In this contribution to GLQ's Q2, the authors discuss the long histories of gender violence, anti-Blackness, and criminalization and the strategies and resources of abolition feminism for responding to the Supreme Court's Dobbs v. Jackson decision in 2022.

Emily Thuma: It's wonderful to see you, Sarah and Andrea, and I feel very fortunate to have been invited to moderate this conversation. Both of you have made such vital contributions to the political project of abolition feminism through your scholarship and organizing. You've made it unequivocally clear why any truly liberatory feminist and queer politics must be anti-criminalization, and in turn, why movements against mass criminalization and incarceration must be committed to ending intimate violence, reproductive injustice, and heteropatriarchal control more broadly.

Andrea, your writing and organizing work–particularly your groundbreaking book Invisible No More (Ritchie 2017), your leadership in the Say Her Name report (Crenshaw et al. 2015) and mobilization, and your work with Interrupting Criminalization1–and Sarah, your extraordinary book, No Mercy Here (Haley 2016), have made such profound contributions to our understanding of the centrality of gender power to the racial capitalist carceral state and to the tenacious and many different ways that Black women and girls and trans and gender-nonconforming people have struggled against and beyond carceral violence.

As I was preparing for our conversation today, I was reflecting on some of the concrete ways in which your work is already intimately in conversation in the world, which brought me to the State of Georgia. Andrea, I was thinking about your leadership in the Invest/Divest Learning Communities at the Community Resource Hub2 that I know is supporting #StopCopCity, the urgent struggle to put an end to the Atlanta Police Foundation's plan to build a massive police militarization training facility. Sarah, I'm also thinking about your magisterial history of Georgia's convict-lease and chain-gang systems. And, as we know, Georgia currently has one of the most restrictive anti-abortion laws in this country. Atlanta is also the birthplace of the reproductive justice movement and continues to be the home of SisterSong.3 So I think Georgia illuminates in a grounded way how your work intertwines, as well as more broadly how abolitionist and reproductive justice struggles are linked.

We're just days away from the one-year anniversary of the ruling in Dobbs v. Jackson Women's Health Organization that overturned a constitutional right to abortion. As a way to begin today, I'd like to ask you both to help us think about Dobbs in relation to the long and layered history of policing Black reproduction and Black bodily autonomy. Sarah, would you be willing to start?

Sarah Haley: Sure, and thanks for that opening, Emily. It's characteristically brilliant and has me thinking of so many connections between our work. You're making me think about how, in All Our Trials (Thuma 2019), you follow the case of Dessie Woods in Georgia and how your study of Woods excavates the relationship between, as you put so beautifully, gender power, anti-Blackness, queer repression, and the carceral state. So, I just wanted to make that other Georgia connection for us here.

In terms of the relationship between Dobbs and broader control over Black reproduction, I think about Dobbs as a codification of rape. I consider it codified rape that extends the long history of prison and criminal legal institutionalization or enactment of rape. All of which is to say, Dobbs extends a history of state-enacted rape. We can certainly see this in the history of a place like Georgia, where imprisoned men and women in convict lease camps and on chain gangs were subject to institutionalized rape by prison guards. So sexual violence to prisoner's bodies, particularly Black prisoner's bodies, was a benefit for carceral agents like guards. It was like pay. This is how pervasive—how out in the open—sexual violence was against all people inside, and the racialized history of convict leasing and the forced, unpaid labor of Black people was crucial to building the capitalist infrastructure of the South.

This was also a process of ungendering—a process of rendering Black people anti-normative, and whether one theorizes Black gender as ungendering impossible gendering or differential gendering, we can think about the radical exclusion of Black people from gender normativity as part of the process of state-building.4 This state-building via ungendering and institutionalized rape is the blueprint for codified rape (Dobbs); this all occurs alongside the complete absence of quality health care, including reproductive care, for imprisoned people in the past and present.

