MyBrownBaby Where Black Moms Matter Thu, 04 Feb 2016 03:48:05 +0000 en-US hourly 1 For Your Pregnancy Checklist: Genetic Carrier Screening Mon, 21 Dec 2015 16:36:09 +0000 I didn't have the option when I started my family. But if you're thinking about pregnancy or in the throes of it, Horizon genetic carrier screening should be on your checklist.

The post For Your Pregnancy Checklist: Genetic Carrier Screening appeared first on MyBrownBaby.

new mom_African AmericanBy DENENE MILLNER

I found the papers when I was 12 in a metal box tucked under my parents’ bed. I wasn’t supposed to be snooping all through their personal belongings; my mother had put a lock on her door, presumably to keep my brother and I from dipping into her stash of moon pies and using her pricy, smelly lotions, and discovering her and my dad’s copy of The Joy of Sex. But kids are experts at getting into stuff and finding the hidden, and that little flimsy lock was no match for the wits of a curious preteen and her big brother. If we wanted to see it, it was going to get seen.

But this? This I wasn’t ready for.


My fingers trembled as I brought the paper closer to my face as if the words would magically morph into something wholly different if I just stared at them a little harder, a little longer, a little bit more closely to my 20/20s. But the words just wouldn’t change.

And then, suddenly, it felt like someone had fired buckshot into my chest. The shock was almost unbearable: My mom and dad weren’t my mom and dad. My brother? Not my brother, either. None of them by blood, anyway.

To this day, I can’t tell you how I got those papers back into the metal box, how I pushed that metal back under their bed, how I convinced my legs to carry me out of their room and shut the door and lock it back and act like I’d never seen those papers.

How I managed to keep their secret my secret for all those years.

For years more than 20 years I refused to acknowledge my adoption or tell my parents I knew they’d adopted me. At first it was because I was scared they’d be mad at me for snooping, but as I grew older, that morphed into my need to protect their privacy. Maybe they didn’t want to explain to everyone coming and going why they didn’t have biological babies together, or where they found me, or why my birth parents gave me up. Maybe, I reasoned, my mom and dad feared I would search for the people who abandoned me on the stoop of that New York City orphanage that I would find them and, in turn, reject the two people who didn’t give me blood, but who truly gave me life. Genetic Carrier Testing Infographic

I couldn’t do that to them. To me. To us. Though my birth parents deserve praise for birthing me and having the courage to love me enough to give me away, my parents get the glory for raising me, educating me, supporting me, disciplining me, and loving me beyond measure and doing it with an enormous amount of grace and wisdom. Despite the odds. With little money. And no help. Just them.

And love.

No, there was no need to find the birth parents; it didn’t even occur to me to do so. Not until, that is, I became pregnant with my first baby.

Not knowing, you see, wreaked havoc on my health history, which, because I don’t know who my birth parents are, is basically non-existent. From the time I’ve been old enough to go to the doctor on my own, I’ve been forced to leave the family history part of the stacks of first-visit papers blank, which always leads to a really awkward opening conversation with my doctors, who realize pretty early on that they’ll have to treat whatever is ailing me without the extremely valuable family health history‑tools they need to figure out what might be causing my health problems. I haven’t a clue if cancer runs in my family, or diabetes, or weight problems hypertension, stroke, gout. I don’t know if I carry autosomal recessive or X-linked genes that could pass down into my children and their children and their children, too. You name it, it could be lurking, waiting to claim me or someone in my blood-line, and I will have no clue until it taps me or them on the shoulder and goes to work on my system.

This was most glaring while I was pregnant; neither of my ob-gyns had the valuable information they needed to help me figure out health risks for my pregnancy and, more important, my children. They knew Nick’s family’s health and were able to keep an eye out for specific Chiles family issues. But my side of it was the big unknown you might as well have crossed an “X” across my paperwork.

And this disturbed me greatly.

I couldn’t change this in time enough for my pregnancies, and while I still have no interest in finding out who my birth parents are (wouldn’t be able to anyway, seeing as she/he/they left me on a stoop in the middle of Manhattan) I do wish that the government would change laws to at least allow adopted kids access to their health history, even if their adoption records are sealed tighter than Ft. Knox. And it is incredible that, today, there are ways to screen for fairly common genetic conditions, yielding the critical information parents and their doctors need to make informed decisions about their babies’ health even before they’re born.

My story doesn’t need to and shouldn’t be your story if you know who your birth parents are and you’re looking to get pregnant or are pregnant. For sure, all you have to do to gather up your family health history is to start asking questions. Ask your mother and father who has/had what in their family; hit up your aunties and uncles at the next family reunion; quiz your cousins at the next barbeque. Your “play” aunties might even have some info—might know what your granddaddy’s brother might have had when he passed on. Then take that information and write it down.

In addition, you should be talking to your doctor about genetic screening. While genetic screening tests are pretty new, the need has been around for a long time. Carriers of autosomal recessive and X-linked genetic conditions like Cystic Fibrosis, Spinal Muscular Atrophy and Fragile X are usually healthy and symptom free and don’t know they’re a carrier until they have an affected child. It’s actually common for people to be carriers of 4-5 genetic conditions, but most people don’t realize this until they have an affected child. Some of these conditions aren’t detectable at birth and are not discovered until the child is older. Check out the accompanying infographic that focuses on educating women about their genetic testing options while they are trying to conceive.

