motherjones--2020-06-13--What Will Replace the Minneapolis Police? The City’s Native American Community Has Some Ideas.

Late one night at the end of May , as spray paint , fires , and looting reigned across Minneapolis , an Indigenous hip-hop artist named Tall Paul was roving the streets in a truck , looking for looters and arsonists .
“ It looked like that movie The Purge , ” he says .
“ It was lawless.
” Days before , Paul had joined the American Indian Movement Patrol , a group of Native Americans volunteering to maintain neighborhood safety and protect key buildings from destruction amid the rebellion .
Paul and the other volunteers on shift were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ offices of the Leech Lake Band of Ojibwe when they saw four white teenagers looting a nearby liquor store .
They stopped their truck and three of the teens fled , while Paul ’ s group caught up with the fourth .
Soon his buddies returned , and all were made to lie on the ground so they couldn ’ t run away , then give their names and wait for a parent to come pick them up .
The teens had driven 90 miles from suburban Wisconsin to take advantage of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Minneapolis City Council members pledging to disband their police force , many wonder , “ What comes next ?
” Activists from communities of color say the answer has been lurking under the city ’ s nose all along : neighborhood-based initiatives that protect property and prevent violence .
In Minneapolis , those groups—AIM Patrol , as well as First Nations United , the Little Earth Patrol , and the NAACP ’ s Minnesota Freedom Riders , among others—are not new , but today they share a common vision : Without police , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ less brutality and more accountability .
“ Safety is being able to decide who supports you , ” says Arianna Nason of MPD150 , a group that conducted a 150-year performance review of the Minneapolis Police Department .
“ It is absolutely imperative that we find community-based , community-controlled , bottom-up solutions.
” Native groups have a special place in the history of organizing , and of fighting police brutality , in Minneapolis .
With about 150,000 Native Americans in its greater metro area , the city has been a major urban hub @ @ @ @ @ @ @ began moving them off reservations in the 1950s .
In 1968 , fed up with unlawful arrests , police violence , and poverty , a group of Natives in Minneapolis launched the American Indian Movement , an organization dedicated to addressing chronic neglect and abuse .
AIM became a national civil rights group , unifying tribes across the country and successfully challenging a federal “ termination ” policy that aimed to end the special status of Indigenous peoples by withdrawing federal services and aid .
From the beginning , members of AIM volunteered @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Minneapolis Police Department ’ s rampant violence against Natives , which allegedly included coldblooded murders and rapes .
As AIM co-founder Dennis Banks said at the time , police harassment was “ an everyday fact for Indian peoples ” in Minneapolis ; the Black Panthers ’ patrols had successfully reduced violence in their neighborhoods , “ and we ’ re going to have to do the same.
” Within a year , AIM Patrol claimed they ’ d seen 22 consecutive weeks without a Native being arrested , while in years prior @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Natives arrested per day .
The Patrol has existed off and on ever since .
Mike Forcia , who is Anishinaabe and has worked with the American Indian Movement since its early days , revived AIM Patrol from its most recent hiatus in 2010 after witnessing EMTs roughly handle the dying body of an Ojibwe elder who ’ d been violently attacked ( the death was never investigated ) .
Along the way , he ’ s had his own run-ins with racist Minneapolis police , and received a $ 125,000 settlement from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ him ” beat him during an arrest in 1999 .
Forcia says that incident began when he witnessed a Minneapolis police officer holding a gun to a Native girl ’ s head .
Tall Paul , for his part , once saw a cop grope his mother during a traffic stop , and later watched police beat his older brother , then whisper that they ’ d kill him if he ever brought a lawsuit .
Though the current political moment focuses on violence against Black communities , police killings of Natives have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ some departments don ’ t identify or track Indigenous victims .
A CNN analysis of data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention found that Native Americans were slightly more likely than Black people to die at the hands of law enforcement between 1999 and 2015 , though the rates are often neck-and-neck—and deeply intertwined .
In 2011 , Derek Chauvin , the officer who killed George Floyd , was involved in the shooting of an Alaska Native named Leroy Martinez .
( A witness claimed Martinez had surrendered his gun and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he was shot . )
Recognizing their common experience of police brutality , Native youth stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Black protesters throughout this year ’ s Minneapolis uprising .
For the past few years , AIM Patrol has been “ under the radar , ” says Forcia .
His recruits walk the streets , deterring both police and intra-community violence by intervening or simply bearing witness to make accountability possible .
Members can also be called upon to safely escort women , elders , or others who don ’ t feel safe moving through @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the definition of Patrol duties to include cooking hot breakfasts for the unhoused and checking on overlooked neighbors .
Compared to the police , Forcia says AIM Patrol has “ a more hands-on , personal approach ” to safety .
“ You do it with kindness and generosity , but you always have to be alert.
” Though the reality is that some communities prefer armed patrols , Forcia emphasizes that real peace arises when people ’ s needs are being met .
He says that like cops , AIM Patrol members are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ but that usually means helping people move , offering rides , and sitting with those who might hurt themselves .
“ If it ’ s a mental health crisis , I feel like an armed cop shouldn ’ t be coming , because they ’ re gon na come with a warrior mentality , ” says Paul , who is Ojibwe and Oneida .
“ Mental health workers could be called .
If there ’ s an overdose , a medic could be called .
It shouldn ’ t just be ‘ cops @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of now , “ people don ’ t know who to call besides 911.
” Paul and Forcia believe AIM Patrol could help fill that gap .
Their group already helps with security for the city ’ s colorful Mayday Parade , and Forcia says he ’ s now in talks to support events in local parks , since the Minneapolis Park Board recently voted to cut ties with the police department .
Forcia says Mayor Jacob Frey exempted AIM Patrol from the city ’ s curfew so that they could protect their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Jeremiah Ellison , the son of Minnesota Attorney General Keith Ellison , was driving around with a pistol and fire extinguisher to protect his home neighborhood in north Minneapolis , along with the Minnesota Freedom Riders , a group of volunteers organized by a local NAACP chapter .
These patrols , as well as many others , acted as a deterrent against burning and looting , specifically protecting Black- and Native-owned businesses and community centers , they say .
As my colleague Julia Lurie reported from Minneapolis : As 92 percent of Minneapolis @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Paul thinks it ’ s time for a localized approach to safety .
“ When it ’ s someone from the community , there ’ s accountability because everybody knows them , ” he says .
Unlike a police officer , “ if I were to do something dirty or unjust to people I know , I would be held accountable.