There is so much to say about carceral gender and the matrix of neglect (the absence of reproductive care), institutionalized rape, and codified rape/forced reproduction, but it is important to note that the latter is also historically continuous. So many of the women that I research about in Georgia, who were raped by prison guards, were forced to bear children without any other options. The prison system was a regime that in many ways enacted and prefigured the same logic as the Dobbs decision. It is historically continuous with Dobbs as a mechanism of capturing reproductive life and of relegating bodies to reproduction. So, I guess I'll stay there, and if there's more that needs to be fleshed out about that history, I'm happy to do it.

Andrea Ritchie: As I am always doing whenever Sarah Haley is speaking, I was just taking notes and forgot what I was going to say because I was so drawn into where she was taking us with the brilliance that she always shares. So, I'm not the historian. I only quote extensively from Sarah's work in my historical understanding. But I have been thinking about Dobbs—of course, [the decision] was devastating and remains devastating—and the criminalization of Black women's and queer and trans people's reproductive capacities is the history of this country, as Sarah just discussed. I was thinking recently about the policing of motherhood chapter in Invisible No More. I open it by citing Dorothy Roberts's (especially Roberts 1997) understanding of how Black women and queer and trans people are criminalized for being pregnant, for being not pregnant, for pregnancies, for ending pregnancies, for anything that has to do with any kind of reproduction, self-determination, or autonomy that isn't in the service of white supremacy. It feels like Dobbs is just another moment of that. And I think a lot about how unfavorable pregnancy terminations had been criminalized for Black women and trans people before Dobbs, and the people who are going to experience the criminalization after Dobbs are first and foremost are Black women and queer and trans people. Dobbs is a big blip in that history and a continuation.

And to your point about Georgia, Emily, I often think—and this is a very graphic example—about a Black woman who was eight or nine months pregnant and a Dekalb County cop showed up at her house on a domestic violence call that involved her brother. At some point her brother was on the ground being tased by the cops, and she stepped in and said, “Okay, he's not doing whatever he was doing before now, so please stop tasing him while he's down.” The cop hauled back and kicked her pregnant belly with the kind of force one would use to bust down a door and harmed the baby. The baby is okay now, but she went into early labor, there was internal bleeding, and the cop put both of them at severe risk. And that's just one example of police violence against Black pregnant people—there are many more documented in Invisible No More and elsewhere

Opponents of abortion claim to care about fetuses but would have nothing to say about a cop who would do such a thing. Police can put pregnancies at risk, but Black women can't exercise reproductive autonomy. Abortion opponents use or mobilize Black women's pregnancies to advance their agenda—for instance, there were anti-abortion billboards declaring that “the most dangerous” place for Black children is in the womb—to mobilize the Black community, using the rhetoric of anti-Blackness as a tool. In other words, the most dangerous place for a Black child is in a Black mother's womb because Black women are exercising reproductive autonomy? If it is the case that Black people are having abortions at disproportionate rates, it is because of all the conditions under which Black women and people with capacity for pregnancy are living—including living in a police state where they and their children are routine targets of the violence of policing. These examples are very much connected to the historical continuities that Sarah points to, in which Black women's reproductive autonomy is coerced, controlled, and punished through criminalization.

I think the other thing Dobbs brings to mind is the question of privacy, and how it was always a concern that Roe was premised on privacy, not ensuring universal access to safe and free abortions, just as Lawrence v. Texas was premised on privacy, not prohibiting policing of sexuality. Privacy only ever works for white people. It never works for Black people with capacity for pregnancy, Black, queer, and trans people. So, when people want to go back to Roe and overturn Dobbs, to reverse the decision, I want to say, “No, we're actually not interested in that!” We're not interested in that because there's never been privacy and autonomy and self-determination for Black people with capacity for pregnancy and Black people in terms of sexual, gender, and reproductive autonomy. I want people to see a history of how Roe was decided, chipped away at, and enforced as consistently excluding Black women.

ET: Thank you both for elucidating how Dobbs is only one node in an unbroken history of the policing of Black reproduction. Andrea, you importantly point to the ways criminalization remained a constant for Black women and people with the capacity for pregnancy in the decades between Roe and Dobbs. Sarah, would you like to expand on why abolition feminism seeks something altogether different than a return to the days of Roe?