I didn’t have this option. You do. Please, don’t take it for granted.

This is a sponsored post. However, all opinions, of course, are my own.

The post For Your Pregnancy Checklist: Genetic Carrier Screening appeared first on MyBrownBaby.

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Mater Mea: Denene Millner of MyBrownBaby Shares the Joy of Black Motherhood On The Most Gorgeous Site! Wed, 11 Nov 2015 17:03:55 +0000 The Black parenting site, mater mea, celebrates Denene Millner, celebrity memoirist and founder of MyBrownBaby, in its latest issue.

The post Mater Mea: Denene Millner of MyBrownBaby Shares the Joy of Black Motherhood On The Most Gorgeous Site! appeared first on MyBrownBaby.

Denene Millner and daughters_mater mea

Hey, darlings! I know it’s been a minute since I’ve posted; I’m off in Writer Land, penning celebrity memoirs for some amazing folk who, this time next year, will blow your mind with their powerful stories. Know that I’m missing on y’all something fierce, and I’ll be back to writing regularly here on MyBrownBaby when I can come up for air. In the meantime, though, I’m so very proud to share with the MyBrownBaby crew this amazing feature of me, Denene Millner of MyBrownBaby, and my family in the latest edition of mater mea!

I’ve made no secret of my love for mater mea, this delicious site that mixes art, words and intelligent thought to highlight the beauty, challenges, complexities and fierceness of Black motherhood. I love the stories and how they dig down to the meat of what it means to be a Black woman juggling work and family; the photography, with its rich, lush aesthetic, makes the compelling profiles sing.

And now, MyBrownBaby is a part of the mater mea narrative! My profile, penned by Dara Mathis and accompanied by gorgeous pics shot by Tim Redman, highlights my work as a New York Times bestselling author and the creator of MyBrownBaby, and also digs into my thoughts on beauty, raising fierce girls and my experience blending families. Anthonia Akitunde, founder and editor-in-chief of mater mea, graciously agreed to allow me to excerpt a piece of my profile here on MyBrownBaby, but I encourage you to read it in its entirety over on mater mea and share it widely in your own networks.

Denene Millner and family_mater mea


My kids are goofy as hell! They’re funny! Nothing makes me happier than waking up late on a Saturday morning. My kids come in and they just start dancing and laughing and tickling my feet, sticking their finger in their dad’s ears, and laying down in the bed with us, laughing and giggling, and having a good time. That is what memories are made of.

I like to think that our memories are something that they’ll carry forward when they have their own kids. The ability to sit down at a table and have dinner with each other every night, to go to a football game, to have fun and share a funnel cake and get the powder all over ourselves and laugh about it. That’s what life is made of: enjoying each other’s company.

That’s what I love most about motherhood: Enjoying the humanness of our family, creating a space for two amazing human beings I helped create, leading them on this journey toward womanhood, and arming them with all the things they need to make a good life.

Nothing makes me more pumped than trying to figure out ways that I can do that for them, because I love them. I would stop breathing air this next second if it meant my daughters would be spared or that they would have a good life. That’s [another] part of motherhood that I love: The idea that you could love someone so big, so wide, so deeply—it’s just astounding to me. It really is.

* * *

mater mea logo

This photo and quote was reprinted with permission from mater mea.

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A MyBrownBaby Weekend: Jem and the Holograms Fri, 23 Oct 2015 04:35:14 +0000 Who can argue with Jem and the Holograms, a movie that encourages tween and teen girls to take off the mask and be their authentic selves?

The post A MyBrownBaby Weekend: Jem and the Holograms appeared first on MyBrownBaby.


The girlpies and I saw the trailer for Jem and the Holograms during the previews for Dope, a coming-of-age flick about a brilliant Black boy forced to walk the line between being the smart, quirky, slightly cornball kid that he is and the hip, dangerous dunce everyone else expects him to be. We were excited about Dope, but that Jem trailer had us feigning for something more: a teen movie that speaks directly to the tricky, sticky world girls navigate as they figure out how to be who they truly are, even when it seems everyone else is looking for them to fit into an entirely different mold. And isn’t this the standard for tween and teenage girls—the struggle to… be?

Jem and the Holograms is a take on the cartoon show of the same name from the 80s. I was too old to watch and glom into it back then, but its popularity was palpable and, judging by the fact that it’s now a movie, apparently full of adaptable themes. The movie launches the show’s premise into 2015: Jerrica, a singer, becomes a reluctant rock star with a secret identity after a YouTube video of her performing goes viral. She forms a band with her sisters Kimber (Stefanie Scott), Shana (Aurora Perrineau) and Aja (Hayley Kiyoko), but is forced by an evil record company to go solo, leaving her sisters behind.

There appear to be a number of running themes I’m happy for my daughters to hear again and again: the importance of family, the value of embracing a talent, even and especially when doing so is scary, the weight that comes with being the hero. There’s some outrageous fun, too, with Synergy, a droid created by Jerrica’s deceased dad, which beams heartwarming holograms of a young Jem being schooled on love, happiness and following one’s passions by her loving father.

