[Editor's Note: The following article is part of BlackOut: A Five-Year Retrospective on Portland’s Racial Justice Movement, a joint publication from Donovan Scribes and the Portland Mercury. Written exclusively by Black Portlanders, the purpose of BlackOut is to remember and reflect on the May 25, 2020 murder of George Floyd at the hands of police, and the 100+ days of protests in Portland that same year. You can find BlackOut in print at more than 500 locales citywide, inserted inside the Mercury's Food Issue. You can read all the BlackOut articles here.]

Unpopular opinion: Historically speaking, there has never been a better time to have Black children. War, genocide, disease, and governmental corruption has disproportionately affected communities of color in various parts of the world since forever. One big difference is that today, most of us spend a massive portion of our free time absorbing media that makes us painfully aware of (and overstimulated by) all the atrocities, disasters, and death that plague this earth. Because we are so aware of all the bad, we also take for granted how good we have it today. Indeed, when has the world ever not been chaotic, exceedingly scary, and uncertain? 

As a pregnant person, mom of a toddler, and someone who has been in weekly therapy for over a year, but is also chronically online, I am prone to stumbling upon many discussions at the cross section of parenting, child development, politics, and mental health on social media. Jaded, concerned, emotionally exhausted, and well-meaning progressives take to social media and cheekily ask things like “how are y'all willfully getting pregnant at a time like this?,” as one user on Threads puts it. Many commenters echo that idea, responding that it would be selfish—or even borderline insane–to have a child right now due to the current state of the world. Other responses are loaded with judgement and shame directed towards anyone who chooses to have children in the year 2025. (I don’t think I need to point out the irony of progressives shaming those who exercise their right to choose, and specifically when the choice is to build a family.) I can’t help but wonder if statements and rhetorical questions like these are steeped in privilege—that is, the privilege of not having been around during much tougher times, with much less access to things like medicine, information, integral resources, and modern day freedoms—because there has arguably never been an ideal time to create, gestate, and raise Black and brown children. And for all we know, there may never be one. Black people deserve to experience the joy of parenting, and why not now? 

Climate change is definitely something to consider, especially in terms of how many children one decides to have. Other concerns include the rise of unchecked AI, narcissism, and the decline of things like public education, ancestral wisdom, mental health, as well as a widespread decrease in connection and curiosity, just to name a few. But are we so hopeless and utterly defeated that the goal should now be that we resolve to simply cease to exist? If children are the future, and many are giving up on having them even when they want them, are we, in a sense, throwing in the towel on humanity’s future? Of course, there’s no right answer between having or not having kids—it’s a highly personal choice—but we should all be invested in humanity’s future. 

The mental and physical toll

Depending on who you talk to, it can be considered a significant health risk for, well, anyone, but especially for Black mothers to carry pregnancies in America. Expectant Black mothers and people have higher rates of gestational hypertension, pre-eclampsia, maternal morbidity, and are more at risk of experiencing bias and mistreatment in the medical system. That’s likely due to various cultural factors that put more stress on Black bodies,  the added barriers Black people face to receive quality care, access nutritious foods, mental health resources, as well as a general lack of support for all mothers in our individualistic culture. (Don’t even get me started on late-stage capitalism, the housing crisis, wage inequality, and how America’s lack of universal paid parental leave negatively impacts families—that’s an essay for another day.) Just the idea of embarking on the journey of conceiving, carrying, and birthing a Black child can raise one’s anxiety. Not only are Black women shouldering the mental and physical load that comes with any pregnancy and birth, we are also tasked with keeping ourselves and our unborn children safe, advocating for our health as we navigate a health care system that can be uncaring, untrusting, or dismissive toward us. It can feel daunting and terrifying. 

Then there’s the additional mental load that surrounds child-rearing for Black moms in a world where it’s become routine to see Black people unjustly killed on camera, posted onto social media for all to see and be desensitized by. Once Black children reach a certain age, parents must prepare them for a world that often doesn’t afford them the privilege of being seen and treated as children. For Black mothers, the fear and anxiety of what could happen to your child doesn’t just go away once the child turns 18—for many of us, those worries might actually grow larger once the child becomes a legal adult and is no longer under our roof. It’s so incredibly poignant that in 2020, George Floyd, then a 46-year-old man, used his last words to call out for his mother, who had already passed away a couple years earlier. His cries embodied a universal experience: At some point we were all children and we all had a mother. There is perhaps nothing more natural than wanting your mom to come to your aid when you’re hurting, and the instinct for moms to come running when their child is in trouble, pain, or otherwise needs consoling. Unfortunately, we cannot be with our children for every moment of their lives. Part of parenting, at some point, is learning when to let go, and Black moms must send our children out into the world, knowing that if they get pulled over for a traffic violation in the wrong neighborhood, or by a prejudiced cop who’s having a bad day, their lives might not be valued, and they might not make it home. And yet, despite all of these risks, fears and barriers that Black Americans have navigated for generations, Black babies continue to be born. 