SH: Yes, that's exactly the kind of conversation I hoped to have with you, Andrea, because of the expansiveness of your work and the multiple dimensions of it, as an organizer, a lawyer, a legal scholar, and a historian, no matter what you say.

I think it is really important to think about this in terms of what it means for queer and feminist movements. This is part of the history that Emily writes about in terms of the antiviolence movement and the differences between queer and radical feminists and liberal feminism. People will say, “Why should the reproductive rights movement care about abolition?” and I marvel at that. I marvel at the question's orientation: not how could reproductive rights not be contingent on abolition when the prison system and the criminal court system are probably the biggest, most powerful restrictors of reproductive autonomy. You have 58,000 people in prison who are pregnant. Of course, none of those people are getting quality health care. You have people in prison, on probation, people on bail, people on parole who can't readily move for access to reproductive care; can't move to escape conditions that might lead them to become pregnant; can't move to escape places that have intensely enshrined gender repression including anti-trans policies and transphobic violence. And you certainly can't move to get an abortion, right? And so you have the traumatic repression of bodily autonomy through legal confinement. That should urge anyone who claims to be for reproductive justice and reproductive rights or in any viable feminist movements to realize how this is connected to a purported general concern about all people's reproductive autonomy. We also have to think about the trauma of forced reproduction in terms of its conditions—the continued shackling of people who are giving birth in prisons, for example, or the estrangement of new mothers from their children, or the idea that prison nurseries are a prison reform horizon, or the carceral control of women on welfare. The forced carceral production of life occurs alongside the intended disappearance of trans lives broadly, the absolute concerted effort to eliminate transness from existence in this country through both policy and violence. All of this is connected to the generalized disappearance and debilitation that define prisons: for every year in prison, someone's life expectancy is reduced by two years? The prison system needs life, needs bodies. Captivity is what sustains it, and it's always extinguishing that life through reproductive control and through the control of those who are considered gendered dissidents. I'm not sure what you think, but I'm always stunned at the ways in which these issues can be compartmentalized in the absence of all evidence to the contrary.

AR: As you were talking, I was just reliving the rage I experience at the moment. I mean, I had so many levels of rage when Dobbs came down. And one of them was about the reactions from majority white-led movements. I was like, do you understand that for incarcerated people who are predominantly Black, incarcerated people with capacity for pregnancy, it's already been criminalized? You can't actually get an abortion in prison or jail, whether it's legal or not in that state, more often than not. And then you're coming up with solutions that leave out the vast numbers of Black women and people with capacity for pregnancy who are on probation and parole, who can't travel to another state. And you are coming up with all these things that continue to presume privacy, like mail. Guess what? In the group home, your mail is surveilled and in the residential facility and in the halfway house. Your mail is surveilled in the shelter. It was such a reiteration and reinscription of who is in the imaginary when we're thinking about these conditions. And then yes, of course, there is this question of how people are going to get mad that I'm talking about people with capacity for pregnancy because somehow, I'm excluding people from the conversation, when in fact the ones that are excluding people are the ones who are reacting to the use of that term.

But that makes me think of a different question, like, do we turn to the legal system to “protect our rights” when, in fact, what Dobbs and the five hundred anti-trans bills that are currently pending or passed in the United States do is draw lines around who can do what and when? These are the same lines that are drawn around everything in the service of racial capitalism and white supremacy and cis-heteropatriarchy. Even pre-Dobbs, Roe determined how and when, and why, and who could have an abortion, and whether a midwife could help you with that, or anyone in the Black healing tradition. Outside those borders was criminalization, including in states where abortion was “legal,” and the same is true around efforts we've made for inclusion into legal regimes as queer and trans people. How and where and who gets to be trans is legally defined. So, if you get a letter from a doctor and then that leads to an ID change, then maybe you won't be harassed when you go to the bathroom. Maybe, maybe you won't be arrested in the bathroom. But it's all contingent, and it's all reinscribing criminalization by making borders in which Black people are always outside, which we learned from Sarah's work, and other's work.

