I am not your Sapphire
I am not your Sapphire. Not sure what I mean? Read on...
Historically, women of the African diaspora have been viewed through the lens of many stereotypes: the mammy, jezebel, Sapphire, and welfare queen. “The Sapphire portrayal has been around for as long as Black women have dared to critique their lives and treatments,” Dr. David Pilgrim, professor of sociology at Ferris State University explained in his 2008 article The Sapphire Caricature. Our feminine identity has been labeled as fiery, angry, loud, and mean.
These stereotypes become even more limiting and inaccurate when layered with a faulty reproductive identity. We have been associated with stereotypes of caring more for others’ children than our own, with sexual promiscuity and the propensity to reproduce more than the 2.5 children recognized as proper in the “ideal family.” The misrepresentation continues with labels including those who develop earlier, enter motherhood as teens who struggle to raise their children as lifelong recipients of welfare, who are both unmarried and uneducated. There are more stereotypes for Black women than I can adequately address here; however, I must speak to the limitations that have been superimposed on my sisters and dispel a few myths.
We are everything. This fact is a complete sentence. Among women of color, you’ll find those who are passionate and those who are meek and mild. You will also find those who observe all of the many nutrition plans, follow all forms of spirituality, and align with every thought and idea.
We are beautiful. Another fact. A simple observation of our many hues of melanin would lead anyone to the same conclusion. Beauty is sexy and I enjoy the sex appeal of my sisters for our own satisfaction; not for the male gaze or anyone else’s. Perhaps it's the sway of our hips or the rhythm in our stride or not. No one can pigeonhole us into one definition of Black womanhood.
We also embrace the joys and challenges that come with family. We decide how we define it and give it value. We decide to embrace singledom or become someone’s wifey. We set goals for what we’d like our family to look like and work to make that vision a reality. This includes being met with the same challenges one in eight couples face; infertility.
Women of color are more likely to face infertility and less likely to seek treatment according to the CARDIA Women’s study, “Racial Differences in Self-Reported Infertility and Risk Factors for Infertility in a Cohort of Black and White Women.” This is a contradiction to the stereotypes that many have embraced as fact. This can lead to a shame and embarrassment that can render us paralyzed. We find ourselves in disbelief when infertility is the diagnosis. Questions are avoided and specialty appointments go unmade. We just simply don’t know where to begin.
We avoid discussing our diagnosis or asking anyone for insight even though the statistics would suggest that infertility exists among us. I often remind my sisters that each of us can look around the holiday gathering and find a childless relative. We embrace them, love them, and fail to ask them to share their story. The shame allows them to hide in plain sight.
Many of my peers battle the expectations in our families, which only complicates matters. I was raised to avoid all sexual activity until marriage; finding my lifelong partner signaled that the time was right to grow my family. This is true for many women of color. Couples can often be forced to field questioning family members at the wedding reception of when babies will arrive. Others avoid the matter as they are expected to forgo motherhood altogether in the absence of a partner. As though the only acceptable invitation to the parent party comes through the hands of a spouse.
Navigating infertility is complicated by the poor medical care so many Black women receive. Too many of my sisters are rushed through annual exams in their 30s with no mention of reproductive options until they are told the window is just about closed. Others are offered a hysterectomy despite their desires limiting family building options significantly. Add in the complications of fibroids, endometriosis, and PCOS coupled with the distrust of medical professionals and bringing home a baby looks bleak. Very bleak.
But over the silent cries you can hear a sound. It’s the sound of my sisters calling out to each other; heart to heart. The same cry that longs for the family of our dreams, longs for a familiar face. Those who refuse to be denied break out of paralysis and defy the odds. We have the difficult conversations, get second opinions, hire fertility coaches, employ holistic medical practices, borrow and budget for fertility treatments, and find support groups. I did.
My infertility struggle led me to the Detroit Chapter of Fertility For Colored Girls, an amazing group of women bonded together by common experience. We are fiery as we toast to victories. We are angry with undesirable outcomes. Sometimes our tears of anguish are loud and navigating the medical system machine would make anyone mean. We are all of this and more.
The Sapphire stereotype of Black women is as ill-fitting as a dress two sizes too small; it’s simply inadequate for the task. All infertility warriors long for the day when the mysteries of infertility are solved and the legal, insurance-covered options all families deserve exists. While we wait, we gather freely offering support and strategy where our pain and beauty is no surprise.
Essay by LeAndrea Fisher, an infertility advocate and Detroit high school teacher of 25 years. She established Hope In Fertility, a ministry that serves to help the hurting and heal the broken. LeAndrea is also the founding Co-Chair of the Detroit, MI Walk of Hope; the first Michigan Walk of Hope partnership with RESOLVE: The National Infertility Association. LeAndrea serves on the MFA Advisory Committee.