I can’t imagine that my girlpies, particularly the Taylor Swift-loving, YouTube video obsessed, TV show hostess with the mostest Totally Lila, won’t totally fall in love with Jem and the Holograms and take to painting her face in sparkly hot pink stripes just because. I see it coming. I’m cool with it, too, if the movie inspires her to keep on being her authentic self. I’ve got a couple of hot dates with Totally Lila this weekend: we’ll be in the house at the Atlanta Taylor Swift concert on Saturday, and on Sunday, we’ll top off the weekend with a primo seat at the movies to check out Jem. Yup!

Jem and the Holograms opens today in theaters nationwide. Check out the trailer up top. Buy your Jem and the Holograms tickets here.

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Racist Selfie Mocking Black Child Makes Me Remember Why I Never Hired White Sitters Tue, 06 Oct 2015 04:01:52 +0000 In the latest edition of “Saying Stupid Shit On Facebook Will Get You Dragged by Black Twitter, Fired From Your Job and Lead To a...

The post Racist Selfie Mocking Black Child Makes Me Remember Why I Never Hired White Sitters appeared first on MyBrownBaby.

Racist Selfie Mocking Black ChildIn the latest edition of “Saying Stupid Shit On Facebook Will Get You Dragged by Black Twitter, Fired From Your Job and Lead To a Life Of Ruin,” a white guy who posted a picture of his co-worker’s 3-year-old Black son, inspiring a thread of racist slavery jokes about the toddler, is now out of  a job and trying to salvage his edges from a vicious internet snatching.

To be clear, Gerod Roth, who went by the name Garis Hilton on Facebook, deserved what he had coming. Without the knowledge or consent of Sydney Shelton, his Polaris Marketing Group coworker, Roth posted that picture of Shelton’s son, Cayden Jace, and, for two weeks, left it there with a grip of foul jokes up and down the thread, including “Help feed this poor child today,” “I didn’t know you were a slave owner,” “Kunta… kunta kinte,” “But Massuh, I dindu nuttin,” and even a cover of a Little Black Sambo book. Roth later chimed in, calling the toddler “feral.” As in a wild animal.

Sheldon didn’t find out about the exploitation of her son until concerned Facebook users shared the image and thread with the hopes of finding Cayden’s parents. According to Colorlines, two weeks had passed by before the mother realized her child was being exploited on the internet by her fellow employee, who had nary a problem working everyday with Sheldon and kee-keeing with her son, even as he and his friends made fun of the toddler online.

That is some nasty, shady, disgustingly foul mess right there—enough, I know, to have made even the most sane, rational Black mama want to wait for him out in the parking lot with a posse and maybe a choice bat or two. Luckily for Roth, Cayden’s mother has sense. She reserved her anger and instead focused on changing the narrative blazing across search engines—a narrative that describes her son as everything but what he is: a beautiful, smart, sweet, funny Black boy who deserves the respect and protection we afford to children.

“I just want people to understand that Cayden is the absolute opposite of what they said of that picture,” she told Colorlines. “He’s the smartest kid. He’s got such a big personality.”

With the help of an online friend and advocate, she also started the hashtag #HisNameIsCayden so that rather than training attention on Roth, she could shine a light on her heart and joy. The hashtag was accompanied by a passionate Facebook post and a grip of gorgeous pics of her and her son.


Sheldon’s job also threw its support behind the mother and her son by firing the hell out of Roth, and releasing a passionate Twitter statement of its own, praising Sheldon and her baby. Michael De Grassa Pinto, the company’s president, wrote:

This morning I was disgusted to learn that one of my former employees made several racially charged comments on his personal Facebook page. Even worse, the comments were directed toward the son of another employee. It breaks my heart that Sydney and her adorable son Cayden were subjected to such hateful, ignorant and despicable behavior. Cayden visits my office almost every afternoon after daycare, he’s sat at my dinner table and I consider him a part of the PMG family. The atrocious lies, slander and racism he and his mother have been forced to endure are wholly intolerable. Myself and the entire PMG family in no way condones this kind of behavior and would never willingly associate with anyone who does. It has no place in this world. PMG has terminated the employee responsible and will ensure that none of the business that we associate with will ever do business with him again.

I couldn’t be more proud of the way Cayden’s mom handled the situation, or her company for having her back and saying, under no uncertain terms, is what Roth did acceptable. But I promise you, the story dug up all kinds of reservations I had when the girlpies were little and I was all new and leary about leaving them in the care of others and I was on what seemed like an endless search for a sitter. The truth is, I didn’t trust the idea of having a white nanny watching my Black daughters. I just couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to trust that a white woman (or man) could and would know how to do the basics, like lotion their skin after a bath every time, or style their kinky hair without breaking it or having them leave the house looking like they were wearing a bird’s nest on the top of their heads, or know how to talk to them about the beauty of a Donny Hathaway song or a Stevie Wonder lyric or the chocolate in a juicy Kadir Nelson illustration.

