Reclaiming Our Story Are We Too Broken?
By Marcia Brown, Esq.
I write to the people James Weldon Johnson urged to “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” to those who walked with Weary Blues in Langston Hughes’ verse of sorrow and survival, and to those who saw their lives, culture, and struggle reflected in the dances Alvin Ailey created. Oh, my people—this message is for you.
There is something deeply broken in our communities. We live in tribes: in our neighborhoods, schools, community organizations, churches, fraternities, and sororities—and in our race, gender, and class identities. Perhaps our tribal lives wouldn’t be so damaging if we lived in our own nation. But under the weight of growing white supremacist backlash, rising authoritarianism, and the looming threat of a Supreme Court that could weaken or erase Section 2 of the Voting Rights Act—paving the way for one-party rule—tribalism becomes brokenness, and brokenness becomes weakness.
We can talk about reclaiming the Soul of America and celebrate the Declaration of Independence as the first government vision not defined by religion, slavery, or ruling tribes. But the counter-narrative of lived civic experience tells another story: that to be “American” has too often meant to be white—and to be Black is to live forever outside the privileges of whiteness. America is not yet America; perhaps it never truly has been. These “United” States have never been fully united. The question before us is whether we can repair what is broken—between us, within our homes, and for the sake of our children and communities.
We are not prepared for what may yet come our way. One reason for this brokenness—and for why white supremacy still clings to power—is that we have lost our griots. The keepers of our stories—Harriet, Frederick, Delaney, Martin, Malcolm—are no longer guiding voices in our homes, classrooms, and institutions. Too often, we reject these “Old, Old Stories,” dismissing them as relics of the past. And if we lose our museums in D.C., Alabama, and Detroit—if we silence the voices of Gramma Dell, Sister Sadie, and Deacon Freeman—where will we find the wisdom, the tools, and the stories that once bound us together?
For now, those who once marched under the banners of civil rights and Black Power are finding new ways to serve and uplift their communities. In Trenton, New Jersey, a new chapter of that struggle is unfolding. The Back in Our Hands Birth and Wellness Center, opening in 2026, will become the first and only birthing center in Trenton, the state’s capital. This visionary initiative, spearheaded by the Community Development Corporation of Greater Mount Zion AME Church, seeks to rewrite a painful adage long whispered among residents: “You can die in Trenton, but you can’t give birth in Trenton.” Soon, that will no longer be true.
Through our partnership with Salvation and Social Justice and the Back in Our Hands Birth and Wellness Center, we are standing in solidarity with other Black-led organizations like the Perinatal Equity Health Initiative. Together, we are committed to dismantling the systemic inequities that threaten Black mothers and families across New Jersey.
Our programs—created by and for Black women—provide critical support in breastfeeding and lactation care, pregnancy and postpartum wellness, education, and advocacy training. Each effort is rooted in love, resilience, and liberation. This is more than health care—it is a continuation of our civil rights struggle, a movement toward justice and dignity.
The fight for Black maternal health is not merely about public health outcomes; it is about survival, equality, and the right to bring life into the world with safety and respect. It is a fight against centuries of neglect and devaluation. It is a demand for a system that sees Black mothers as whole, capable, and deserving.
The absence of updated maternal mortality data in New Jersey since 2022 only underscores the urgency of this work. Silence and delay are forms of violence when lives hang in the balance. Our communities cannot afford to wait for another report—we must act now.
The legacy of our ancestors calls us to do no less. Just as the griots once preserved the memory of who we were, we must now become the storytellers of who we are becoming. Through collective care and community action, we can turn brokenness into wholeness, weakness into strength.
And when the day comes that every mother in Trenton—and across America—can give birth in dignity and love, we will know that we have lifted our voices once more. This time, not only to sing, but to heal, to rebuild, and to rise together.