The last thing I'll say about that is last week Interrupting Criminalization in partnership with the Drug Policy Alliance hosted a convening on building Black feminist visions to end the drug war.5 And there were Black people, trans people, and women from the United States and the global South, from Brazil, Columbia, Mexico, South Africa, and Kenya. The drug war is obviously one of the ways that the state enacts sexual violence on people, as you were describing, Sarah. The drug war is state enacted sexual violence, but now the state is expanding the kinds of substances it criminalizes. So now abortion drugs are at risk of becoming a controlled substance and gender-affirming drugs are a controlled substance. So, Dobbs exists within the mechanisms of the war on drugs, and it's going to be used to control people's access and use of those substances and punish others for accessing those substances, and be used to enact violence in the name of discovering and regulating those substances.

This is another way in which we can't stop at thinking that Dobbs is only about abortion, and somehow dissociate it from these five hundred bills that are about controlling trans people's access to health care and public spaces, or from the police state that has been mobilized against Black people through the war on drugs, now in expanded and continuing ways. There are so many ways that these conversations need to be brought together, and our organizing needs to be in solidarity and in partnership around these issues, which we don't see in this moment.

ET: Thank you both for speaking to the ways Dobbs is part of a larger project of policing all forms of gendered self-determination that disrupt white supremacist, heteropatriarchal control. And you're also each emphasizing the importance of a queer feminist praxis that's expansive enough to see and confront the connections between all of these different kinds of gender policing. I'm wondering if you could each say more about what you think an abolition feminist framework offers us toward this end.

SH: I think what your work—and over the course of several books now, Andrea—has taught us is the ways in which abolition feminism, anti-carceral feminism, and queer abolition are resources. Your work elucidates the gender violence of policing while also providing possibility through delineating the manifold modes of Black feminist queer abolition. Very recently I was the beneficiary of a circle of abolitionist feminist interveners and comrades, and the ingenuity in the ways queer and abolitionist feminism envision addressing need outside of harm, outside state violence. It's precisely the antidote to the many, many forms of resource denials and processes of criminalization that policing and incarceration represent.

The denial of reproductive care, especially quality reproductive care, inside and also the denial of access to gender-affirming health care, is so insidious that we often don't think about it. I read recently, as I was preparing for a lecture, that if you adjust for wages in prison—in much of the country, for example, where incarcerated people receive $0.05 an hour for their labor—the cost of a routine medical visit co-pay in prison the equivalent of hundreds and even upward of a thousand dollars in the outside world; that's to say nothing of states in which prisoners are not paid for their work and must pay for medical care through loved ones’ voluntary contributions to their commissary accounts. So even if abortion is technically accessible for prisoners in a particular jurisdiction, which is the vast minority of cases, you have costs that are unthinkable. Andrea, you made me think about the stark contrast between the complete mode of austerity that is policing and incarceration and the commitment to resources and the creation of infrastructure and holistic—material, psychic, and emotional—care that is abolitionist queer and trans feminism and trans feminism.

And this is the last thing I'll say: as you were talking about the criminalization of birthing and who can provide abortion care, historically Black and queer modes of care especially, including radical doulas and [those in] the birth worker movement, it made me recall when my partner was pregnant, and in classical form for Black people, we were denied access to care at UCLA's hospital. We worked at UCLA at the time—that is where her OBGYN was, and they had our birth plan mapped out in the records, but we were still turned away on the day she went into labor. She went into advanced labor in our car, and we had an amazing doula who had to contemplate risking arrest if she jumped in the back of the car to help deliver a baby when that was prohibited by law. The magnitude of criminalization of reproduction is stunning, and the only mitigation in this extreme order of violence is queer abolition feminism and the radical practices of birthing and reproductive care that have been developed, especially by lesbians and trans people and by Black, Indigenous, Asian, and Latinx people for generations.