Mostly, though, I was scared to death that a white Nanny would do exactly what Roth did behind Sheldon’s back: mock and encourage racist behavior directed at my children, or, worse, slay my children’s self-esteem with sideways comments about things they can’t change and that I’ve vowed to spend their lifetimes teaching them how to love: their skin, their hair, their Black bodies, their culture, their family, their souls. It was just best for everyone involved that I hire a sitter who could, shall I say, hit the ground running with knowing how to handle the racial aspects of caring for Black children, and stick to letting my children around white adults I liked, trusted, vetted and spent an incredible amount of time around to be sure we wouldn’t have the equivalent of a racist selfie mocking black child moment.

Yes, I know this sounds unfair. Some may even consider me intolerant. But I’m human and Black and wise enough to know the limitations of others and especially my own: had Roth or someone like him done that to one of my babies, you would not be writing nice things about me. You’d be raising my bail.

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Fit: One Woman’s Journey Getting Her Body Ready For a Baby Of Her Own Mon, 28 Sep 2015 04:01:20 +0000 Dreams of motherhood seem elusive for this woman, who is getting her body—and mind—ready for a baby she's having a time trying to conceive.

The post Fit: One Woman’s Journey Getting Her Body Ready For a Baby Of Her Own appeared first on MyBrownBaby.

Getting Her Body Ready For a Baby


Of course now that it’s almost too late, it’s all I can possibly think of. I want to finally arrive at that place where I’ve never been, but where I know for certain I belong. I want there to be a space for me without question or concessions made. I want to fit.

It’s been more than four years since I’ve changed my diet, not in a craze or some bandwagon that everyone’s jumping on. I’ve reduced the intake of meats, sugars, refined grains, and even cow’s milk. I grew up on a tall glass every night before bed for strong teeth and bones, and now it’s all about the almond variety. It’s olive and coconut oil, and no frying, just baking, sautéing, or grilling. It’s less juice and water, water, water, even though I know I don’t drink enough of it, but I try.

It’s been about two years since my last obstacle course race, lugging cinder blocks and climbing walls, and crawling through mud, and jumping over flames. I’ve kept up a routine of riding a bicycle and periodically jogging in the park. I dip in and out of martial arts classes to jog my memory of a jab-cross-hook followed by a swift knee to the ribs. The body doesn’t forget when you’ve rolled endlessly on a mat going from mount to guard to hip throw and back again. All manner of submissions comes flowing back to your hands and elbows and shoulders and ankles even if you don’t remember all the names. Some things you just feel.

I feel strong when my heart races after sets of jump rope or sprints up and down stairs or burpees in my living room. All these things I work on to build stamina and endurance, and maybe some killer glutes, are all part of a plan. There’s things I need to make ready beforehand so that when I get there, everything will be right. After all the work and the practice, there are the tests. The weight is in perfect balance for height and frame. The blood is rich from that good nutrition and conscientious swallowing of Vitafol Ultra every day.

Then there are other tests of things I can’t control. Genetic mapping, clear Fallopian tubes, ovulation cycle, follicle growth, egg maturation. There’s no way to prepare for these other than handing over the arm with the good vein for blood draw, and sliding down to edge of the bed, placing my feet in the stirrups, and bracing for the probe covered with a latex sheath tipped with lubricant searching, checking to see what’s happening in there.

I’ve done the work to be fit. My legs look good in short shorts, my shoulders sing under spaghetti straps, the belly is not quite a six-pack, but it’s flat. I can hold a conversation during my two-mile jog, and I can stand on my head without using the wall anymore. But maybe too much time has passed, and maybe I’m to old now to fit into that place where I’ve never been but I know I belong. I’m supposed to live there with all my rights and privileges; my badges of honor clear for everyone to see. But maybe I waited too long to choose. Maybe I was waiting to be chosen. Maybe I never thought it would come to this. Sitting in a room, waiting for my name to be called. Swallowing a series of pills starting on day three of my cycle, going in starting on day twelve to check for follicle size with an individually sealed trigger shot tucked in purse in case that day is the day. Leaning back with the paper sheet wrapped around my waist looking at the black and white screen, hiding the tear slipping down one side of my face. There’s no work to be done here, besides the obvious. At this point, the act takes on a different tone. It’s love, it’s always been love, but now there’s a veil of desperation that I’m reaching through like we’re on two sides of a canyon, arms outstretched, leaning, pulling, longing with every inch to finally fit together in that place we have never been, but where we both know we belong.

I’ve written your name down on small Post-It squares. I write quick notes, saying random things that you might want to know and I always sign them, Love Mommy. I say your name but only to myself, only when I’m alone, and never too loud. No one knows it but us. It’s our secret, our prayer, the only place in the whole world where we fit.

* * *

Danielle B. lives in Forest Hills, New York. SALT is her first novel.

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A Day With HIV: A Black Mom Shares Her Story Of Diagnosis and Survival Mon, 21 Sep 2015 04:01:16 +0000 In honor of A Day With HIV, Masonia Traylor, a Black mom of two, talks diagnosis, survival and concrete ways to strike down barriers for HIV-infected moms.

The post A Day With HIV: A Black Mom Shares Her Story Of Diagnosis and Survival appeared first on MyBrownBaby.

A Day With HIVFor Masonia Traylor, contracting HIV wasn’t supposed to happen. She had been, after all, the most responsible one of her high school friends—the one who kept aspirin and spare pants and candy in her locker in case one of her girls got her period, and who always had a listening ear for those who faced abuse at home and a shoulder to cry on for those who had boyfriend problems. It was Masonia, too, who encouraged her friends to take their health seriously, particularly their sexual health, persuading them to follow in her footsteps and get tested annually for HIV to make sure that they hadn’t contracted the disease or passed it along to their partners. So nurturing and responsible was she that Masonia’s friends called her “grandma.”

But being a grandma to everyone else couldn’t protect Masonia from a potential killer. Indeed, during a routine annual gynecological visit, she found out the devastating news: she was HIV positive.

She was 23 years old.

Two weeks later, she found out she was pregnant with her second child.

“After all of that preaching, I ended up being the one who ended up positive,” Masonia told in an exclusive interview as part of the annual awareness campaign, A Day With HIV. “Getting tested wasn’t enough prevention. Nor was monogamy. I ended up putting my life in someone else’s hands by not knowing my partner’s status.

“I was numb. I was in disbelief that I was positive,” she added. “I kept saying, ‘I’m not sick, I don’t have symptoms. I wanted a third and fifth opinion, a twelfth and a twentieth, too. But it was real. And every day, it was like I was going to a funeral. I kept asking myself, what did I do so bad to deserve this. Is it because I didn’t forgive people for hurting me? Was I supposed to be a virgin until I got married? Maybe I’m being punished for having sex at an early age.”

Of course, Masonia’s reasoning was illogical. She got the virus that causes AIDS because she unwittingly had unprotected sex with someone who was infected—simple as that. And she would have to walk through fire and fight her way through a web of racism, poverty, ineffectual policy and emotional distress to fight the disease not only for herself, but her then-unborn daughter.

First, she had to overcome the desire to abort her baby. “I didn’t want her to go through the mental, emotional and physical distress I was going through,” she said. Then, when she did decide to go through with the pregnancy, she had to fight the devastating effects that came with overloading her system with AZT, a powerful anti-viral drug that made her so sick, she almost stopped taking it—a move that, surely, could have led to her daughter contracting the disease.

In the meantime, she was forced to figure out how to afford rent, utilities, food for both her and her young son, and healthcare costs for both her management of her HIV (the AZT medication alone cost almost $2,000 per month) and her high-risk pregnancy on a part-time pharmacist’s salary of about $900 per month. She was, quite literally, drowning. Sick as she was, she tried to secure extra hours at work, applied for and got food stamps and did hair on the side to make ends meet. Because she was part-time, she got no maternity leave, and when she was finally able to recover enough to make it back to her job, they’d given it to someone else.

“I lost so much of my joy and happiness and being in fear of possibly dying or getting sick or being afraid,” she said. “I didn’t have any love to give anyone. I was sleep deprived after having the baby. I went through post partum, but no one knew. I hated myself. I was disappointed in myself for making the decisions I’d made. I felt like there was nothing else that could happen to me other than cancer, and even that I thought wasn’t as bad as this. I could beat cancer. But this…”

It was this experience that helped her understand the barriers women in general and women of color in particular face when they’re pregnant and HIV positive. “Why would you be concerned about getting care for your HIV when your basic needs aren’t being met?” she asked. “If you can’t get help at the food stamp office because you miss a phone call for an interview, and it takes weeks for them to get back to you, and you have to go search for free baskets of food and you don’t want to tell people you’re struggling because of your status and you’re afraid because you’re not educated about the disease,” you’re shutting down. You break down emotionally, mentally, spiritually and then the physical thing comes, and that’s how your child is born HIV positive. The barriers are real, and HIV is just the icing on the cake.”

It took Masonia two years to get to the point where she could forgive—and learn to love—herself through the Masonia Traylordisease. “Eventually, I learned that HIV is something anyone can get,” she said. “I didn’t do anything wrong. And then I started looking at it from a standpoint of an epidemic— one that affects a population of unheard voices, particularly heterosexual women.”

Now, Masonia is a passionate advocate on behalf of Black women and the communities in which they live—a “grandma” very much in the vein of the fierce advocate she was in high school, supporting and preaching to her friends. On A Day With HIV, she’ll be working on national policy she hopes will help knock down the barriers surrounding perinatal transmission—much like those she faced while she was pregnant. She’s also quite outspoken about holding Black men, in particular, accountable for being what she calls “the protectors” of our community. If they’re having unprotected sex and refusing to find out their status, she says, they’re harming Black women, their children—indeed, all of us.

“Whether they’re gay, straight or bisexual, they are the protectors of us women. In order for us to be childbearing women and give birth, we have to be in contact with Black men. They have to help us protect the next generation.”

* * *

Thank God for Masonia Traylor—for her health, for her babies, for her experience, for her advocacy on behalf of us. We at MyBrownBaby salute her and all of the fearless advocates who bravely share their experiences to not only heal themselves, but to save our lives.

To read more about A Day with HIV or to participate in the campaign, follow along and post a picture in support of those affected by HIV on the following social media channels:


* * *

A Day with HIV is presented by POSITIVELY AWARE, the most widely-read HIV treatment journal in the U.S., published by the non-profit AIDS service organization, Test Positive Aware Network. This year’s campaign is being conducted in partnership with Let’s Stop HIV Together, an HIV awareness and anti-stigma program from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

This post was made possible by support from the Let’s Stop HIV Together campaign. All opinions are my own.

