Feminist anthropology最新文献

This article analyzes how the practice of cascading disaster responses and the relative erasure of increasing cases of gender-based violence (GBV), including feminicidio, or feminicide, by the government in Puerto Rico evidence the structural and regularly reproduced vulnerability of marginalized populations. Drawn from fieldwork in southwestern Puerto Rico between 2019 and 2020, this essay juxtaposes the lived experience of frontline GBV service providers with the relative absence of GBV from the public record until 2022. For activists and scholars, the prevalence of GBV and its relative exclusion from state discourse and records is rooted in ideological, cultural, and operational concerns: operationally, GBV is too often excluded from planned disaster response. Culturally, state-supplied statistics on GBV minimized and otherwise naturalized GBV into a cultural norm or reality-to-be-expected. Ideologically, the exclusion of GBV is also tied to the colonial relationship between Puerto Rico and the United States. We argue that GBV and its relative exclusion from the public record sustains high levels of violence that have already fueled notable public protest and the constrained working conditions of GBV frontline service providers. The article's focus on frontline worker experiences highlights their important role at the forefront of decision-making on how to mitigate GBV during and in the wake of cascading disasters.

In dialogue with the rich scholarship on affect and the role of emotions in feminist knowledge production, this article explores how compassion is mobilized by activists in the struggle for reproductive justice. The author centers emotional knowledge by drawing on conversations with a reproductive justice advocate in central Florida, the musical anthem of Viva Ruíz and the Thank God for Abortion Collective, and her own personal experience with pregnancy loss. This includes a discussion of the ways that coloniality persists in the racialized and gendered landscape of reproductive politics, with particular attention to the experiences of Puerto Ricans. Ultimately, the article argues that an attunement to “a radical compassion”—that is, a deep concern and understanding of the intersectional oppressions that place value on certain bodies over others—engenders the possibilities of reproductive justice and produces alternative ways of knowing and feeling.

After a 35-year-long constitutional ban on abortion, the Eighth Amendment was repealed in May 2018 and the Health (Regulation of Termination of Pregnancy) Act 2018 was introduced in the Republic of Ireland. Although “Repeal” and the legalization of abortion marked a significant transformation in reproductive governance, many aspects of the new abortion policy continue to complicate abortion care access and provision. In this article, I explore the mobilizations of health and rights in political discourses on abortion after legalization. In doing so, I identify how moral governance operates in post-Repeal abortion politics. I critically consider restrictive strategies in abortion politics in Ireland and compare these to a number of recent key anti-abortion tactics in the United States. As such, I situate post-Repeal and post-Roe abortion debates within parallel temporalities of abortion governance and highlight the adaptability of discourses on health and rights in shifting legal contexts.

Reproductive governance and anti-abortion discourse increased dramatically after the Dobbs decision ended Roe. To reproductive justice advocates, this decision came after the pandemic lockdown that left staff working from home and they see it as a human rights crisis. In light of these radical changes, how are reproductive justice debates framed in the United States by women of color? Drawing on ethnographic research, I suggest that while the abortion landscape has provoked more polarization, reproductive justice activists, particularly women of color, have deepened their commitment to their human rights and intersectional approach that advocates for the most structurally vulnerable.

I stumbled bleary-eyed into my daughter's nursery as I'd done a million times in the past 2 years. Pulled off her sleep sack as she jumped up and down. “Mommy, Mommy.” Something seemed weird. As I began to change her diaper, I was surprised to see a poop blowout. Then I realized it: I couldn't smell.

It happened to me. I'm one of those. She had come home from daycare with a fever about 10 days before. A few days later, I had what felt like a bad cold. In Ontario, there's no more free COVID testing unless you are part of a vulnerable population, and a single mother in a pandemic is no longer considered vulnerable enough. Earlier that day I had seen a United States–based friend's social media post about how COVID tests are being distributed through vending machines all over the University of California, Los Angeles campus. Having lived in California only a year and a half prior, the pictures of privilege hit me hard. Following provincial guidelines, I had to just go ahead and assume I had it.

I finished changing Sophie and took her to my room while I closed my eyes and played Cocomelon on my phone. Surviving our quarantine meant trying to get a little more half sleep before the day begins. Sophie had taken to looking at me and saying, “Mommy sleeping.” She wasn't kidding, and she definitely did some astute social commentary. More like “Mommy zombie.”

In 2017, I published a book that emerged from my own anxiety around growing up a “smelly immigrant,” or more specifically a “smelly Pakistani” (Ameeriar, 2017). The anxiety was so great that I would fight with my mother when she cooked South Asian food—food that now, 4 years after her death, I wish I could ask her to make. I carried Secret antiperspirant in my backpack in high school, constantly reapplying during the day during those anxious, sweaty years when we're learning to become adults.

The pandemic has been weird. It's been weird for everybody, and for me it's meant a radical shift in my relationship to my body. A body that still hasn't fully recovered from the experience of birth. Bodily scars have more or less healed, but the body I inhabit is no longer mine. Or no longer just mine. I share it. I swore I would stop breastfeeding when my daughter turned 1, but then the vaccine was coming and evidence seemed to support that antibodies could be passed to infants through breastmilk, so I didn't wean. Then I imagined a hard deadline at 2, but the booster was supposed to pass antibodies to protect from Omicron, and the vaccine wasn't approved yet for those under 5. So, I waited again. It's been a month since I was boosted. We got COVID anyway.

But the most radical thing that happened to me during the pandemic was that I stopped wearing deodorant. It just kind of happened. I was living in London, England, when I got pregnant. They don't have good deodorant there anyway, but once you start sharing your body, and the Apple News app learns you're preg

In the United States adverse reproductive outcomes are often understood in terms of Black and White differentials within the context of US-centric racism and as an afterlife of slavery. Yet similar racial variances in outcomes are found globally. How might we understand the persistence of adverse reproductive outcomes among Black women compared to White women in transnational contexts? Building on the concept of uneven development, this article uses the framework of uneven reproduction as one way to examine how inequalities are seared on reproducing bodies. Such framing shifts the analysis of adverse reproductive outcomes from a narrow view of racial disparities to one that explains those outcomes because of complex patterns of investment and disinvestment that reconfigure reproduction. In framing reproductive outcomes as uneven reproduction, this paper excavates three distinct historical cases in three geographic areas. Drawing from imperial and colonial contexts we can track different forms of disinvestment that were and continue to be detrimental to Black women.

This approach serves as a lens against which to read the persistent racial differentials in reproductive outcomes facilitated by a transhistorical, transnational and intersectional understanding of the constraints that impede Black women's successful reproduction over time and across space.

Passed in December 2019, the Citizenship Amendment Act intensified Hindu majoritarian rule, emerging as another legal measure to systematically deny citizenship to Muslims and other minoritized populations. These legislations were met by protests which were responded to by police violence. Young Muslim women at Jamia Milia Islamia University followed the lead of elders in Shaheen Bagh, crafting an intergenerational feminist-led protest which emerged at the forefront of resistance efforts. This article attends to young women's spatiotemporal claims of recognition and belonging. Dwelling on the collective and corporeal nature of their engagement, I highlight the theoretical significance of this unwavering collective still presence that characterizes their participation. In an India that increasingly questions their belonging, these student protesters craft home as an expanded political site. They make embodied claims to the university, public space, and by extension, the nation, as home.