” Patrol members should “ be on their feet , not in the car with a barrier between them and the people.
” Certain Black activists , Minneapolis officials , and experts @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Reclaim the Block and Black Visions Collective hosted the historic rally where nine of the city ’ s 13 council members pledged to initiate a transition away from policing and toward “ a transformative model for cultivating safety.
” When making his pledge , council member Phillipe Cunningham argued that the city has “ poured [ money ] into the police department ” while other groups “ have been doing this work for decades and not getting paid.
” In a press release , Reclaim the Block and Black Visions Collective , which @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that their movement had been “ built alongside the presence and legacy ” of AIM Patrol , whose members attended the event .
AIM Patrol could help replace the police “ because it is supported by the community , ” says Nason of MPD150 .
“ I trust my relatives to take the right approach to my personal safety.
” Yet Nason acknowledges that this type of solution could still beget profiling , harassment , and killings in communities where racism is rampant : Trayvon Martin was killed by an overzealous neighborhood watch @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that certain situations should be handled by social workers instead of cops , the social work institution has its own racist tendencies .
“ Part of the work of abolition has to be shifting the mindset and culture that ’ s all around us , ” says Nason .
“ We ’ re going to have to tackle that head-on with difficult conversations ” about prejudice , gun laws , and more .
Forcia has long covered AIM Patrol expenses , such as patrol car repairs , out of his own pocket , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
If Minneapolis were to divert some of its $ 189 million police budget to neighborhood groups like his , he could develop robust training programs , distribute information about gun laws and safety , and feed and clothe neighbors in need—because “ why would you loot if you already have enough at home ?
” he asks .
He ’ d also like to restart violence prevention initiatives like the American Indian–Somali Friendship Committee , which began bringing the two communities together for children ’ s basketball games and potlucks in 2010 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in reducing neighborhood tensions , it folded after just a few years when city funding was cut .
Riding the global wave of removing historically fraught monuments , Forcia on Wednesday led the charge to pull down a statue of Christopher Columbus that stood outside the Minnesota State Capitol .
Even this is part of a larger vision to lift up local communities : He ’ d like to hold the state ’ s largest-ever powwow on the Capitol grounds ( and he ’ s in talks with Lt .
Governor Peggy Flanagan @ @ @ @ @ @ @ make it happen ) .
“ We ’ d invite the Somali community , and the Aztecs and the Hmong and all of Minnesota , to get to know each other as brothers and sisters.
” Forcia believes that investing in intercultural exchange , along with education , housing , and food , can heal the wounds that beget violence .
“ We certainly are hoping , ” he says .
“ We ’ ve seen things in the past two weeks that I never thought would happen .
You got Nancy Pelosi @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the time , and we are who we have been waiting for .
”

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Late one night at the end of May, as spray paint, fires, and looting reigned across Minneapolis, an Indigenous hip-hop artist named Tall Paul was roving the streets in a truck, looking for looters and arsonists. “It looked like that movie The Purge,” he says. “It was lawless.” Days before, Paul had joined the American Indian Movement Patrol, a group of Native Americans volunteering to maintain neighborhood safety and protect key buildings from destruction amid the rebellion.
Paul and the other volunteers on shift were on their way to check on the offices of the Leech Lake Band of Ojibwe when they saw four white teenagers looting a nearby liquor store. They stopped their truck and three of the teens fled, while Paul’s group caught up with the fourth. Soon his buddies returned, and all were made to lie on the ground so they couldn’t run away, then give their names and wait for a parent to come pick them up. The teens had driven 90 miles from suburban Wisconsin to take advantage of the chaos.
With a veto-proof majority of Minneapolis City Council members pledging to disband their police force, many wonder, “What comes next?” Activists from communities of color say the answer has been lurking under the city’s nose all along: neighborhood-based initiatives that protect property and prevent violence. In Minneapolis, those groups—AIM Patrol, as well as First Nations United, the Little Earth Patrol, and the NAACP’s Minnesota Freedom Riders, among others—are not new, but today they share a common vision: Without police, communities can maintain their own safety with less brutality and more accountability.
On Friday, the City Council voted unanimously to begin moving toward a “transformative new model” of public safety. “Safety is being able to decide who supports you,” says Arianna Nason of MPD150, a group that conducted a 150-year performance review of the Minneapolis Police Department. “It is absolutely imperative that we find community-based, community-controlled, bottom-up solutions.”
Native groups have a special place in the history of organizing, and of fighting police brutality, in Minneapolis. With more than 35,000 Native Americans in its greater metro area, the city has been a major urban hub for Indigenous people since the federal government began moving them off reservations in the 1950s. In 1968, fed up with unlawful arrests, police violence, and poverty, a group of Natives in Minneapolis launched the American Indian Movement, an organization dedicated to addressing chronic neglect and abuse. AIM became a national civil rights group, unifying tribes across the country and successfully challenging a federal “termination” policy that aimed to end the special status of Indigenous peoples by withdrawing federal services and aid.
From the beginning, members of AIM volunteered to patrol neighborhoods in order to document the Minneapolis Police Department’s rampant violence against Natives, which allegedly included coldblooded murders and rapes. As AIM co-founder Dennis Banks said at the time, police harassment was “an everyday fact for Indian peoples” in Minneapolis; the Black Panthers’ patrols had successfully reduced violence in their neighborhoods, “and we’re going to have to do the same.” Within a year, AIM Patrol claimed they’d seen 22 consecutive weeks without a Native being arrested, while in years prior they’d seen five or six Natives arrested per day. The Patrol has existed off and on ever since.
Mike Forcia, who is Anishinaabe and has worked with the American Indian Movement since its early days, revived AIM Patrol from its most recent hiatus in 2010 after witnessing EMTs roughly handle the dying body of an Ojibwe elder who’d been violently attacked (the death was never investigated). Along the way, he’s had his own run-ins with racist Minneapolis police, and received a $125,000 settlement from their department after officers who “misidentified him” beat him during an arrest in 1999. Forcia says that incident began when he witnessed a Minneapolis police officer holding a gun to a Native girl’s head.
Tall Paul, for his part, once saw a cop grope his mother during a traffic stop, and later watched police beat his older brother, then whisper that they’d kill him if he ever brought a lawsuit.
Though the current political moment focuses on violence against Black communities, police killings of Natives have long gone overlooked, in part because some departments don’t identify or track Indigenous victims. A CNN analysis of data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention found that Native Americans were slightly more likely than Black people to die at the hands of law enforcement between 1999 and 2015, though the rates are often neck-and-neck—and deeply intertwined.