Being a good villager

Regardless of racial identity, the choice to have children can feel scary in general. I got pregnant with my second kid during the last stretch of the 2024 election cycle, and had hoped that I’d be bringing my son into anAmerican that had just elected its first woman of color as President. It has been emotionally and mentally challenging to keep up with any bit of news since Trump was elected for his second term—and seeing the barrage of horrific unconstitutional attacks being made to erase people of color, women, immigrants, people with disabilities, elderly, queer and trans people or basically anyone who isn’t a rich cis-gendered, male—has ween incredibly worrisome, adding a cherry on top to my pre existing anxieties and fears of the unknown. I think it’s only natural to question: What kind of a world am I bringing my kids up in? 

Keeping tiny humans alive and thriving through the stages of infancy, toddlerhood, childhood, adolescence, and finally, ushering them from the teens into adulthood is no easy feat. To do it well, and with your mental health intact, it really does take a village. Luckily, I’m privileged to have a healthy and robust village around me—which comprises my mother, extended family, and a gaggle of close friends—that has been integral to my mental health and my overall family’s well being. I don't know that I would feel as confident having a second child if I didn’t have a community that I trust. Having a “village,” or a supportive interpersonal community, is like having a safety net for when shit hits the fan—or when the societal structure that’s supposed to protect the most vulnerable starts to crumble. 

The saying “it takes a village,” is a proverb widely attributed to African cultures that’s rooted in the fact that moms (and parents in general) are not equipped to do it all, and that the more natural, healthy and balanced approach is to have a built-in community. It is a longstanding belief that one’s community should and can create a safe and healthy environment in which children can grow. The village commonly shows up in the form of close kin—aunties, uncles, sisters, brothers, cousins, grandparents—as well as close friends and other more experienced parents who, while not the primary caregiver or sole one responsible for the child’s survival and development, share in the duties of caring for children in their most formative years.

This village mentality might just be the key to surviving the downfall of American society as we know it, as we rebuild and reconnect our communities from within. Perhaps now is the time for society to embrace a more expansive view of parenting, in which the children around us—whether we are related to them or not—are seen as our collective responsibility. It’s the little things we can do to be a good villager or community member to others. If you know of a postpartum mom in your family/community/neighborhood/yoga class/friend group, do something small to support her. Instead of asking “what do you need?,” just do a thing. When multiple community members do what they can, all of these little things accumulate and make a big difference for families, giving parents a little more room to breathe and prevent burnout and overwhelm.

The truth is that we have to create the village—it doesn’t just show up. The first step is being a good villager for others: Do what you can to be a reliable, helpful person when a friend or neighbor could use support, and do it within your means. In American society, it is often seen as taboo, rude, or even intrusive to break down the doors of postpartum moms who are in the trenches with their newborn babies (plus any other children they might be caring for). And because of America’s pervasive brainwashing that argues for self-reliance at all costs, moms often feel guilty asking for, or even accepting unpaid support. In our culture, those who have a little bit of financial access are often forced to buy back the village if they want one—i.e. outsourcing duties and hiring help in the form of a housekeeper, chef, nanny, live-in nanny, dog walker, etc. 

Thanks to my super solid support system—which includes my mother, fellow mom friends, childless friends, a doula, and more—I can attest how much their collective efforts have enriched my children’s experience of the world, my mothering experience, and my family as a whole. My husband and I are not always great at asking for help, but it has been so unbelievably comforting to have pushy loved ones who are eager to come to our home, be positive, non-parent adult influences to my kids, offer to babysit, drop off supplies, walk the dogs while I’m in labor at the hospital, or do a simple chore during the postpartum period. I feel so grateful for all of it, and it inspires me to return the favor when the people around me begin building or growing their families, or are otherwise going through it. In fact, during the process of writing this very essay, my best friend gave birth to her second child and it was my literal pleasure to reciprocate the support that she, a more experienced mother, showed me after I had my first child. It’s not like I did some substantially, sacrificial act like going and staying at her house for a week to help her settle in with her newborn—though I would have if it’s what she really needed—I simply brought her a homemade pie, some lactation cookies, fawned over her baby, changed a diaper, kept her company, and did some light clean-up in her kitchen. This is how we begin to build a village: not just showing up for our major milestones and celebratory moments, but by being the kind of supportive friends/neighbors/sisters/brothers/fellow community members we’d like to have in our lives in times of great transition, strife, and need by doing what we can, when we can with small actions that are actually helpful.