AR: Yeah, Saidiya Hartman says that “care is the antidote to violence.”6 Conversely, criminalization is the antithesis of care. It's literally the thing that gets in the way of care. Had your doula not been courageous in that moment, criminalization would have been literally the wall that jumped up between you and care. One of the projects we have at Interrupting Criminalization, which I think speaks to a lot of what this conversation is pointing to, is the Beyond Do No Harm Network7 that brings together health care providers and staff, doulas, community healers, and so on with organizers from the movements for reproductive justice and abortion, transgender-affirming care and trans liberation, and many others, because even when you're not in a prison, the cost of a visit to a health care provider could be a trip to prison. Criminalization is jumping up as that wall to care in all kinds of health care settings. Queer abolition feminism—I never heard that phrase until just now.

SH: I'm sure you've used that phrase. I think you wrote the book on that.

AR: Ha, well now I'm like, of course I am a queer abolitionist feminist. I was so excited when you said that, Sarah! Black queer abolition feminism helps you see the reach and the deep embeddedness of the carceral state everywhere that Black women and queer and trans people travel. Health care or the medical-industrial complex is definitely a place that you're more able to see the reach of criminalization through those experiences when you're looking through the experiences of Black women and queer and trans people, and so that's how we came to the Beyond Do No Harm Network, because who shows up to receive care and has a wall of criminalization thrown up at them? Pregnant people, abortion-seeking people, parenting people, trans people, disabled people, immigrants, HIV+ people, people in the sex trades. All of those people can show up to the doctor and have that be a moment when criminalization appears. So, how do we interrupt that? How do we tear down that wall of criminalization and bring back care? How do we invite more people who are care providers to be like your doula? And also, how do we invite organizers to fight, to resist the criminalization of people who are providing care? Care that is criminalized or care to criminalized people or care in settings like the prison where, for instance, we would want a doctor to say, “That person is not going to be shackled during labor because that's not how we give birth. That's not how we bring new life into the world. And so that's not going to happen. In fact, it's not going to happen in this cage either, so we're going to give birth in a way that is appropriate to everyone's humanity in this situation.” Or have a doctor say, “This person is going to receive care that affirms their personhood, and I don't give a shit whether they were getting it outside or not before, and if they weren't getting it outside, it's because they couldn't. It's because of structural exclusion, homophobia, and transphobia so they're going to get the careful care they need and deserve right now. And in fact, that's not going to happen in this cage either.” So that's what we are creating—a group of people who are living into the ethics that they committed to when they became care providers and tearing down those walls of criminalization that are springing up between people and care. I think that is one place again where Dobbs is in the conversation. But it's also just a piece of something that is a thread we can pull on to achieve a much bigger, more liberatory possibility for action and resistance that makes the connections you were talking about, Sarah, between Dobbs and the assaults on queer and trans people, and all the ways our bodily and reproductive autonomy and Black life are being and have been assaulted, controlled, and monetized across US history.

SH: That was so beautifully said, and as you were speaking, I realized that no matter how many times I visit Interrupting Criminalization's website, there's always another program. It is so proliferative. It is such an example of abolition feminism where no stone is left unturned in confronting the many violences of criminality through a queer Black feminist ingenuity. I don't know how many programs there are.

AR: I've lost track myself, and Mariame Kaba proudly declares that she has a secret notebook of projects, so I literally cannot tell you how many there are because there are probably five in process that I am completely unaware of, but I think that is the beautiful fecundity of Black queer abolition feminism, right? It is generative. There are definitely days when we feel tired, and we should probably slow down and take a break. But it's also a laboratory in process because we are seeing so many opportunities to illuminate and experiment with different paths forward. So even in moments when we feel disheartened—when you see Sesame Street being dragged by people who just really don't understand joy, life, or teaching people to be good humans because they put out a Pride announcement—we can turn to Black queer abolition feminism and see that there are so many opportunities to resist in ways that are joyful and in community with each other. I mean, that's a minor example of a major problem or a major set of political conditions, but Black queer abolition feminism gives so many points of entry and so many opportunities for resistance.

ET: As we come to a close, are there any final thoughts that you all would like to share?