In 2011, Derek Chauvin, the officer who killed George Floyd, was involved in the shooting of an Alaska Native named Leroy Martinez. (A witness claimed Martinez had surrendered his gun and had his hands in the air when he was shot.) Recognizing their common experience of police brutality, Native youth stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Black protesters throughout this year’s Minneapolis uprising.
For the past few years, AIM Patrol has been “under the radar,” says Forcia. His recruits walk the streets, deterring both police and intra-community violence by intervening or simply bearing witness to make accountability possible. Members can also be called upon to safely escort women, elders, or others who don’t feel safe moving through the neighborhood alone. Forcia has expanded the definition of Patrol duties to include cooking hot breakfasts for the unhoused and checking on overlooked neighbors.
Compared to the police, Forcia says AIM Patrol has “a more hands-on, personal approach” to safety. “You do it with kindness and generosity, but you always have to be alert.” Though the reality is that some communities prefer armed patrols, Forcia emphasizes that real peace arises when people’s needs are being met. He says that like cops, AIM Patrol members are “never really off duty,” but that usually means helping people move, offering rides, and sitting with those who might hurt themselves.
“If it’s a mental health crisis, I feel like an armed cop shouldn’t be coming, because they’re gonna come with a warrior mentality,” says Paul, who is Ojibwe and Oneida. “Mental health workers could be called. If there’s an overdose, a medic could be called. It shouldn’t just be ‘cops or nothing.'” But as of now, “people don’t know who to call besides 911.”
Paul and Forcia believe AIM Patrol could help fill that gap. Their group already helps with security for the city’s colorful Mayday Parade, and Forcia says he’s now in talks to support events in local parks, since the Minneapolis Park Board recently voted to cut ties with the police department.
Forcia says Mayor Jacob Frey exempted AIM Patrol from the city’s curfew so that they could protect their community. Meanwhile, City Council member Jeremiah Ellison, the son of Minnesota Attorney General Keith Ellison, was driving around with a pistol and fire extinguisher to protect his home neighborhood in north Minneapolis, along with the Minnesota Freedom Riders, a group of volunteers organized by a local NAACP chapter. These patrols, as well as many others, acted as a deterrent against burning and looting, specifically protecting Black- and Native-owned businesses and community centers, they say.
As my colleague Julia Lurie reported from Minneapolis:
Residential neighborhoods formed security teams…equipped with block leaders, text threads, and schedules for sitting out on stoops with fire extinguishers. I ran into these community security guards repeatedly as I walked home around midnight after reporting on a protest a week after Floyd’s death. From their stoops, they asked me who I was, and then if I needed help. One man, standing on the corner with a team on Hennepin Avenue, said he would walkie talkie his neighbors down the street so they would know to expect me.
As 92 percent of Minneapolis police officers live outside the city, Paul thinks it’s time for a localized approach to safety. “When it’s someone from the community, there’s accountability because everybody knows them,” he says. Unlike a police officer, “if I were to do something dirty or unjust to people I know, I would be held accountable.” Patrol members should “be on their feet, not in the car with a barrier between them and the people.”
Certain Black activists, Minneapolis officials, and experts have embraced these arguments. Grassroots organizations Reclaim the Block and Black Visions Collective hosted the historic rally where nine of the city’s 13 council members pledged to initiate a transition away from policing and toward “a transformative model for cultivating safety.” When making his pledge, council member Phillipe Cunningham argued that the city has “poured [money] into the police department” while other groups “have been doing this work for decades and not getting paid.” In a press release, Reclaim the Block and Black Visions Collective, which both advocate for police abolition, acknowledged that their movement had been “built alongside the presence and legacy” of AIM Patrol, whose members attended the event.
AIM Patrol could help replace the police “because it is supported by the community,” says Nason of MPD150. “I trust my relatives to take the right approach to my personal safety.”
Yet Nason acknowledges that this type of solution could still beget profiling, harassment, and killings in communities where racism is rampant: Trayvon Martin was killed by an overzealous neighborhood watch volunteer, and while police abolitionists say that certain situations should be handled by social workers instead of cops, the social work institution has its own racist tendencies. “Part of the work of abolition has to be shifting the mindset and culture that’s all around us,” says Nason. “We’re going to have to tackle that head-on with difficult conversations” about prejudice, gun laws, and more.
Forcia has long covered AIM Patrol expenses, such as patrol car repairs, out of his own pocket, or by selling T-shirts in the community. If Minneapolis were to divert some of its $189 million police budget to neighborhood groups like his, he could develop robust training programs, distribute information about gun laws and safety, and feed and clothe neighbors in need—because “why would you loot if you already have enough at home?” he asks.
He’d also like to restart violence prevention initiatives like the American Indian–Somali Friendship Committee, which began bringing the two communities together for children’s basketball games and potlucks in 2010. While the project had some success in reducing neighborhood tensions, it folded after just a few years when city funding was cut.
Riding the global wave of removing historically fraught monuments, Forcia on Wednesday led the charge to pull down a statue of Christopher Columbus that stood outside the Minnesota State Capitol. Even this is part of a larger vision to lift up local communities: He’d like to hold the state’s largest-ever powwow on the Capitol grounds (and he’s in talks with Lt. Governor Peggy Flanagan, who is also Anishinaabe, to make it happen). “We’d invite the Somali community, and the Aztecs and the Hmong and all of Minnesota, to get to know each other as brothers and sisters.”
Forcia believes that investing in intercultural exchange, along with education, housing, and food, can heal the wounds that beget violence. “We certainly are hoping,” he says. “We’ve seen things in the past two weeks that I never thought would happen. You got Nancy Pelosi kneeling, so many cops kneeling…now is the time, and we are who we have been waiting for.”
Correction, June 20, 2023: An earlier version of this story misstated the number of Native Americans in the Minneapolis metro area.


motherjones--2020-06-13--Trump’s West Point Speech Was Another Risky Stunt Involving the Troops

A West Point graduation ceremony that would not have happened the way it did without the unbidden intervention of Donald Trump finally took place Saturday morning .
It was the second time in a month that ’ s not even halfway over that the president has involved the military in a stunt that risked the health of Americans for his own political benefit .
As with many of Trump ’ s less improvisational speeches , it was heavy on the tough talk and praise and light on the throwaway conspiracy-mongering and insult comedy .
The dissonances were especially sharp today @ @ @ @ @ @ @ morning retweeted bromides against the “ socialist Left ” and “ Radical Left Democrats ” made a plea for…unity ?
“ The members of this class have come from every state in our union .
You have come from the farms and the cities , from states big and small , and from every race , religion , color , and creed , ” he told the assembled 1,107 cadets , who processed into the ceremony wearing masks and sat several feet apart on the academy ’ s parade field .
“ You @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to transcend all differences and achieve true unity .
“ What has historically made America unique is the durability of its institutions against the passions and prejudices of the moment , ” Trump said , perhaps forgetting that he more than any other figure has contributed to the “ prejudices ” of the moment and the undermining of the country ’ s institutions .
Sounding a bit like a Super Bowl car ad , he added , “ When times are turbulent , when the road is rough , what matters most is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ enduring , and eternal.
” For West Point graduates , commencement marks a transition into active-duty military service , but rarely has there ever been a more tumultuous time to be part of the Army .
Trump frequently involves the military in political stunts , from a needless deployment of troops on the Southern border before the midterm elections to the obnoxious Bible stunt in which he cleared a peaceful protest outside the White House so senior administration officials , including the nation ’ s highest-ranking military officer , could join him for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Trump ’ s bellicose behavior—and the initial reluctance from some officials , including Defense Secretary Mark Esper , a West Point graduate himself , to challenge him—led to a flurry of stern condemnations from former military officers in recent weeks and , most recently , an extraordinary open letter signed by more than 500 West Point graduates .
“ We are concerned that fellow graduates serving in senior-level , public positions are failing to uphold their oath of office and their commitment to Duty , Honor , Country , ” the letter stated @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of an apolitical military.
” Gen. Mark Milley , Trump ’ s senior military adviser , even apologized for his role in the Bible stunt , saying his presence “ created a perception of the military involved in domestic politics.
” Turbulent times , indeed !
Saturday ’ s commencement was another stunt , this one made particularly egregious by the fact that it required assembling a graduating class from across the country during a global pandemic .
Despite most universities , including the Naval Academy , opting for a virtual commencement , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to address cadets at an in-person ceremony .
The surprise announcement , occurring after cadets had already been sent home , required hundreds of students to return to West Point , located in a state with more than twice as many coronavirus infections as any other .
Thanks to Trump ’ s decision , that number has only increased .
Earlier this month , the Army screened all returning graduates and acknowledged that 1.5 percent of the class , roughly 15 students , had tested positive for COVID-19 .
There was no need @ @ @ @ @ @ @ accommodate Trump ’ s persistent desire for a big speech , returning cadets risked their health to return to campus .
Family members and friends were not even allowed to attend , denying them a chance to enjoy graduation with their loved ones .
The whole thing was unnecessary , a reminder that if anything is “ permanent , timeless , enduring , and eternal , ” it ’ s Trump ’ s desire to satisfy his own wants , all else be damned .

A West Point graduation ceremony that would not have happened the way it did without the unbidden intervention of Donald Trump finally took place Saturday morning. It was the second time in a month that’s not even halfway over that the president has involved the military in a stunt that risked the health of Americans for his own political benefit.
As with many of Trump’s less improvisational speeches, it was heavy on the tough talk and praise and light on the throwaway conspiracy-mongering and insult comedy. The dissonances were especially sharp today. The same president who only this morning retweeted bromides against the “socialist Left” and “Radical Left Democrats” made a plea for…unity?
“The members of this class have come from every state in our union. You have come from the farms and the cities, from states big and small, and from every race, religion, color, and creed,” he told the assembled 1,107 cadets, who processed into the ceremony wearing masks and sat several feet apart on the academy’s parade field. “You exemplify the power of shared national purpose to transcend all differences and achieve true unity.
“What has historically made America unique is the durability of its institutions against the passions and prejudices of the moment,” Trump said, perhaps forgetting that he more than any other figure has contributed to the “prejudices” of the moment and the undermining of the country’s institutions. Sounding a bit like a Super Bowl car ad, he added, “When times are turbulent, when the road is rough, what matters most is that which is permanent, timeless, enduring, and eternal.”
For West Point graduates, commencement marks a transition into active-duty military service, but rarely has there ever been a more tumultuous time to be part of the Army. Trump frequently involves the military in political stunts, from a needless deployment of troops on the Southern border before the midterm elections to the obnoxious Bible stunt in which he cleared a peaceful protest outside the White House so senior administration officials, including the nation’s highest-ranking military officer, could join him for a photo op outside a church.
Trump’s bellicose behavior—and the initial reluctance from some officials, including Defense Secretary Mark Esper, a West Point graduate himself, to challenge him—led to a flurry of stern condemnations from former military officers in recent weeks and, most recently, an extraordinary open letter signed by more than 500 West Point graduates. “We are concerned that fellow graduates serving in senior-level, public positions are failing to uphold their oath of office and their commitment to Duty, Honor, Country,” the letter stated. “Their actions threaten the credibility of an apolitical military.” Gen. Mark Milley, Trump’s senior military adviser, even apologized for his role in the Bible stunt, saying his presence “created a perception of the military involved in domestic politics.” Turbulent times, indeed!
Saturday’s commencement was another stunt, this one made particularly egregious by the fact that it required assembling a graduating class from across the country during a global pandemic. Despite most universities, including the Naval Academy, opting for a virtual commencement, Trump abruptly stated his plan in March to address cadets at an in-person ceremony. The surprise announcement, occurring after cadets had already been sent home, required hundreds of students to return to West Point, located in a state with more than twice as many coronavirus infections as any other. Thanks to Trump’s decision, that number has only increased. Earlier this month, the Army screened all returning graduates and acknowledged that 1.5 percent of the class, roughly 15 students, had tested positive for COVID-19.
There was no need for an in-person graduation ceremony. To accommodate Trump’s persistent desire for a big speech, returning cadets risked their health to return to campus. Family members and friends were not even allowed to attend, denying them a chance to enjoy graduation with their loved ones. The whole thing was unnecessary, a reminder that if anything is “permanent, timeless, enduring, and eternal,” it’s Trump’s desire to satisfy his own wants, all else be damned.


motherjones--2020-06-13--Trump Reschedules Race-Baiting Juneteenth Rally Because Black “Friends” Told Him To

After days of public backlash , President Trump gave in to pressure and canceled a campaign rally in Tulsa , Oklahoma , scheduled for Friday , Juneteenth .
In a tweet late Friday , Trump said his “ African American friends and supporters have reached out to suggest that we consider changing the date out of respect for this Holiday.
” Trump ’ s choice not just of date but location raised perfectly justifiable suspicions of race-baiting .
June 19 is a holiday celebrating the end of slavery in the United States , and Tulsa was the site of a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Black neighborhood and killed hundreds .
Worse , CNN political analyst April Ryan reported earlier this week that Trump was planning to give a “ race relations speech ” at the event , written by none other than Stephen Miller , the architect of Trump ’ s white nationalist immigration policy .
Sen. Kamala Harris ( D-Calif. ) said the rally wasn ’ t “ just a wink to white supremacists—he ’ s throwing them a welcome home party.
” Rep. Al Green ( D-Texas ) said the time and place of Trump @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a slap in the face to African Americans ; it is overt racism from the highest office in the land.
” Yet , as my colleague Nathalie Baptiste wrote Friday , Republicans live in a fantasyland where Trump can win over Black voters : The video of the killing started an uprising and a protest movement against systemic racism not seen in generations .
In response , there have been no reassuring presidential messages of unity or comfort to Black Americans .
Instead , there have been tweets .
In the last few @ @ @ @ @ @ @ when the looting starts , the shooting starts , ” a reference to a racist police chief from the 1960s .
He also retweeted an account smearing Floyd and supported a fake conspiracy theory that the 75-year-old man in Bufffalo who was pushed by police officers and left bleeding on the sidewalk was staged .
He also urged governors to crack down harder on anti-racism protesters , saying they will look like jerks if they don ’ t “ dominate.
” He referred to those who demonstrated as “ THUGS.
” The Juneteenth @ @ @ @ @ @ @ after the Trump 2020 campaign had paused his rallies for three months because of the pandemic .
Trump ’ s approval numbers nationwide are low as is , and even lower among Black people .
According to poll earlier this month , 88 percent of Black people say Trump had increased racial tensions .
Trump also tweeted that the rally would be rescheduled for June 20 “ to honor ” the requests of the Black friends and supporters who apparently told him to postpone .
The rally will still take place in Tulsa @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 200,000 people have requested tickets—dubious considering the event is being held at an arena that seats less than 20,000 .
Everyone who attends a Trump rally will apparently be asked to sign a waiver promising not to sue him if they contract COVID-19 at the rally .
Because even though it may feel like the world has moved on , we are still in a pandemic !

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After days of public backlash, President Trump gave in to pressure and canceled a campaign rally in Tulsa, Oklahoma, scheduled for Friday, Juneteenth. In a tweet late Friday, Trump said his “African American friends and supporters have reached out to suggest that we consider changing the date out of respect for this Holiday.”
We had previously scheduled our #MAGA Rally in Tulsa, Oklahoma, for June 19th – a big deal. Unfortunately, however, this would fall on the Juneteenth Holiday. Many of my African American friends and supporters have reached out to suggest that we consider changing the date out… — Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) June 13, 2020
Trump’s choice not just of date but location raised perfectly justifiable suspicions of race-baiting. June 19 is a holiday celebrating the end of slavery in the United States, and Tulsa was the site of a 1921 racist massacre that destroyed a thriving Black neighborhood and killed hundreds. Worse, CNN political analyst April Ryan reported earlier this week that Trump was planning to give a “race relations speech” at the event, written by none other than Stephen Miller, the architect of Trump’s white nationalist immigration policy.
Sen. Kamala Harris (D-Calif.) said the rally wasn’t “just a wink to white supremacists—he’s throwing them a welcome home party.” Rep. Al Green (D-Texas) said the time and place of Trump’s rally was “more than a slap in the face to African Americans; it is overt racism from the highest office in the land.”
Yet, as my colleague Nathalie Baptiste wrote Friday, Republicans live in a fantasyland where Trump can win over Black voters:
The video of the killing started an uprising and a protest movement against systemic racism not seen in generations. In response, there have been no reassuring presidential messages of unity or comfort to Black Americans. Instead, there have been tweets. In the last few weeks alone, Trump has tweeted “when the looting starts, the shooting starts,” a reference to a racist police chief from the 1960s. He also retweeted an account smearing Floyd and supported a fake conspiracy theory that the 75-year-old man in Bufffalo who was pushed by police officers and left bleeding on the sidewalk was staged. He also urged governors to crack down harder on anti-racism protesters, saying they will look like jerks if they don’t “dominate.” He referred to those who demonstrated as “THUGS.”
The Juneteenth rally was the first MAGA event scheduled after the Trump 2020 campaign had paused his rallies for three months because of the pandemic. Trump’s approval numbers nationwide are low as is, and even lower among Black people. According to poll earlier this month, 88 percent of Black people say Trump had increased racial tensions.
Trump also tweeted that the rally would be rescheduled for June 20 “to honor” the requests of the Black friends and supporters who apparently told him to postpone. The rally will still take place in Tulsa. According to Trump, more than 200,000 people have requested tickets—dubious considering the event is being held at an arena that seats less than 20,000.
…We have already had ticket requests in excess of 200,000 people. I look forward to seeing everyone in Oklahoma! — Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) June 13, 2020
Everyone who attends a Trump rally will apparently be asked to sign a waiver promising not to sue him if they contract COVID-19 at the rally. Because even though it may feel like the world has moved on, we are still in a pandemic!


motherjones--2020-06-15--Everything About the Coronavirus-Fueled Home Birth Trend Ignores the Realities for Black Women

As a low-income , Black mother of seven , Laurie Bertram Roberts has limited faith in the medical establishment .
So do her children .
Back in March , when her middle daughter Kayla ’ s due date was inching closer amid a global pandemic , they made a decision : Kayla would deliver her baby at home .
It wasn ’ t just one thing that made their decision .
It was that the coronavirus disproportionately affects communities of color and was creeping up in Mississippi , where they live .
It was that Kayla has asthma , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ vulnerable to the coronavirus .
It was that Roberts , a prominent reproductive rights advocate who runs a local abortion fund , had been training as a midwife , and she had everything they needed for a home birth .
It was that , at Kayla ’ s doctor ’ s appointment , she was told she had low fluid , which Roberts interpreted as a sign that the doctor may want to induce labor , and they worried that a hasty decision would result in a cesarean .
“ It ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ low-income Black women get sent in for C-sections , ” Roberts explains , and Kayla wanted to avoid that .
“ I was talking to one of my midwife friends , and I said , ‘ Girl , I think I might have to catch this baby , and I don ’ t really know if I want to catch my grandbaby , ' ” Roberts tells me recently .
They found a midwife , Sabrina Ferrage—who came recommended by a trusted friend , had reasonable rates , and , importantly , had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ( Ferrage , who is also a doula , is a lay midwife , which means she has informal training . )
Kayla was not alone in her decision to recently give birth at home .
In the past several months , since the coronavirus upended life globally , pregnant people have been increasingly turning to home birth as an option to avoid hospitals .
Midwives and doulas have been reporting higher demand for their services—and , anecdotally , all the care providers and medical associations interviewed for this story said they ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for home birth or questions about whether it ’ s a safer option given the pandemic .
The American Academy of Pediatrics ( AAP ) responded by releasing some new guidelines for home births in April that included an updated checklist for caring for the newborn .
This uptick has been portrayed as something of a growing trend in home births among “ crunchy ” white women who are looking for a more “ natural ” experience .
And the AAP recently confirmed that home births are increasing largely among non-Hispanic white women @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ignores the pregnant people like Kayla , the low-income women of color for whom home birth is now often framed as a luxury .
And while , to be clear , there ’ s no research to suggest home birth is safer for them and the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists ( ACOG ) warns that home birth carries significant risks , there is a segment of Black people—midwives , reproductive rights activists , civilians—who are committed to offering home births as a safe option for their peers , particularly now , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stark inequities in the medical system and the stress that comes with being Black in this country .
Black women , after all , are three times more likely to die in childbirth in the United States than white women , even with hospital care .
“ The solutions are within our communities , and people need to trust Black women , listen to Black women , and invest in Black women , ” says Angela Doyinsola Aina , the interim executive director at Black Mamas Matter Alliance , an Atlanta-based reproductive justice @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Black pregnant people about reproductive issues and care alongside a crucial but often-forgotten history , pointing out the rich tradition of Black midwifery ; enslaved West African women were considered spiritual healers and leaders in their communities , and they brought their knowledge of midwifery to the US , in turn fostering a rich tradition of African American midwifery .
“ Home birthing , midwifery practice , just pregnancy and childbirth in and of itself is something that is traditional and derived from Black and African women ’ s cultures , ” she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reasons why there was an increase of capturing enslaved female Africans was for the sole purpose of being able to practice midwifery , and of course use our Black women ’ s bodies as vessels to quote-unquote produce more slaves.
” But , Aina says , with the rise of the Industrial Revolution and the professionalization of medicine , midwifery—and Black midwives in particular—began to be regulated out of the birth work space , which has in turn made home birth options less accessible to Black pregnant people .
Roberts tells me she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the state of Mississippi .
Providers at clinics like Choices , a full-spectrum reproductive care center in Memphis are trying to bridge this particular gap in care .
Staffers there tell me there has been an uptick in calls over the past few months from women , particularly those in their third trimester , who want to arrange a home birth because they ’ re afraid to go to the hospital .
“ Our recommendation is four to five births a month , ” says Kemetra King , a certified nurse-midwife at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ exceeding that ; we ’ re doing more like seven or eight right now.
” The clinic serves mostly women of color , many of whom “ have had some type of issue with their first birth , some type of trauma , ” King explains .
“ They have not been listened to , they have had things done to them without permission—just treated in a way that left them feeling victimized and powerless , ” adds Katy Leopard , director of external affairs at Choices .
Roberts , meanwhile , has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ her abortion and reproductive justice fund , the Mississippi Reproductive Freedom Fund ( MRFF ) , into collecting home birth “ kits ” to support low-income women and women of color , many of which have been distributed to a mutual aid group on the Gulf Coast .
She ’ s also been reaching out to birth workers in the Southeast to assess and help fill their needs , “ especially birth workers of color , because…those folks are more likely to hear about people who are free birthing at the last minute…we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ least the bare essentials.
” ( Free birthing is giving birth without the assistance of a skilled birth attendant , like a midwife or a physician , and is generally not recommended by medical professionals . )
The kits from Roberts and MRFF are meant for emergency use , and they include essentials like sterile umbilical clamps and a disposable scalpel .
Roberts , at least in part , is driven by her own personal experience .
As I wrote last year in a Mother Jones story about the bleak reproductive health landscape @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a Catholic hospital in Indiana after she was sent home during a miscarriage .
She ’ s also had six C-sections .
She told her daughter , “ All I ever wanted for all of you is if you have children , you didn ’ t have to have the birth experiences I had.
” As the pandemic shut down normal life , Roberts and Kayla considered Kayla ’ s options .
“ It was a lot of cost-benefit analysis and risk analysis , ” Roberts says .
“ Part of it was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
Like a lot of women on Medicaid in Mississippi , she had a rolling cast of providers.
” There was no chance for her to build trust with a specific doctor who would ultimately deliver her baby .
Roberts and her daughter were drawn to Ferrage because of Ferrage ’ s experience , and also because she keeps her rates low enough to make home birth accessible—charging $ 2,000 for her midwifery services , which other practices charge up to $ 7,000 for ; Ferrage does one pro bono case each year @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s like to want a home birth and to struggle to afford it .
Furthermore , Medicaid in Mississippi does not cover home birth .
Though Ferrage ’ s practice is small—she is a mother to 10 children , all of whom were delivered at home—she says the demand for her services has doubled because of COVID-19 .
Where she usually does five home births in a single year , she has so far overseen 10 this year , six of which have taken place in the past three months .
She is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ month , but she feels a responsibility to meet the growing need .
Ferrage says the increase has mostly come from women who had originally planned for a hospital birth and were afraid because of “ the change in policies , the restrictions that they ’ re doing : not being able to have their doula or their mom or whatever , and then the possibility of , if you get a temperature or they suspect that you might be sick , they ’ ll separate you from your baby for up to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ It ’ s just a lot.
” The fear of the unknown is often more frightening for those who don ’ t have great access to accurate information even under the best circumstances .
Ferrage says she ’ s seen women on Medicaid haphazardly shuffled through the medical system , with some women pre-selected for cesareans because the reimbursement rate is higher for a surgery .
Because low-income women often don ’ t have the resources to effectively advocate for better care , she notes , “ they just do as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 2018 data from the Kaiser Family Foundation , more than 15 percent of women in Mississippi receive health care coverage through Medicaid , and research from the Medicaid and CHIP Payment and Access Commission found that “ women with Medicaid for prenatal care and delivery were more likely to have a low- birthweight baby and more likely to have a cesarean section compared to women who were uninsured for prenatal care and delivery.