The post A Day With HIV: A Black Mom Shares Her Story Of Diagnosis and Survival appeared first on MyBrownBaby.

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Saying No To Your Child: It’s a GOOD Thing—and They’ll Thank You For It Mon, 14 Sep 2015 04:01:50 +0000 When did saying no to your child become a bad thing? Writer Lori Tharps asks the questions and gives the perfect answer: just say no.

The post Saying No To Your Child: It’s a GOOD Thing—and They’ll Thank You For It appeared first on MyBrownBaby.

Saying No To Your Child


A few weeks ago, I took my four-year-old daughter to ballet class. When we got there, it was clear one of the students — let’s call her Becky — did not feel like doing ballet that day. Becky spent the first 15 minutes of class doing everything but dancing. The teacher’s response was to simply ignore her. Becky just got louder.

Becky’s mom observed all of this with only haphazard attempts at getting Becky to behave. First, she offered Becky a cookie if she behaved. Then she promised to take Becky toy shopping if she behaved. Finally, and only after Becky threw one of her pink sneakers at her mom, hitting her squarely in the face, did Becky’s mom screw up the courage to say no: “No, Becky, you cannot throw shoes at your mother.”

She took Becky home and the rest of us finished watching our children stumble through ballet class.

Later that day I was recounting the story to my friend and I found myself wondering when saying “no” became such a big deal? Why did Becky’s mom need a sneaker upside her head before she could say no to her daughter? I say no to my three kids all the time.

Here are some things I say no to on a regular basis:

  1. No console video games
  2. No cable
  3. No social media
  4. No allowance
  5. No caffeinated soda
  6. No sugary cereals for breakfast
  7. No headphones or electronics of any kind at the dining table
  8. No TV during the week during the school year
  9. No cellphones that cost the same as your parent’s cellphone
  10. No using the phrase, “I’m bored.”

I’m not a Tiger Mom, but I do roar!

A few years ago, author Amy Chua came under fire for her book, “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother” where she too confessed to saying no to a lot of things many Western parents consider normal. No play dates, no sleepovers, no grades lower than an “A” on report cards. Chua defended her parenting choices by saying she was raising her daughters the same way her parents raised her.

While I wholly disagree with most of Chua’s parenting ideals, I do think she touched on a critical issue in that American parents are far too concerned with making their children “happy” instead of making them smart or successful. I think saying “no” to my kids will help them be smart, successful, safe, useful, respectful, humble and happy.

But back to my draconian list of no-no’s in our home.

We’ve never had cable or video games in the house because I think those things distract children from all of the other things that require their time like homework, music lessons, sports, playing outside and chores. And speaking of chores, I have never understood why anyone would pay their kids for helping to keep the house they inhabit — and frequently mess up — clean. Quite frankly, they should be paying me for cooking, cleaning and doing the laundry.

If my kids need money they know they can always ask, but they’re also pretty clever at finding ways to make money on their own. My older son cuts the neighbor’s grass. My younger son comes with me whenever I do a book signing and I pay him for acting as my set up and clean up crew.

Luckily, my kids don’t complain much about all of the “no’s” in their life because it’s all they have ever known. Truth be told, it also makes my life easier as a parent.

By just saying no to things like Facebook and TV during the week for example, I’m freed up from constant media monitoring and having to implement schedules for TV time or video game time. It’s a win-win — my kids are happy and I’m happy.

Little Becky thrashing around on the floor? I’m guessing, not so happy.

Lori L. Tharps is the co-author of “Hair Story: Untangling the Roots of Black Hair in America” and the novel, “Substitute Me.” She blogs at This piece was reposted from Philly Parenting, with permission from the author.

The post Saying No To Your Child: It’s a GOOD Thing—and They’ll Thank You For It appeared first on MyBrownBaby.

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Black Ink Crew: The Touching Moment Sky Reveals She Gave Up Her Sons For Adoption At 14 Thu, 10 Sep 2015 04:01:31 +0000 Sky, the most transparent member of Black Ink Crew, came clean about giving up her children for adoption—and we couldn't love her more for her candor.

The post Black Ink Crew: The Touching Moment Sky Reveals She Gave Up Her Sons For Adoption At 14 appeared first on MyBrownBaby.


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Black Ink Crew

Confession: I love tattoos, Black people and Harlem, and if I wasn’t such a punk for pain and had a little cash, I’d totally go to New York City to get myself a signature tat at Black Ink, the tattoo parlor featured in the hit VH-1 show, Black Ink Crew. But after this week’s episode, I want to go there, too, to hug Sky, the shop manager who tearfully revealed that she gave up two sons for adoption when she was only age 14.

Sky’s revelation came at the doctor’s office, where, frankly, adoption secrets always find an airing. I promise you, every time I look a doctor in the eye, whether for myself or with my children, I lose a small piece of my soul explaining over and over again how I don’t know my full medical history because I’m adopted, don’t have access to my medical records and have no idea what traits and diseases run in my blood, which, of course, means that my daughters only know half their medical history, too, and can’t find out what’s lurking in their own blood until their mommy gets sick. Trust me, it’s a devastating conversation to have again and again, particularly with strangers, even if they are medical professionals.

