don’t know when their appointments are. They have scheduled cesareans, inductions, without their consent. Women get fewer visits from families because there are very few women's prisons. Their families are not allowed in the hospital. There is a different doctor in the facility, than the doctor in the hospital, and a different doctor in jail; there is no continuation of care and no communication, which is extremely harmful to the parent and the baby. When pregnant people are going from jail to prison, to different prisons, if they have complications, they are rarely communicated. When it is time to give birth, it is stress inducing, and that’s why prison doulas are needed. Our mom’s names are not even listed on the door when it’s time to give birth. Nurses and doctors have a preconceived notion of our incarcerated pregnant people; which impacts their care. To the outside world, these parents do not have names, childhoods, traumas; they are not people. They are property of the State, and being separated from the community, and not being validated nor heard is a part of their punishment.

Georgia has one of the highest birth rates in prison (50-60 births a year), and we do not have an active Prison Doula program. Abortion is nearly restricted and inaccessible in prisons and jails. It is also important to note that some don’t know they are pregnant till they are incarcerated. Pregnancy tests are mandatory during intake.

A tenet of reproductive justice that deeply resonates with me is the right to bodily autonomy and to be able to make decisions. I continue to realize that the DOC (Department of Corrections) did not see our brothers, sisters, and siblings of the struggle as human beings. However, what really sparked my interest was the fact that they thought nothing of it. When we think about who is in these prisons, it is disproportionately Black people struggling to survive in a capitalist machine that works to keep us barely alive to use and abuse us for our labor, intellect, and the destruction and appropriation of our culture. We see people from vastly different backgrounds in these prisons. Prisoners of war, political prisoners, politicized prisoners, and everyday folks just trying to survive in a country that wants them hanging on by a thread.

I often hear in movement spaces how we involve people who have never been in the movement space, and I fully believe the answer is to learn from them. In The War Before, Safiya Bukhari talks about the revolutionary vs. the drug dealer. I bring this up because I often struggle with how to talk about revolution to everyday working-class, poor, and/or incarcerated/formerly incarcerated people. Not because of academic language or lack of access to educational resources, but because of the simple fact that they are too busy surviving.

Bukhari mentions in her book that being mad about your circumstance isn’t enough to be ready for a revolution.

She brilliantly states that, “Some of us mistake the people's anger, frustration, and distrust of the system as meaning they are ready for revolution. They indeed possess a deep-seated anger at the system. They indeed distrust the system. But it's also true that they have not made the connection between the source of this anger and distrust and creating a revolution. Our people are more inclined to participate in a race riot than a revolution. They would support a drug dealer before they'd support a revolutionary. Why? For several reasons, the chief reason being that the drug dealer is in the community constantly. He is known by the community and has picked up on a lesson that the revolutionary used to know: The drug dealer understands that he has to give something back to the community. He employs the local people and therefore, even if it's pennies, makes a difference in the life of the community.”

Every week when I walk into that jail with my civilian badge, I am conflicted by my emotions. I am an abolitionist working within a system that I want destroyed. However, when I am dealing with my mamas, *I am using gendered language because they are called by either their last names or “inmate numbers” within the jail. I learn so much about why I need to be in there. Some of my moms come from the foster care system themselves, dealing with traumatic childhoods, and are just trying to survive. I deal with moms younger than me to 15 years older, new parents and seasoned, Black, muslim, Hispanic, white, former addicts, etc. Some are in there because they can not afford a $400 bail,or some are awaiting immigration report backs, and we will continue to see more of these under this fascist regime. I have dealt with medical emergencies, separations after birth, and everything under the sun. From pressuring guards to take a mom to the infirmary because she’s bleeding profusely to bringing in fruits and veggies because they aren’t getting their nutrition to discussing family separation and postpartum symptoms, the work is heavy, but their experience is even heavier. Their resilience and their dream of a better circumstance, future, and world are what fuel the work that I have committed myself to.

We can learn a lot from the people our society intentionally forgets about.