The Enslaved Wet Nurse

This 5×8-inch mixed-media piece, Enslaved Wet Nurse (2025), merges a polymer clay figure and chain, painted in acrylic and oil, with authentic newspaper ads for enslaved Black “wet nurses,” all sealed under clear liquid plastic in a wooden frame. The central figure, partially draped in white, stands before these archival texts, symbolizing both the forced exploitation of her body and her underlying strength. The white polymer-clay chain highlights the reality of captivity, while the layered collage of historical advertisements draws attention to a painful chapter in history that too often remains hidden.

Background: Wet nursing was a widespread practice throughout history, but in slave societies (17th -19th century), it became a brutal form of exploitation. Enslaved women were forced to breastfeed and care for their enslavers' children while their own infants suffered from neglect or even death.

The Role of Enslaved Wet Nurses:

• Forced Labor and Exploitation – Enslaved women were coerced into wet nursing, particularly in the American South, the Caribbean, and Brazil, where their ability to produce milk was seen as a resource for enslavers.
• Separation from Their Own Children – Many enslaved infants suffered malnutrition or died as their mothers were forced to prioritize their enslavers’ children.
• Status Without Freedom – Some enslaved wet nurses lived in the household with better provisions but remained without autonomy over their lives and bodies.
• Generational Trauma – This practice had long-lasting effects on family structures, mother-child relationships, and cultural attitudes toward breastfeeding in Black communities.

Exhibits: All Student Juried Art Exhibition (ASJAE) - March 2025, La Crosse. Artwork: The Enslaved Wet Nurse Sculpture.

Also want to share the poem below, that inspired me during the creation process:

Wet Nurse by Mary Jean Chan

for the woman who raised my mother Shanghai, 1953

The milk pours from my body into a strange mouth. It is always hungry and so am I.

The Yulan magnolias are rioting in the back garden, unruly children bored with yet another spring.

The mouth frees my nipple and leaks tributaries down my skin. It has been ninety -seven days since the city stole my flesh. My husband and I have not spoken since. He shall never touch me again.

When the mother goes to preach the gospel, I pretend I am her, holding my own daughter, promising to never let go. The baby sees no problem with two mothers. The father adores her at a distance.

Sixth child, third daughter, beloved one. Some nights, I moan as if to say forgive me. I long for a landslide in the mind, so I might bury the moment when I abandoned my daughter on a train the morning of her birth, weak from blood - loss and fearful that a wet nurse with child will never find work. Now, a baby smiles up at me, another brushes my breast with phantom lips.

Additional References/inspirations: