To the Expecting Mother on the Bus,

My grandmother always told me that some people are special. They just have it. No matter where they are, no matter what they’re doing, you can’t help but to notice them. They just have an aura about them that stops you in your tracks and screams “Look here! I have something to say!”

That was my first thought when the doors of the bus opened and you climbed aboard, the heat from the sun’s rays rushing in and making it unbearable to do anything, but complain. I, myself, fanned my face frantically with my hands, cursing myself for getting on a bus without air conditioning. If only I hadn’t missed the bus before this or better yet, I should have just stayed home where a nice glass of sweet tea with extra ice would surely await me.

But you patiently took your seat and settled in amongst the heavy sighs, shouts of “drive faster!”, and the holding of cold soda cans to foreheads. The entire ride, one hand gently cradled your swollen stomach, while the other held open a large, white book, the spine beginning to tear, several of the pages visibly folded over several times, ready to be returned to again perhaps on your next ride. 40 Ways to Prepare For Your Bundle of Joy!

Slowly the bus dragged from stop to stop, but your head remained bent over the pages, a soft smile appearing as you highlighted a new section. Until finally, your stop approached. You gently closed the book and climbed down the steps, a gleam in your eyes as more people pushed impatiently past you to escape the heat.

A few stops later, I too, emerged back into the heat, though in less of a happy mood. I trudged the three blocks from the bus stop to my grandmother’s house, where the usual group of children, with their colorful clothes and sticky hands from the popsicles their mothers thrusted into their hands, greeted me.

Something, besides the heat, was bothering me. I couldn’t quite understand it, but I knew that a worry had taken over me. As rumbling occurred outside, warning of a thunderstorm soon to come, I pondered my mood. Why was I so perturbed by this young, vibrant, excited mother-to-be? It was almost as if I felt haunted by your presence, but I didn’t know why. I sat on the porch swing, safe from the downpour, but near enough to watch the duration of the storm as I thought this over.

And then it hit me. Fragments of information came back to me from the psychology class I’d taken a few months ago. You were more likely to have severe complications after birth. Your post-natal concerns were more likely to be dismissed. You were more likely to die from these complications.

I felt uneasy as I remembered the excitement on your face. Is your nursery already set up? I bet it is. You’ve probably pored over every magazine looking for the right shade of paint, researched the safest crib, and picked out the best name. But would you make it back to this room…intact? What are the odds of you sitting in your rocking chair, healing normally, preparing for the journey ahead with your baby? Or would you never make it beyond the operating table? Would the nurses listen to your concerns or would they brush you off? Would they send you home to die?

I now know that what bothers me is that to be a black mother in America doesn’t mean that we get the liberty of being only happy. To be an expecting black mother in America means being forced to have this conversation. To think of what if. To worry if the swelling of your feet is more than a standard symptom of pregnancy. To worry if the pain in your chest after birth is normal or a hint of a complication to come. To worry if you are leaving the hospital knowing that you received the best care.

So I write to you to say: black mother, advocate for yourself. Trust yourself. Trust your body. Know that you are valued. Know that you deserve happiness. Know that you deserve the best care, not only for your baby, but for yourself.

Rewrite: Lecture to Doctors and Nurses

Yes, she is happy, but she is also scared. Maybe this is her first child. Maybe, it’s not. But she wants to leave this hospital with her worries assured. Listen to her. Do not make her feel crazy. When she tells you she feels a pain in her chest, do not write it off. You can save her life. You can change the outcome of her baby’s life.

She has a nursery set up back home. Did you know that it took her weeks to decide on the perfect shade of blue? Did you know that she read 40 Ways to Prepare for Your Bundle of Joy so many times that the pages are worn and the spine is beginning to fall apart? Do you see the joy in her eyes as she looks at her baby? The life that she envisions?

Do not rob of her of that. Order the test. Write down her symptoms. Explore all of the options. She deserves it. Do not let her become another statistic.

How many women come back through the Emergency Room with post-natal complications? And how many of them are black? Ask yourself, what could have been done better? What can be improved? How can you ensure that this disparity disappears?

When you dismiss her, it is her voice that you may deprive her child. Her embrace that they may never feel. Her laugh that they may never hear.

Your profession is noble. You save lives. You make a difference. Your work matters, but can we not do better? Do black women not deserve better?

***Writer’s Notes: After reading both pieces, I realized that the letter was easier for me to write. It comes more from a place of sadness, while the lecture comes more from a place of anger. I do realize that because of this, I don’t know if my lecture would be effective at causing change. It comes off as too accusatory, in my opinion. Baldwin, in contrast, is very aware of his audience and doesn’t come across as 100% angry, which I think would be something for me to work on when revising the lecture. I also struggled with ending both. Should I sign off on the letter? I ultimately decided not to because I don’t think it would be a letter that would be sent. It’s more so a reflection piece for the main character.