” “ The legacy of taking care of low-income African American women and women of color in the health care @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” Dr. Allison Bryant , a maternal-fetal medicine specialist at Mass General , tells me .
“ Many of us [ doctors ] have been trying really hard to sort of undo that legacy and make the health care system a better place to receive equitable care , and that has been ongoing…I think that there ’ s a lot of concerns about the risk of infection in the hospital not being a safe place to be from a COVID point of view , and that I feel like we could do @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dispelling or making people feel more comfortable coming into the environment.
” Still , despite these disparities and even in light of the pandemic , it ’ s incredibly important to note that AAP emphasizes that “ hospitals and accredited birth centers remain the safest settings for births in the U.S. ” because planned home birth “ has been associated with a two- to three-fold increase in infant mortality and an increased incidence of low Apgar scores and neonatal seizures.
” ACOG has put out a similar recommendation and research shows that home @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and infant deaths within the first 28 day of life , as well as triple the risk of neonatal seizures , compared to hospital births ( the data is not broken down by race ) .
“ I think that the most important thing is that we recognize that women have agency , women have autonomy to make the decisions that are best for them and their families , [ but ] I think that hospital birth is a very safe option , ” Bryant stresses .
“ And…through the lens of a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ come therein , I worry so much about unanticipated complications that are harder to manage outside of the hospital setting , so my first instinct is really always to reassure people about the safety of hospitals.
” But , Bryant adds , “ it ’ s a hard time for women and we want to make sure that we provide them with the information and the agency to make the choices that are in their best interest.
” In the end , Kayla wound up going to the hospital after giving birth to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she kept refusing water during labor , ultimately causing her to become dehydrated— “ silly goose , ” Roberts says fondly .
Ferrage accompanied Kayla to the hospital , and she was back home 24 hours later after receiving plenty of IV fluids .
( Ferrage says this is a somewhat-typical complication , though she constantly reminds her clients to hydrate ; she does not have IV training . )
“ For me , Kayla ’ s home birth was my greatest RJ [ reproductive justice ] achievement , ” Roberts says .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , to make sure she had that during COVID… ” she trails off in thought .
“ When she came back from the hospital , we were sitting on the bed , and she was holding Amani , and she said , ‘ I wasn ’ t sure about the home birth thing , but I ’ m really happy about it now . '
”

As a low-income, Black mother of seven, Laurie Bertram Roberts has limited faith in the medical establishment. So do her children. Back in March, when her middle daughter Kayla’s due date was inching closer amid a global pandemic, they made a decision: Kayla would deliver her baby at home.
“They have not been listened to, they have had things done to them without permission—just treated in a way that left them feeling victimized and powerless.”
It wasn’t just one thing that made their decision. It was that the coronavirus disproportionately affects communities of color and was creeping up in Mississippi, where they live. It was that Kayla has asthma, and they worried that would make her more vulnerable to the coronavirus. It was that Roberts, a prominent reproductive rights advocate who runs a local abortion fund, had been training as a midwife, and she had everything they needed for a home birth. It was that, at Kayla’s doctor’s appointment, she was told she had low fluid, which Roberts interpreted as a sign that the doctor may want to induce labor, and they worried that a hasty decision would result in a cesarean. “It’s actually one of fastest ways that especially low-income Black women get sent in for C-sections,” Roberts explains, and Kayla wanted to avoid that.
“I was talking to one of my midwife friends, and I said, ‘Girl, I think I might have to catch this baby, and I don’t really know if I want to catch my grandbaby,'” Roberts tells me recently.
They found a midwife, Sabrina Ferrage—who came recommended by a trusted friend, had reasonable rates, and, importantly, had experience serving low-income and rural women. (Ferrage, who is also a doula, is a lay midwife, which means she has informal training.)
Kayla was not alone in her decision to recently give birth at home. In the past several months, since the coronavirus upended life globally, pregnant people have been increasingly turning to home birth as an option to avoid hospitals. Midwives and doulas have been reporting higher demand for their services—and, anecdotally, all the care providers and medical associations interviewed for this story said they’ve noticed a higher volume of requests for home birth or questions about whether it’s a safer option given the pandemic. The American Academy of Pediatrics (AAP) responded by releasing some new guidelines for home births in April that included an updated checklist for caring for the newborn.
This uptick has been portrayed as something of a growing trend in home births among “crunchy” white women who are looking for a more “natural” experience. And the AAP recently confirmed that home births are increasing largely among non-Hispanic white women. This narrative, though, essentially ignores the pregnant people like Kayla, the low-income women of color for whom home birth is now often framed as a luxury. And while, to be clear, there’s no research to suggest home birth is safer for them and the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists (ACOG) warns that home birth carries significant risks, there is a segment of Black people—midwives, reproductive rights activists, civilians—who are committed to offering home births as a safe option for their peers, particularly now, during crises that have laid bare the stark inequities in the medical system and the stress that comes with being Black in this country. Black women, after all, are three times more likely to die in childbirth in the United States than white women, even with hospital care.
“The solutions are within our communities, and people need to trust Black women, listen to Black women, and invest in Black women,” says Angela Doyinsola Aina, the interim executive director at Black Mamas Matter Alliance, an Atlanta-based reproductive justice advocacy group. Aina works to educate Black pregnant people about reproductive issues and care alongside a crucial but often-forgotten history, pointing out the rich tradition of Black midwifery; enslaved West African women were considered spiritual healers and leaders in their communities, and they brought their knowledge of midwifery to the US, in turn fostering a rich tradition of African American midwifery.
Enslaved West African women who were considered spiritual healers and leaders in their communities brought their knowledge of midwifery to the US.
“Home birthing, midwifery practice, just pregnancy and childbirth in and of itself is something that is traditional and derived from Black and African women’s cultures,” she says. “One of the primary reasons why there was an increase of capturing enslaved female Africans was for the sole purpose of being able to practice midwifery, and of course use our Black women’s bodies as vessels to quote-unquote produce more slaves.”
But, Aina says, with the rise of the Industrial Revolution and the professionalization of medicine, midwifery—and Black midwives in particular—began to be regulated out of the birth work space, which has in turn made home birth options less accessible to Black pregnant people. Roberts tells me she only knows of one Black practicing midwife in the state of Mississippi.
Providers at clinics like Choices, a full-spectrum reproductive care center in Memphis are trying to bridge this particular gap in care. Staffers there tell me there has been an uptick in calls over the past few months from women, particularly those in their third trimester, who want to arrange a home birth because they’re afraid to go to the hospital. “Our recommendation is four to five births a month,” says Kemetra King, a certified nurse-midwife at Choices, “and we’re exceeding that; we’re doing more like seven or eight right now.”
The clinic serves mostly women of color, many of whom “have had some type of issue with their first birth, some type of trauma,” King explains. “They have not been listened to, they have had things done to them without permission—just treated in a way that left them feeling victimized and powerless,” adds Katy Leopard, director of external affairs at Choices.
Roberts, meanwhile, has been channeling some of the resources from her abortion and reproductive justice fund, the Mississippi Reproductive Freedom Fund (MRFF), into collecting home birth “kits” to support low-income women and women of color, many of which have been distributed to a mutual aid group on the Gulf Coast. She’s also been reaching out to birth workers in the Southeast to assess and help fill their needs, “especially birth workers of color, because…those folks are more likely to hear about people who are free birthing at the last minute…we wanna make sure they have at least the bare essentials.” (Free birthing is giving birth without the assistance of a skilled birth attendant, like a midwife or a physician, and is generally not recommended by medical professionals.) The kits from Roberts and MRFF are meant for emergency use, and they include essentials like sterile umbilical clamps and a disposable scalpel.
Roberts, at least in part, is driven by her own personal experience. As I wrote last year in a Mother Jones story about the bleak reproductive health landscape in Mississippi, Roberts nearly died in a Catholic hospital in Indiana after she was sent home during a miscarriage. She’s also had six C-sections. She told her daughter, “All I ever wanted for all of you is if you have children, you didn’t have to have the birth experiences I had.”
As the pandemic shut down normal life, Roberts and Kayla considered Kayla’s options. “It was a lot of cost-benefit analysis and risk analysis,” Roberts says. “Part of it was, did she trust her care providers? Like a lot of women on Medicaid in Mississippi, she had a rolling cast of providers.” There was no chance for her to build trust with a specific doctor who would ultimately deliver her baby.
“All I ever wanted for all of you is if you have children, you didn’t have to have the birth experiences I had.”
Roberts and her daughter were drawn to Ferrage because of Ferrage’s experience, and also because she keeps her rates low enough to make home birth accessible—charging $2,000 for her midwifery services, which other practices charge up to $7,000 for; Ferrage does one pro bono case each year, because she knows what it’s like to want a home birth and to struggle to afford it. Furthermore, Medicaid in Mississippi does not cover home birth. Though Ferrage’s practice is small—she is a mother to 10 children, all of whom were delivered at home—she says the demand for her services has doubled because of COVID-19. Where she usually does five home births in a single year, she has so far overseen 10 this year, six of which have taken place in the past three months. She is usually adamant about doing only one per month, but she feels a responsibility to meet the growing need.
Ferrage says the increase has mostly come from women who had originally planned for a hospital birth and were afraid because of “the change in policies, the restrictions that they’re doing: not being able to have their doula or their mom or whatever, and then the possibility of, if you get a temperature or they suspect that you might be sick, they’ll separate you from your baby for up to two weeks even,” she says. “It’s just a lot.”
The fear of the unknown is often more frightening for those who don’t have great access to accurate information even under the best circumstances. Ferrage says she’s seen women on Medicaid haphazardly shuffled through the medical system, with some women pre-selected for cesareans because the reimbursement rate is higher for a surgery. Because low-income women often don’t have the resources to effectively advocate for better care, she notes, “they just do as they’re told.” According to 2018 data from the Kaiser Family Foundation, more than 15 percent of women in Mississippi receive health care coverage through Medicaid, and research from the Medicaid and CHIP Payment and Access Commission found that “women with Medicaid for prenatal care and delivery were more likely to have a low- birthweight baby and more likely to have a cesarean section compared to women who were uninsured for prenatal care and delivery.”
“The legacy of taking care of low-income African American women and women of color in the health care system has not been a great one,” Dr. Allison Bryant, a maternal-fetal medicine specialist at Mass General, tells me. “Many of us [doctors] have been trying really hard to sort of undo that legacy and make the health care system a better place to receive equitable care, and that has been ongoing…I think that there’s a lot of concerns about the risk of infection in the hospital not being a safe place to be from a COVID point of view, and that I feel like we could do a better job of, sort of dispelling or making people feel more comfortable coming into the environment.”
Still, despite these disparities and even in light of the pandemic, it’s incredibly important to note that AAP emphasizes that “hospitals and accredited birth centers remain the safest settings for births in the U.S.” because planned home birth “has been associated with a two- to three-fold increase in infant mortality and an increased incidence of low Apgar scores and neonatal seizures.” ACOG has put out a similar recommendation and research shows that home birth carries double the risk of stillbirth and infant deaths within the first 28 day of life, as well as triple the risk of neonatal seizures, compared to hospital births (the data is not broken down by race).
“I think that the most important thing is that we recognize that women have agency, women have autonomy to make the decisions that are best for them and their families, [but] I think that hospital birth is a very safe option,” Bryant stresses. “And…through the lens of a high-risk obstetrician and all the biases that come therein, I worry so much about unanticipated complications that are harder to manage outside of the hospital setting, so my first instinct is really always to reassure people about the safety of hospitals.”
“I think that the most important thing is that we recognize that women have agency…[but] I think that hospital birth is a very safe option.”
But, Bryant adds, “it’s a hard time for women and we want to make sure that we provide them with the information and the agency to make the choices that are in their best interest.”
In the end, Kayla wound up going to the hospital after giving birth to a healthy baby girl named Amani because she kept refusing water during labor, ultimately causing her to become dehydrated—“silly goose,” Roberts says fondly. Ferrage accompanied Kayla to the hospital, and she was back home 24 hours later after receiving plenty of IV fluids. (Ferrage says this is a somewhat-typical complication, though she constantly reminds her clients to hydrate; she does not have IV training.)
“For me, Kayla’s home birth was my greatest RJ [reproductive justice] achievement,” Roberts says. “Being able to give her that, to make sure she had that during COVID…” she trails off in thought. “When she came back from the hospital, we were sitting on the bed, and she was holding Amani, and she said, ‘I wasn’t sure about the home birth thing, but I’m really happy about it now.'”