what planned parenthood did for me (not an abortion)

the first time i heard the word feminist was on the morning of december 13, 2013.

if this date means nothing to you, then you might not understand the impact of beyoncé’s self-titled album on the music industry, but more importantly, how it popularized fourth-wave feminism from the perspective of a black woman.

since my parents are caribbean immigrants who settled down in the bible belt within north florida, i might’ve understood the concept of feminism through my favorite childhood movie, charlie’s angels, or felt it through friendships forged on tumblr, but this was my first time hearing the word feminist and using google to learn its definition.

three years later, donald trump’s presidential campaign reintroduced the word into my lexicon, as he made offensive comments toward feminists and vowed to overturn roe v. wade. i was only a senior in high school during this election, and i will never forget the vitriol spat by his supporters that semester. vocalizing my grievances for his presidency almost cost me my role as senior class president, and i felt uneasy with a lack of support from my classmates.

this isolation continued through the short-lived adrenaline rush of attending my first women’s march in 2017. i was underwhelmed by the exclusion of black women involved in my hometown’s primarily-white march, and it was a wake up call. fresh out of high school, i longed for an organization that felt collective, like student government with more room for activism and passion.

before i transferred from community college to the journalism school at florida a&m university, i frequently visited the school’s list of campus organizations, and in no time, planned parenthood generation action stood out like a light bulb floating above a cartoon character’s head.

i visited their instagram account like the daily news that week. i scrolled in awe at their period product drive across campus and felt inspired that they were the first chapter at a historically black university. maybe i would develop some sense of belonging among other black feminists who are passionate about reproductive health.

weeks later, i moved to tallahassee in august 2019 and tried to shake off the i stalked your instagram account and actually know all of your names vibe, and instead enthusiastically walked into a general body meeting, unaware that the org was about to change my life.

in the span of my three years at famu, i eventually joined the executive board for gen action, co-organized a campus-wide walk for take back the night, participated in the homecoming parade while wearing an absurd costume of a birth control pill, prevented students from visiting crisis pregnancy centers, and canvassed at dorms during national condom week.

simultaneously, i learned how to advocate for reproductive health and sexual liberation, hiv and aids awareness in the black community, and the multiple services provided at planned parenthood clinics. abortion and planned parenthood were taboo topics on campus, but in community with my comrades and close friends, we moved past this.

we ran into hurdles, like most student activists do at hbcus. gen action held an inactive status due to several professors uninterested in accepting an advisor role. we received little-to-no engagement from our own student body and had no support from the administration. and at the state’s capitol, we protected ourselves against antis.

maintaining our drive was difficult in 2021 to 2022 when governor ron desantis introduced house bill 5, florida’s 15-week abortion ban. in a speech i presented at a public hearing, i condemned his description of this ban as “reasonable,” and his lies continued as he successfully eliminated access to safe and accessible abortions, passing a six-week abortion ban in may 2024.

during this legislative session, desantis sank his claws into every corner of florida, signing the “don’t say gay” bill, banning critical race theory, and working on future bills that affected gender-affirming care for transgender youth. it was a sharp reminder that our fights for liberation overlap, and as audre lorde said, “there is no such thing as a single-issue struggle because we do not live single-issue lives.”

on top of fighting this battle against desantis, hbcus received consistent bomb threats, our community was fractured after the murder of young black activist oluwatoyin salau, and the trauma of anti-black violence during the black lives matter movement left an incessant ringing in our ears. all we had was a handful of cardboard signs, kn-95 masks, and a heightened fight-or-flight response.

sooooooo…how did we make it through this?

my home state is full of empathetic and encouraging people like the queer-led equality florida, the abortion advocate florida access network, or grassroots org, tallahassee community action committee. through gen action, i discovered the southern-based collective sistersong and the many ways that black women are addressing period poverty and maternal mortality while destigmatizing reproductive justice. these orgs and the people within them taught me that my voice mattered.

if i didn’t see something resolved on campus, they were the first person to tell me that i had the power to do it myself, even if i had two friends, one idea, and zero budget.

our campus didn’t have an active org for queer students, so we were that.

our male professors didn’t teach the accomplishments of black women in political movements, so we highlighted them.

our administration refused to put period products in all of our bathrooms, so we stocked each shelf.

as i was learning how to be a journalist and develop my voice as a writer, gen action evolved my curriculum to include mutual aid, political education, and movement journalism.

so when people discuss florida and exaggerate a fantasy involving gators, florida man, and publix subs, they usually end it with some statement like, “who needs florida? have you seen the latest headline about that state and all of its problems?”

what’s happening in florida—in the deep south—is america’s problem. they fail to understand that in my home state, there are working-class people, made up of immigrants, communities of color that are barely surviving, and students that grew up amidst harsh abortion laws, environmental disaster, and gun violence. andre 3000 was right, the south has something to say, and it’s important that we listen because the cautionary tale will remain relevant until we reach liberation.

three years later, i’m assisting lux, a socialist feminist magazine, with a college tour that begins next month in florida. my editor-in-chief and i have met with beaming student-led organizations that advocate for students targeted by ice, organize campus-wide period product drives, and develop thorough plans to protect queer student facilities. i see myself in a lot of these students, and i think about how full circle it is to deliver this message after all the practice i had in front of tallahassee’s capitol.

i memorized these words by assata shakur, spoken by my comrades from the tallahassee community action committee, and i think they’re a great end to this essay.

“it is our duty to fight for our freedom. it is our duty to win. we must love each other and support each other. we have nothing to lose but our chains.”

thank you to planned parenthood and vocal media for inviting me! and shout out to the other writers (rayne-fisher quann, kylie cheung, and marley gotterer) that you should totally support.