Childbirth in an American Prison
The first formerly incarcerated mothers I ever met were Naomi and
Leuka, survivors of the Holocaust who had relocated to Washington
Heights, an upper Manhattan neighborhood near The Cloisters. It was the
summer of 1971, and Washington Heights was a predominantly German-Jewish
community, home to many who had been traumatized by the War and by
captivity in the concentration camps.
In the summer and fall of 1971, I was a research intern at Columbia
University, where a double-blind study of the efficacy of Lithium
Bicarbonate in the treatment of Depressive and Manic-Depressive
Disorders was being conducted. Both Naomi and Leuka were participants,
and because I knew a little German, I was designated to provide some
social services to the two women.
This idea that I might provide any truly meaningful assistance
to these women as they woke day after day to memories and trauma that
confounded even the best aspects of my imagination, seemed both absurd
and impossible. At the time, I was only 25, living on the edge of
Washington Heights with my husband (a psychiatric resident) and pregnant
with my first child. My education, it seemed, had trained me to process
my patients' experiences, and to then counsel and provide appropriate
services—but I was left to wonder if my training, like my address, left
me simply on the edge of this simultaneously collective and private
trauma.
As our days together went by, I was profoundly stirred by these two
women, also mothers, who were now childless and without family. I
thought often of the peculiar cruelty of having had those
identity-defining roles and relationships wrenched away. What did it
mean to be a mother without a child? And could Freedom ever truly be
refunded to those who had been quite literally caged? It was
clear that distance from their children could never diminish their
motherhood, whether that distance was measured in kilometers or the
metaphysical distance of death.
During our many meetings, it was difficult to get them to talk about
any subject other than my baby. Knitting booties of various colors for
the unborn child, these two women seemed as full of life and excitement
as I was. They celebrated the coming of this baby, this promise of new
life, and eagerly received news of the freedoms pregnant women were
beginning to enjoy in those first years of the 1970s. Natural
childbirth, husbands coaching in the labor room—these were new and
interesting changes to them. I deeply valued our time together,
observing their continued celebration of new life. Such attitudes were
surprising given their histories of inhumane treatment. How did they
maintain this "maternal hope"? These formerly imprisoned mothers had
survived the worst inhumanity in recent history. Our relationship
left an indelible mark, though I was left to wonder how my connection to
these two women would play itself out in my own adult life. Certainly I
would never meet any other women who, denied dignity and humane
treatment, would continue to value life.
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