Take My Hand

by Dolen Perkins-Valdez

“I ain’t been to the doctor in I don’t know how long. Poking and asking me private questions. They don’t care nothing about me.” Nellie stabbed the pie with a knife.

“Don’t bring God into this,” said Mrs. Williams. “This ain’t got nothing to do with Him.” “Sure ain’t.” Nellie pushed the plate of pie down the center of the table. “Them white folks give you that assistance and then act like they own you.”

“Sometimes love can kill you, just like hate. You love too hard and you

can lose yourself in other folks’ sorrow.

I squinted at him. This white man still believed in the goodness of the world. I was younger than he was, but

I had lost my faith the day I walked into that hospital room and found those two little girls wailing like babies. I longed to believe again. Maybe this optimism was a powerful thing to have in the girls’ corner—somebody crazy enough to stay in the ring even when his head was about to get bashed.

I know what you’re thinking: This is just another white savior story. The white person drops in from the sky, saves all the Black folks, and by

doing so, redeems themselves. We’re the channel through which they save their own souls, but we cannot save our own.

What I can say to you is this: We are at the center of our own destiny. Always have been. Yes, there have been times this country has tried to destroy us. But we have not been doormats. No, ma’am. We have fought and used every resource.

“Some women can’t read those forms that well, and others sign without reading. The system is built on trust.”

My eyes widened in amazement. Could she really be that clueless? For years Black Alabamans had understood the limits of placing

our hopes in politicians.

They are surrounded by a welfare state upon which they depend for their very existence. So it is understandable they can be easily coerced into doing what is recommended to them.

“Sterilization is not birth control, especially when applied to minors. It is not the same as a birth control pill. It fundamentally and forever halts the

ability to conceive.

“I propose that strict guidelines for sterilization be established and distributed to all agencies, hospitals, or individuals who, in any way, participate in federal- or state-funded sterilization programs.

After learning about the Tuskegee experiment, I knew people were capable of all kinds of harm. But hearing this was like learning that evil

people were everywhere. I put a hand to my chest.

I had overheard her pressuring women to tie their tubes, and I had not intervened, believing at the time that it was the right thing to do. Babies born into poverty did not have as good a chance as babies born into families with more money. That’s what I believed.

Meanwhile, I’d thought I knew what was best for other women.

We were all sharing in this burden. We had all been taken by the authority of the clinic. We had followed orders.

“Lou is making an argument about coercion. How

poor women can’t make an informed decision when the government is all up in their business. We were coerced, too. By an authority figure who had the US federal government behind her. We got to forgive ourselves and get to work.”

I am part of the problem. I was in their lives making decisions that weren’t mine to make. Sure, I had good intentions, but so

did Mrs. Seager. We all did.” I had not thought this part through. The words rushed out of my mouth.

I thought of Daddy and the time he’d shared with me some of the burdens of being a family doctor, how he carried his patients’ secrets, the diagnoses kept from their loved ones—cancer, high blood pressure, diabetes. A family practitioner in communities like ours knew a lot.

“So the idea was what . . . to stop us from having children because we were inferior?” I whispered. “Well, the ideas were often aimed at specific populations that included Black people, yes. But also the poor, the mentally retarded, the disabled, the insane.”

Why had I not thought of that before? Mrs. Seager probably put the girls in three of these misguided categories: poor, Black, and mentally unfit. Had I done the same? I had initially deemed the girls unfit to be mothers, too. Because they were poor and Black. Because they were young. Because they were illiterate. My head spun with shame.

Alicia pulled my head to her chest and I relented, but I was still talking. “Do y’all hear me? We got work to do. We don’t have time for no grief. We’ve got to save them. We’ve got to save them all.”

When I’d started coming to this beach as a child, it had been free. Now we had to pay a park ranger.

I had never known that good intentions could be just as destructive as bad ones.

It was difficult to be around the girls and not want to share in their bond. Their closeness changed the air around them.

His comfort in the water taught me there was nothing to be afraid of. Once, he grabbed a fistful of seaweed and held it to my nose. Then he said, You smell that right there? That’s the scent of the Maker. And the Maker loves you and your beautiful brown self.

If one of them got into trouble in the water, I would have to be the one to try and save them. And that would be nearly impossible. I had tried so many times

to save them. A gargantuan task. The knowledge of that futility did not stop me, however. It could not.

Yes, it was true, neither of them could read, but his portrayal of them as simple country people whose priority was day-to-day survival fell short. These people were smarter than that. Mrs. Williams could put a piece of sweet potato pie in her mouth

and know exactly how much nutmeg was used. Mace could stick his finger in the soil and tell you what would and would not grow in it, could recall the names of trees I had never even known existed. They were more than illiterate farmers, more than victims who’d been duped by the federal government. They were a family who, given other opportunities, could have accomplished much more.

should have questioned Mrs. Seager about this new drug I knew virtually nothing about before I shot it into the arm of an eleven-year-old girl. Ignorance was not an excuse. I should have known. I had been trained to know and to ask.

Why did every beautiful thing in our house have to be a reminder of their lack?

Daddy had questioned a future with Mace, who had likely never had the luxury of time to “think things through.” Daddy judged the man, but

it did not seem fair to question Mace’s future when the word future held a different meaning for him.

The existence of the guidelines proved that the federal government was at least aware of the potential for abuse and understood the clinics’ need for a set of standard practices on the issue.

The system was not designed for poor people to win.

The woman could work magic with very little.

They had lived the way they had because that was how that shack had made them feel. It was hard to keep things tidy with a dirt floor, hard to maintain dignity in a urine-soaked hovel. On the Adair farm they had shed the best parts of themselves. In this new apartment, with its actual kitchen and indoor bathroom, the family was on the mend.

thought about the parade of health professionals testifying in the trial. How did they live with the gravity of their mistakes?

“That is some white fellow, I tell you. God don’t make many like him.”

“Abortion and forced sterilization seem to me two sides of the same coin. On the one hand, they restrict our access to abortion. On the other hand, they tie our tubes. They got women caught between two rocks, Lou.

Even with the Supreme Court decision, an

abortion is still hard for poor w...