SH: I want to throw out a couple of final points. First, I think the everyday is a huge framework for thinking about care and is embedded in everything that Andrea is saying about her work to think beyond Dobbs as policy. Of course, there are legal strategies, policy strategies, but it's important to underline how abolition feminism is about a vast landscape of activities that can create safety and care and that confronts state and gender violence. This leads me to my second point about defense, which we haven't talked about so much today but that is also a kind of care in an everyday form. And also, Hartman (2019) works on refusal and upheaval and anarchic modes of everyday rebellion. And then there is the collective defense work that you write about, Emily, and the connections made in North Carolina between Joan Little's defense and the National Alliance Against Racist and Political Repression (NAARPR).8 So much of what we've been discussing is within the tradition of collective defense alongside the proliferation of everyday modes of care and harm reduction.

AR: Yeah, I think so much about what you were just saying about defense and legal policy. And I've learned so much alongside Dean Spade, who addresses these issues in Normal Life (Spade 2015) and elsewhere, as we've struggled with trying to do harm reduction in legal arenas and learned many lessons about how ineffective that is. That doesn't mean that we don't still fight back in courts, but the question is: What are we even fighting for in the courts? What kind of primacy do we give legal strategies?

There are a few additional questions I'd like to raise about Dobbs. Do we want to go back to a regime in which there's again regulation around who gets to get what kind of reproductive care, when, and how, and by whom, and everyone outside of that circle is criminalized? Or do we want to go to a space where the law just has nothing to say about this, because the law is the weapon of white supremacy that is consistently regulating Black people's reproductive capacities, genders, and sexualities? So, what if there's just nothing in the law about this because it has no business being in white supremacist law. The same is true of gender. The law has no business regulating when you get to go from M to F on your ID card, or when you get to do X, or what cell you should be in because, first of all, you shouldn't be in a cell. But that shouldn't be regulated by a law. So, at what point do we just say the strategy is to protect our people by any means necessary, and there is no protection to be found in the systems that are set up to control our existence in all the ways? And then how do we fight in those arenas to create conditions that make care like the kind that you're describing, Sarah, more possible? That's what movements to defund police are about. How do we make care more possible by divesting from death-making institutions and investing in life-making practices, communities, and networks?

ET: Your point about protection has me thinking about the arrests of three Atlanta bail fund organizers earlier this month and how to think about Dobbs in the context of increasing political repression and the criminalization of dissent.

AR: Yes, okay, two more things. I think we can learn from the assault on the Atlanta Solidarity Fund,9 as that very kind of assault could happen to an abortion fund and could very much happen to the gender-affirming care funds that are springing up in Florida and Texas. It actually applies to any mutual aid fund because any way in which we work together—and this certainly happened when people were raising money to buy people's freedom under chattel slavery—is criminalized and punished by the state. So how do we fight to defend our capacity to do those things? And what does that mean? It means we all need to show up for the Atlanta Solidarity Fund now because they're coming for the gender-affirming care fund tomorrow if they haven't already. They're definitely coming for the abortion fund next week, if they haven't already. And they're coming for all our bail funds and mutual aid funds and the ways that we care for each other to throw up that wall of criminalization between us and caring for each other. I want us to think about these things not in isolation. And I also want to think, again, not in isolation, about what kind of care we offer.

I also want to lift up Banko Brown, a Black trans man who was killed by a security guard at a Walmart in the San Francisco Bay Area. A lot of the conversation around Banko's killing has been led by the Young Women's Freedom Center10 of which he was an active member and organizer. They have pointed out that young people come to the Bay Area seeking gender-affirming care or gender-affirming experiences but then are affirmed and cared for in no other way. They have nowhere to live. Banko was living on the street. He was supposedly taking candy—things he needed—and was having a really hard time. So, let's make sure that we're not focused on one aspect of care to the exclusion of other aspects of care. That is deadly, and I definitely want to dedicate that thinking to Banko's memory and to organize in his name. And there are so many other people.

