The United Black Birth Collective — Tomasina Oliver, Zakiya Robinson, Basmah Karriem and Weluna Finley — with Tommaya Davis and her 6-week-old son, Aseem (Photo by Jay Paul)
Tommaya Davis survived giving birth to her daughter in a Winston-Salem, North Carolina, hospital eight years ago — barely.
“After [my daughter Nadia] was born, a doctor came [into my room] as calm as day and said, ‘You’re one of the lucky ones. Your iron was so low, you were supposed to die.’ ”
Davis, who had attended all her prenatal appointments as directed, was stunned, given that she had followed medical advice throughout her pregnancy. She had delivered Nadia early, via a hospital induction, after an in-clinic test had indicated fetal distress. While the delivery ended well, Davis was rattled by the experience.
“I said I was never having any more children,” she recalls. “I didn’t feel like I was involved in my care.”
When Davis became pregnant with her second child, she was happy to learn about the United Black Birth Collective (UBBC), a Richmond-based organization of midwives, doulas and other birth workers who are dedicated to bringing Black babies into the world safely and with fully involved families.
UBBC was founded in 2020 by Basmah Karriem, a community grand doula who has worked in the field for more than 40 years; Weluna Finley, a licensed professional counselor; Tomasina Oliver, a certified midwife; and Zakiya Robinson, a doula and massage therapist.
The goal, Oliver says, is to support Black families through education, care that begins before conception and continues through the pregnancy and beyond, and the inclusion of traditional birthing practices that are often overlooked in a hospital setting.
“UBBC honors what our ancestors have taught us,” she says. “We are holding to traditions that are part of us. UBBC is proud to be able to join as a ‘fource’ — meaning the four of us — moving together to advance maternal health for the communities with the worst disparities in the United States.”
Data shows continued disparities in the maternal mortality rate between white and Black women. According to a report from the National Center for Health Statistics, released in February by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the death rate for non-Hispanic Black women was 55.3 deaths per 100,000 live births, 2.9 times the rate for non-Hispanic white women (19.1). While the maternal mortality rate increased overall from 2019 to 2020, the rate increase for Black women is statistically significant, while it was not for white and Hispanic women.
“The disparities and the numbers are too high still, and it shouldn’t be that way,” Oliver says. “As we set future goals, we need to use this data to rearrange a system that continually overlooks and devalues Black and brown races.”
Birth should be a beautiful experience, not one filled with trepidation and worry.
—Kishana Ford
In addition to providing services ranging from at-home births to accompanying a mother to health checkups and the hospital for a delivery there, UBBC is committed to training more Black birth workers. Kishana Ford has been training alongside UBBC doulas and is now working toward her certification. She is pursuing her doula certification as she continues to work full time in the insurance industry.
“I think a lot of women don’t have a voice. They communicate with their providers, but sometimes they’re not actually heard,” Ford says, adding that she was attracted to UBBC because of their experience and knowledge. “I’ve heard stories of women who felt being pregnant was traumatic. They shouldn’t have to think about that. Birth should be a beautiful experience, not one filled with trepidation and worry.”
In June, UBBC was awarded a $10,000 grant from Collective 365, a nonprofit focused on supporting initiatives to improve education, eliminate health disparities, address social injustice and spur workforce development in Black and brown communities. Oliver says the grant will enable UBBC to advertise its services more broadly, obtain supplies, provide educational materials for families and expand training for more birth care providers.
While UBBC isn’t a nonprofit, its members are committed to working with women who seek their services. “We do have a flat rate but realize there are unique situations that may require individuals be assessed on a case-by-case basis,” Oliver says. “We practice not turning people away.”
When asked what she thought about a recent Washington Post article in which Virginia Department of Health Commissioner Dr. Colin Greene was quoted as downplaying racial disparities in medical care, Oliver chuckles.
“I used to feel angry about injustices,” she says. “There’s no place for anger anymore. That takes energy away from what is needed to be given toward healthy babies and families.”
As for the recent Supreme Court decision overturning Roe v. Wade, which has already led many states to restrict or ban access to abortion procedures, the collective prefers not to wade too deep into political waters.
“We uphold a woman’s choice, whatever choice that may be,” Finley says, adding that, historically, Black women have had very little autonomy over their own bodies. The collective’s activism, however, is more personal, focusing on providing assistance to individual families.
“We’re about reproductive justice,” Karriem says. “We just stay in our lane — and do the work.”
As for Davis, she delivered a son, Aseem Elijah Rashad, at home with her partner, Tyrice Bailey, the morning of June 25, nearly eight years to the day after Nadia was born. Oliver and Karriem were there for the birth. In an interview only four days later, Davis was at peace.
“I was part of a team that didn’t look at me as a client but as part of a family,” she says. “I couldn’t have pictured it happening any other way.”
