It’s been impossible to escape headlines about JD Vance since his announcement as the Republican nominee for vice president earlier this month. Most recently, it’s due to a 2021 statement in which he described Vice President Kamala Harris and U.S. Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez as “a bunch of childless cat ladies who are miserable at their own lives and the choices that they’ve made, and so they want to make the rest of the country miserable, too.”
Of course, despite recent emphasis, there’s nothing new about the centuries-old stigma that child-free women experience. (Namely, because there’s nothing original about his loud, bold ignorance.) Mediocrity aside, it brings a new way into an old conversation: Child-free women are constantly subjected to unsolicited opinions on their life choices and overall value. However, until they are seen with respect and dignity, mothers will never experience a society that validates healthy motherhood and maternal agency.
When called out for his 2021 comments, Vance doubled down, claiming Americans aren’t concerned with his statement and are instead troubled by the “explicitly anti-family” policies of the Democratic party. Though it pains me to say it, I agree with a mustard seed of his perspective—the Democratic, but also the Republican party and larger national practices are anti-family. But for Black and various other communities, this is a legacy, not a recent shift, visible in the medical, educational, and financial chasm between the haves and the have-nots.
Historically, Black mothers have given birth, occasionally by force, and accepted the responsibility to buffer their children from this raggedy world. But a growing number of Black women are opting out.
One of these is Angela L. Harris, Psy.D, a psychologist and founder of No Bibs Burps Bottles, which aims to empower, highlight, and celebrate child-free Black Women to embrace and live their best child-free lives, untethered from societal expectations and stereotypes. She notes that child-free women challenge social norms because their lifestyle goes against the pretty, perfect picture of the ideal family.
“Having the husband, kids, and white picket fence is the way to go—or so we thought. Many believe that a girl becomes a woman for one reason only—to have children,” she says. “It’s hard to accept that a woman can be completely happy and secure without the title of ‘mother.’”
I’d be lying if I said I’m untouched by the picture-perfect image Harris describes. But I quickly learned the calls to “be fruitful and multiply” were a dog whistle for whiteness, not shared with us in mind. My own work is advocating for an affirming motherhood that prioritizes our humanity as we raise children amid narratives that Black women exist to serve others, regardless of mothering status. We’ve been stolen, abused, and forced to finance America’s capitalist structure through our reproduction. The importance of reproductive agency hits different. The shared struggle of Black mothers and childfree Black women is crafting an accurate understanding of who we are despite what professor Melissa Harris-Perry calls “The Crooked Room.”
In her book Sister Citizen, she uses this image to describe the difficulties Black women face while trying to develop a healthy self-image in a world where stereotypes control destiny. The first is the Jezebel, a sexually seductive, hyper-sexual maneater. The second is the Sapphire, an angry, rude, emasculating, and never-satisfied Black woman. And finally, the Mammy, a “happy slave and caretaker” who joyfully places the needs of others, particularly her white enslavers, above her own life.
These stereotypes have evolved to become more insidious, now showing up as the constantly pregnant welfare queen with multiple baby daddies, the bitter single career woman, and the Black woman who lives life in service of everyone but herself. Like before, they reduce Black women’s dynamic, complex identities and force us to try to awkwardly find footing in a structure where we can hardly breathe, let alone stand. These false narratives contribute to higher rates of mental and physical health disparities, the generational trauma of “strong Black womanhood,” and normalize unfulfilled lives for all of us, not just those who are child-free. But child-free women are categorized as “useless” and “detached” from the larger group in nuanced ways.
Harris notes the assumptions of all childfree people being self-absorbed, hating children, and not contributing to society ignore the truth. These qualities describe many people, regardless of parenting status. “These false narratives, biases, and assumptions harm us all because we never truly engage in mutual understanding, reflection, and peace. The division and hierarchy continue – which often comes from years of rhetoric and pressure about what womanhood and motherhood truly are.”
I agree. Black women have long been trapped in an unwinnable situation. As mothers, we’re scrutinized for how many children we have and subject to assumptions about the contexts in which we have them. If you have one or two, you should have more, but never exceed four; that’s too many. I have first-hand experience with comments rooted in promiscuity, hypersexuality, and hyperfertility.
Child-free Black women challenge these images head-on but experience constant invalidation of their value outside of their capacity to care for others. But false narratives that Black women’s only value is based on their ability to sacrifice harm all of us, not just those who are child-free. Harris notes it’s important to highlight that women are also child-free for various reasons, including an intentional choice, circumstance, and infertility.
“Our narratives of being childfree by choice or childfree by circumstance are equally as important as someone’s birthing story—and guess what—it’s all good!” she says. “Women have CHOICE, but the ‘choice’ is really guided for your girls when the pink dress, kid’s apron, and babydoll are placed in their hands!”
As a mother, my support for childfree Black women is rooted in my advocacy for reproductive justice: the human right to maintain personal bodily autonomy, have children, not have children, and parent the children we have in safe and sustainable communities. It also means ensuring access to resources—like IVF and maternal health options—for Black women who want to have children but are unintentionally child-free.
My support is also anchored in full awareness of what it takes to intentionally raise children and maintain a sense of self-worth and identity outside of them. Mothers are celebrated in public. But left to handle the isolation and struggle of raising children in a pro-birth but anti-family society in private.
I don’t know why Kamala—a proud stepmother—and others haven’t given birth to children. But I know child-free women who consistently show up as aunties, godmothers, and friends to bridge the gap. Child-free women show up for the community; we need to show up for them, too.
“Whether you choose to be childfree or motherhood, it’s not a perfect life, but it can be a good life,” says Harris. “As women, our liberties and rights are at risk, and exercising our right to vote is what truly matters now.”