The case for matriarchy

Being a good villager for other families means prioritizing the health, development and safety of all children in our community—especially those from more vulnerable populations. Instead of sinking to cynicism, judgement and shame, folks who are childless by choice can and should offer big and small acts of support and kindness that make our communities more resilient. These are acts of resistance against white supremacy and the patriarchy that benefit society at large, simply because everyone has a mother, and supporting moms means we support everybody. 

In many countries and cultures, intergenerational households are common and seen as perfectly normal , and many families otherwise have built-in support with child rearing from the surrounding community. In many matriarchal societal structures—like among the Minangkabau in Indonesia and the Mosuo, an ethnic group living in China's Yunnan and Sichuan Provinces—there’s a reverence for motherhood that goes beyond the biological event of pregnancy and birth. Citizens of matriarchal societies generally feel a responsibility toward other children around them. Contrary to popular thought, matriarchy is not the reverse of patriarchy, with women in charge instead of men, but rather a cultural model that prioritizes children, family, respect for the land, and the wellbeing of all. It is a structure in which both men and women, regardless of their parenthood status, all aspire to be motherly in their thoughts and actions. Rather than being about who holds the power and who doesn’t, these societies value things like nurture, care and respect as opposed to profit, competition, and winning. 

Can you imagine if our culture didn’t teach self-reliance at all costs? If we treated all children like they were our own children? Perhaps if more moms had a supportive community around them, weren’t so isolated after birth—and expected to do and be everything a child needs on their own while also being expected to bring home the bacon—they wouldn’t feel like having a baby was some unfeasible, selfish, irresponsible task at which they are doomed to fail, burnout, or in the controversy-inducing words of Chappelle Roan, become “miserable.”

In response to the original “why are you willfully pregnant?” question posted on Threads, one spiritually-minded Black mom gives a beautiful response: “Pregnancy and parenthood are deeply transpersonal and spiritual experiences—ones that go beyond just the state of the world. Not everything has to be framed as doomed; we all have the choice in how we live and shape our lives. Bringing new life into the world is an act of hope, creation, and renewal, and for many of us, it’s a way to embrace that choice.” 

Throughout history, Black Americans’ resilience and hope for what the future can look like has demonstrated that yes, we protest, boycott, organize and speak up about unjust systems, and that no matter how unfair, scary or uncertain the world is, we continue pursuing our joy, living our lives, and building within our own communities—whether that includes parenting our own biological children or not. 

Local resources and mutual aid for Black families

Support for moms is exceedingly beneficial during the wild journey of pregnancy, birth and postpartum. Having a certified doula on our birth team—and specifically Black doulas—has become one way to bring more peace of mind, education, and culturally specific support to what is already a daunting experience for any woman, and especially so for Black women. Here is a trio of local resources and mutual aid organizations that specifically cater to Black moms and families through doula care, prenatal and postnatal support, parenting and childhood development, and access to free produce.

Black Parent Initiative & Sacred Roots Doula

For my first time going through pregnancy/birth/postpartum, I was assigned a Black doula through the Black Parent Initiative’s Sacred Roots Doula program. They did an impressive job of matching me with someone whom I related to, who aligned with my values, and to whom I felt comfortable reaching out for support. Lucky for me, my doula is also a mother of four, and an International Board Certified Lactation Consultant (IBCLC), who has extensive experience both personally and professionally with pregnancy, birth, postpartum, baby care and child rearing. I cannot overstate how invaluable it has been to be able to tap her and learn from her immense knowledge and experience—whether it was preparing to advocate for myself during my first induction-assisted birth that ended up in a cesarean section, navigating the prolonged nausea that plagued both of my pregnancies, pointing me toward resources and public assistance, or personalizing my journey with breastfeeding in a way that helped me meet (and then exceed) my breastfeeding goals. In addition to providing doula care, in-home visits, and parenting/childhood development education, BPI participants benefit from having access to products from the org’s diaper bank, free library, and holiday toy drives. 

Healthy Birth Initiatives

This Multnomah County program aims to support Black mothers during and after pregnancy. Participants do regular virtual and in-person visits with community health nurses, which provides helpful added support for expectant mothers who may not feel they get enough one-on-one time with their birth team. The program also connects participants to all kinds of resources, classes and opportunities—from rental and utility assistance, to free trips to OMSI, and paying for childcare costs to be specifically used for respite care, AKA times when parents want some rest and relaxation. Participants also benefit from having regular access to the org’s diaper bank.

Equitable Giving Circle
This femme-led, women-led and Black-led organization provides a free market off of NE Fremont and serves BIPOC Portlanders with fresh produce, as well as nutrient-dense pantry items and plants every Thursday. They also are known for providing backpacks and school supplies for students in the Portland Metro area, and have provided emergency rental assistance to a limited number of local families.

Jenni Moore is an arts and culture writer, essayist and mom based in Portland. She is known for covering local music, comedy, food, cannabis, wellness, and cultural trends.Â