In Sky’s case, she was forced to reveal her choice to give up her babies for adoption when she went in for a Brazilian butt lift. Apparently, in order to get the procedure, she had to tell whether she’d ever been pregnant or had a baby. At first, Sky lied to the nurse who asked, even though her stretch marks betrayed her. But when her friend was ushered out of the room and her doctor arrived, Sky came clean: she was only 14 when she gave birth, and she gave her babies away knowing that another family could and would provide the stable home she couldn’t give them. She was embarrassed, it seemed, by a number of things: having children at such a young age; being unable to financially afford to take care of them; going to jail and having to make the heartbreaking decision to give up her kids. Still, she was desperate for us, the viewers, to see the upside of her decision. “The end results is, my kids [are] with a beautiful family and they’ve been to countries I can’t even pronounce, got shit I’d never be able to give them, and I love them dearly. I just couldn’t do it, and I’m not going to be some slouch-ass, bum-ass parent. I tried to take care of them and I couldn’t.”

The moment after she explains why she gave up her babies for adoption, she breaks down and cries out in sheer agony over her loss. Anyone with a heart that beats and pumps warm blood through their veins should sympathize with this mother, not only for her choice, but the bravery and heartbreak that came with that choice. Those are the tears of a mother’s love.

It’s rough having to explain and defend and suffer and pray over all that comes with adoption, even as you try your best to process it for yourself, no matter if you’re the birth parent, the adoptive parent, the adoptee or the family of one of the three. But I’m grateful to Sky, for, as always, being incredibly transparent and candid about her life journey, and inviting us into this, her most intimate space, to shine a light on this oft-overlooked perspective.

I once wrote an open letter to my own birth mother, thanking her for giving me away. She could have, after all, taken my life to save her own—by aborting me or putting me in a trash can somewhere. Instead, she or someone she knew gave me away, and my parents found me and took me home. My birth mother was the vessel through which I took my first breath, but she made it possible for two people to love me and raise me and give me a life. I wrote this passage in 2011’s “A Mother’s Love: A Love Letter To The Woman Who Gave Me Away,” and it remains true, today:

In my mind, though, I like to think of my birth mother as selfless. After all, she could have easily given birth to me in secret, ashamed and scared and in deep denial—a pain so searing that she saw no other way out but to take my life. Or she could have found herself on a table in the backroom of an illegal abortion clinic, desperate for a way to end my life to save her own.

Instead, though, this woman gave me life by giving me away. She, or someone she knew, left me on a stoop, I’m told, somewhere down on Canal Street. As far as I know, there was no note—no details, no explanations, no promises. Just the expectation that the people who ran the orphanage would find a decent home for the chocolate dewdrop of a baby with the chubby cheeks and the curly hair, with arms outstretched, looking for a mom and dad to love me and nurture me and care for me and pray for me for the rest of my days.

It could be that my vision of what led me to that stoop on that day at that particular time—just four days before my parents came looking for me—is more romantic than the truth. Or maybe it’s spot on. Whatever it is, I know this much is true: I am forever grateful to her, this woman who gave me life, for letting me live and loving me enough not only to want for me what she knew she couldn’t provide but having the strength to find someone who could. It was a decision that led me to this specific place at this specific time—to a life filled with love and joy and peace and beauty.

What I’m sure she wanted for her baby girl.

Know this, Sky: though your heart is still heavy and may remain that way for a long time to come, the truth is you did something incredibly selfless, incredibly noble, incredibly beautiful. Through the heartbreak, through all that pain, you were and are a mother in every sense of the word—a mother who loves her babies with abandon.

Real talk: next time I’m in Harlem, I want to hug your neck.

The post Black Ink Crew: The Touching Moment Sky Reveals She Gave Up Her Sons For Adoption At 14 appeared first on MyBrownBaby.

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Raising Dion: A Comic Book Imagines A Black Single Mom Parenting Her Superhero Son Thu, 03 Sep 2015 04:01:07 +0000 Raising Dion is a delicious new superhero comic book series with an unlikely here: a Black single mom whose only superpower is love for her superhero son.

The post Raising Dion: A Comic Book Imagines A Black Single Mom Parenting Her Superhero Son appeared first on MyBrownBaby.


Single Black moms are heroic—that’s no secret. But imagine if one mom in particular were raising a second-grade Black boy with superpowers? How would her parenting—indeed, the love, nurturing and tender care she pours into raising him—contribute to the kind of superhero he’d turn out to be? It’s an interesting question posed by the new comic book Raising Dion, and MyBrownBaby is so here for it!

Raising Dion, written by Dennis Liu and illustrated by Jason Piperberg, is about the travails of Nicole, a widowed mom whose 7-year-old son, Dion, has the gift of invisibility, plasma powers and telekinesis. Keeping an adorably precocious little boy from mischievousness is tough enough, but when he can disappear while you’re helping him get dressed, make his cereal float in the air when he’s supposed to be eating it, and make small fires in the parquet floors while pretend playing, parenting alone can be a whole ‘nother level of challenging. But things become even more complicated for Nicole when she notices mysterious men trailing her and her baby, and with Dion’s developing abilities constantly changing and becoming more powerful and possibly evil, Nicole has to find the courage to not only protect her son, but employ her human will and heart to steer her son toward being a hero and far away from being a villain. Raising Dion cover

What a stellar send up to the heroic job that everyday single moms navigate as they raise their children, all-too-often sans the support, pay or respect they deserve. What’s most delicious about Raising Dion? The protagonist and her superhero son are African American, the rarest of finds in the mostly lily-white world of comic books.