The last thing I'll say, and it is related to this book called Practicing New Worlds (Ritchie 2023) I just finished. (I'm pretty sure it's my last one.) It is not about all the things that I've talked about before—the things I know you can research around criminalization and laws and whatever. It's actually about how we do this other thing. I'm the person who holds back the system and is like, “Hurry up over here! Build a new thing because this is really heavy and hard and terrible and deadly!” That is the practice of defending our communities in the court. But we really have to figure out how to be those networks of care for each other. How do we prepare for what's coming—not just post-Dobbs, but post-2024, post-whatever work comes with these five hundred plus anti-trans bills? How do we wrap ourselves around each other? I think that's a practical question. Well, there are so many questions embedded in that, but I think it's an inherently queer way of being. And thinking about Dobbs, we also must ask how this affects the way we think about, construct. and practice intimacy and relationalities. That's actually the thing we need to be thinking about right now. Our survival depends on it.

On June 13, 2023, Sarah Haley and Andrea Ritchie discussed the long histories of gender violence, anti-Blackness, and state repression and the strategies and resources of abolition feminism for responding to the post-Dobbs moment, with Emily Thuma as moderator. This is a lightly edited transcript of that conversation.

Notes

1.

Interrupting Criminalization is an initiative led by researchers Mariame Kaba and Andrea J. Ritchie. https://www.interruptingcriminalization.com/.

2.

The Hub hosts weekly two-hour Invest/Divest learning communities for organizers across the country. As described on their webpage, “Learning Communities are spaces of skill and information sharing, strategizing, and resource creation in support of organizing to divest from policing and punishment and invest in community-based safety strategies toward genuine and lasting safety for all community members.” For more information, see https://communityresourcehub.org/projects/.

3.

Founded in 1997, SisterSong Women of Color Reproductive Justice Collective is a Southern-based, national membership organization advancing the perspectives and needs of Indigenous women and women of color by eradicating reproductive oppression. For more information, see https://www.sistersong.net/.

4.

Hortense J. Spillers (1987) is credited with coining ungendering in her noted essay “Mama's Baby, Papa's Maybe: An American Grammar Book” to describe Black people's gender as lacking symbolic integrity, as a consequence of the transatlantic slave trade and racial slavery. Black feminist historian of slavery Jennifer Morgan (2004) and Black feminist theorist Saidiya Hartman (2016) have also discussed this condition as “differential gendering.”

5.

The Drug Policy Alliance (DPA) is working to end the drug war in the United States through community reinvestment and advocacy for safer drug regulation and decriminalization. See https://drugpolicy.org/.

6.

On February 2, 2017, the Barnard Center for Research on Women hosted “In the Wake: A Salon in Honor of Christina Sharpe,” in which Saidiya Hartman offered “care is the antidote to violence.” To access a recording of the conversation, which included Christina Sharpe, Hazel Carby, Kaiama Glover, Saidiya Hartman, Arthur Jafa, and Alex Weheliye, see BCRW Videos, Vimeo, 1:34:40, https://vimeo.com/203012536.

7.

For more information on this initiative from Interrupting Criminalization, see “Beyond Do No Harm: Thirteen Principles for Health Care Providers to Interrupt Criminalization,” https://www.interruptingcriminalization.com/beyond-do-no-harm (accessed June 30, 2023).

8.

Founded in 1973 in Chicago, Illinois, the National Alliance Against Racist and Political Repression practices organized action against unjust treatment of individuals because of race and political beliefs. For contact information and further details, see “About Us,” https://naarpr.org/about/.

9.

Three activists involved with the Atlanta Solidarity Fund were recently arrested and charged with money laundering and charity fraud. Their arrests have been described as retaliation for lawful protests. For more, see Rojas and Keenan 2023. For more information about the Atlanta Solidarity Fund, see https://atlsolidarity.org/.

10.

Founded in 1993, the Young Women's Freedom Center provides support, mentorship, training, employment, and advocacy to young women and trans youth of all genders in California who have grown up in poverty, experienced the juvenile legal and foster care systems, have had to survive living and working on the streets, and who have experienced significant violence in their lives. For more information, see youngwomenfree.org.

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