Lessons on Black Childbirth from Notting Hill Carnival

This August, I witnessed the spectacle that was Notting Hill Carnival…for the first time. My heritage is Caribbean: Barbados and St Kitts and Nevis, so exactly why have I only just experienced such a staple part of what it means to be Caribbean and British? The answer is simply fear. Fear of a violent outbreak. Fear of my body being brutalised. Fear of all the stories I’ve heard about Notting Hill Carnival.

This year, I decided to cast aside my (inherited) fear and show up anyway. What I found instead was a deep sense of belonging and pride to be a part of something spectacular. Something historic. Something iconic.

It was more than soca, costumes, and whines; it was an audacious right to be. A right to exist on hostile land. It was Black joy. It was Black freedom. Notting Hill Carnival was Black liberation and it was beyond powerful.

So, what exactly does this have to do with birth?

When I was pregnant, I found that fear was a central part of what it meant to Black-bodied and pregnant in the UK, in the same way fear is the talking point of NHC. I found that I had to evade fear like a sickness trying to spread; I know if it caught up to me, I would also get infected by such fear. Despite this, I chose to keep positive and centre joy in my experience, and much like my time at NHC, I was elated to experience a positive birth.

Again, what does this have to do with Notting Hill Carnival?

I recognise a pattern that emerges when Black-bodied people are the centre of an event: the event becomes dangerous and feared. Let’s take headlines from recent articles relating to NHC and Black childbirth for example: ‘Hundreds arrested and weapons seized at Notting Hill Carnival’ and ‘Stress from racism may help explain why black women more likely to die in childbirth, study finds.’

And breathe.

Whilst arguably both stories highlight very real issues within their respective areas, both stories are inherently negative, pertaining only doom and gloom for the Black British experience. I wonder then, how might this manifest into the psyche of the UK African Diaspora? Into the NHC experience? Into the Black birthing experience?

How might this influence the outcomes of Notting Hill Carnival and, more specifically, childbirth?

Undeniably, the social narrative plays a huge influence in how we relate to ourselves and one another, but what if we (Black-bodied people) were to explore different ways of relating to the Black experience?

What if we believed and recognised how powerful we are, and showed up in this way? What if, like NHC, thousands of Black women, birthing people and their allies walked the streets (metaphorically or otherwise) in joy and pride and believed in a different narrative than the one being fed to us. How many birth stories might end in joy rather than trauma? Satisfaction rather than disappointment? How might the racial disparities shift?

Ultimately, much like events at NHC, racial disparities in maternity care is a very real issue and I commend all the grass-root organisations and businesses for doing their part to shift the narrative and improve circumstances. This work is crucial.

I would like to remind individuals, Black women and birth people in particular, how truly powerful you are and how your personal beliefs can shape your outcomes. Ultimately, you can equip yourselves to have a better experience than the one handed to you.

Birth is, after all, your divine birthrite.

Would you like to centre joy and freedom in your birth experience? Discover The ReBirth Space doula services and begin your ReBirth journey today!

With compassion,