Check out the trailer up top; it’s so amazeballs I’m ready for Raising Dion to be a movie already. Hello HBO? Netflix? Amazon Instant Video? Disney? THIS is the kind of flick that would make folks RUN in droves to the theaters to see something original, interesting, smart and a huge departure from the superhero flops piling up in a heap on film house floors.

In the meantime, while we anxiously await the film, we’re happy to support the Raising Dion comic book, available for FREE as a digital download on I’ll be copping the hard copy for Totally Lila, a comic book and superhero fan who was totally turned out by the Raising Dion trailer and wants more, more, more of this spectacular series. Liu notes that hard copy sales will go toward continuing the series; support him and this incredible storyline by buying a copy for your babies.

Download a digital copy of Raising Dion here.
Purchase the hard copy of Raising Dion here.
Join the Raising Dion Facebook page here.


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Michael Robinson’s Diabetes Jail Death Over Child Support Was Cruel Tue, 25 Aug 2015 04:01:45 +0000 Michael Robinson got arrested for failing to pay child support and died after being denied life-saving insulin. It's time to advocate for prisoner's rights.

The post Michael Robinson’s Diabetes Jail Death Over Child Support Was Cruel appeared first on MyBrownBaby.

michael robinson


This is the number that I cannot get out of mind since the news broke on August 19 that Michael Robinson, a 33-year-old Black father, died as a result of being denied life-sustaining insulin used to treat his diabetes.

According to Raw Story:

“Michael Robinson was arrested Friday on a warrant for unpaid child support, local KFVS reports. Robinson was a diabetic that needed insulin shots at least twice a day. He was taken to Pemiscot County Jail, where his family says he begged jailers for insulin but was denied until he became so weak he couldn’t hold his head up.

Robinson’s cousin, Brig Feltus, posted a comment from his sister saying that she believed Robinson was placed in solitary confinement to keep him quiet, because he was loudly saying he needed insulin.”

When Robinson was taken to the hospital on Sunday evening, it was too late. His blood sugar was said to be 2500. A normal blood sugar level is between about 70 and 140. My suspicion is that Robinson is a type 1 diabetic (meaning he is insulin dependent because his body made no insulin), and he died from a condition called Diabetic Ketoacidosis (DKA), in which a body becomes toxic. Type I diabetes accounts for about 5-10% of diabetic cases. It is an autoimmune disease in which the body doesn’t produce its own insulin (a hormone needed to live), so insulin must be administered via insulin injections or an insulin pump. Just a few days without insulin can quickly kill a Type 1 diabetic.

Robinson’s death was preventable. And his crawl toward death was cruel.

Avoiding child support isn’t a crime that should be punishable by death. #MichaelRobinson
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I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes in 2006 in an emergency room. I was in DKA. I was not only experiencing

Me, three months before diagnosis.

Rachel Garlinghouse, three months before critical diagnosis of Type 1 Diabetes.

tall-tale signs of type 1 (extreme thirst and hunger, the chronic need to urinate, unexplained weight loss), but the increasingly high blood sugars my body was spiraling toward caused my vision to be very blurry. I was foggy, disoriented. My legs and feet felt like there were millions of ants crawling inside them. I was breathless, feeling like I was suffocating with no relief.   I couldn’t drink enough water. My body couldn’t regulate its temperature, and I was shaking with cold despite having four warmed blankets heaped upon my frame. My head felt like it had been replaced with a bowling ball (just as Robinson, who “became so weak he couldn’t hold his head up). I was depressed, thirty pounds underweight (I looked like a concentration camp prisoner), and deathly ill.

Being in DKA was torture. If I hadn’t have gone to the ER on the day I did, I would have died, probably within the next day or two.

I know what it feels like to not have insulin, and it’s scary. Very, very scary.

I certainly agree that a parent who doesn’t pay child support should be held accountable. A child is an innocent party in a sometimes volatile situation, and a child has needs that should be met by the parents, including financial needs.

However, not paying child support isn’t a crime that should be punishable by death.

Given the current racial climate in our country and the multiple and unwarranted deaths of Black citizens at the hands of police, it’s fair for many of us to ask: Was denying Robinson’s need for life-sustaining insulin racially motivated? And, given the death of Sandra Bland while in police custody in Texas, and Ralkina Jones, a 37-year-old African American woman from Cleveland who passed after her jailers failed to give her the medicine she made clear she needed, should prisoner rights be added to the #BlackLivesMatter agenda?

Yes. A resounding yes.

* * *

Rachel Garlinghouse is the author of “Come Rain or Come Shine: A White Parent’s Guide to Adopting and Parenting Black Children.” She mothers three children, all of whom were transracially and domestically adopted at birth. Rachel’s written more than 70 articles and has appeared in ESSENCE magazine, on The Daily Drum National Radio Show, and on MSNBC’s Melissa Harris-Perry.   She blogs about all-things-adoption at

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