Slutwalk

It's been so long since I've written on this blog, and there are so many things to say these days...

SlutWalk, which started in Toronto, is making huge gains in communities around the world, with responses ranging from empowering to overtly critical.  It is, I hope, a grassroots movement that will change the social response/tacit acceptance/enabling of sexual violence.  It seems that if we can begin the conversation - if we can really talk openly about victim-blaming - then we can educate.  When men* no longer believe that what she wore or what she drank or what time she was out or whether or not she was alone are excuses for unwanted sexual advances, then it changes how we understand the meaning of rape as a society.  If the "excuse" is no longer tacitly accepted and endorsed, then maybe...maybe...we start to think differently and - if we're lucky - we start to act differently.

I've thought a lot about what this would look like.  Practically, what do people need to hear to remind them that victim-blaming is never helpful?  Men need to be educated not to rape.  Women do not need to be educated about how to avoid rape.  It seems so obvious.  I wouldn't blame someone for getting struck by a car as she was crossing the street; I wouldn't blame someone whose wallet was stolen as he sat in a restaurant; I wouldn't blame a person whose house was broken into, even if the doors were left unlocked and the windows open.  So, why is it so easy for people to blame victims of rape?

I think it begins with a lack of discussion about sexuality and relationships more broadly.  In a society where women (and men) are so overtly sexualized, it can be difficult to understand that sexuality is one component of a relationship between two people that also includes other physical, emotional, spiritual, intellectual needs.  When we expect the sexual element of a relationship to come first, or to be most important, or to be easily fulfilled, I think we are in danger of neglecting the rest.  What if we started instead with conversations about trust and respect and intimacy between partners that could include (but not be limited to) sexual gratification?  I wonder if it would look different then.


* I recognize that not all sexual violence is perpetrated by men against women.  However, given that this is statistically the majority of such attacks, I have used gendered pronouns.

Forget Breastfeeding...

The most controversial parenting (mothering) decision these days is whether or not to have your children vaccinated against H1N1. This may not sound like a feminist issue, but I believe it is. It is assumed that the decision itself rests primarily with the mother, and being able to make (and carry out) an informed decision may, I believe, often be reserved for those with educational and socioeconomic privilege.

Lately, every mother I see, every gathering I find myself in, somehow manages to work into the conversation the dangers of Swine Flu either lurking in the virus itself or in the vaccine designed to prevent the virus from harming us. Everyone has an opinion and everyone wants to know if you are on the same side of the debate.

Are you getting it? Are your kids getting it? Have you looked at the studies on the adjuvant? Etc. Strangely, these questions are all directed at me. My husband – and equal parenting partner – is largely absent from these conversations. This is not usually because he’s literally absent. It is because, as with many other parenting decisions, it is assumed that this decision rests with the mother alone. She is the one in charge of the children’s health, she’s the one who makes appointments with the doctor and keeps track of allergies, weight gain, developmental milestones and, naturally, she is the one researching the pros and cons of a much anticipated vaccine. This is obviously problematic. The flip side of this sort of assumption is that if the wrong choice is made, she is to blame. If a child is/is not vaccinated and something goes wrong as a result, it is the mother’s fault.

Secondly, the way information has been disseminated (at least where I live) reflects some privilege of socio-economic status and education. Information is presented in our national newspaper and in talks at the local university, but not, as far as I can tell, in community centers, grocery stores and bus stops. Having the choice to have our children vaccinated meant that during the early weeks of the vaccination campaign, a parent needed to schedule at least several hours off work to take the children to one of the few vaccination clinics (many of which were not easily accessible by public transit). Although things have improved considerably in recent weeks, it is certainly a minority of families in which one parent can afford the time (and potentially lost income) of taking a day off work to wait in line for a vaccine.

The panic I see in my immediate peer group has, in many cases, given way to hysteria. Danger is everywhere. Every doorknob, every child with a runny nose, every seat on the bus, every book in the library must be looked at with suspicion (and not touched!). Everything has the potential (however small) of carrying the virus. Of course, this is no more or less true than any other virus circulating around us all the time. H1N1 may potentially have more risks once acquired, but the risk *of exposure itself* remains similar. Interestingly, I think this is the sort of paranoia reserved for those who have the luxury of time and choice.

My husband and I have flexible work hours that allow us to take the time required to have our children vaccinated if we so choose without fear of lost income (or lost employment), we have the good fortune of knowing people who are trained as scientists and can offer us various perspectives on this vaccine, and we have backgrounds that allow us to adequately research H1N1 and come to what we believe is a sound, informed decision.

In short, we are privileged. However, the judgment that comes from both sides of this debate appears directed primarily at mothers, regardless of privilege. Though I don’t find this surprising, I do find it irritating. I am not the only person in charge of my family’s health and it is not solely my responsibility to keep my children out of harm’s way.

Body Image and Food

I'm still thinking about how women are viewed, particularly at different ages and stages of life. My own experience of dealing with my body in different ways involves both parallels and distinctions between how I see myself (and how I relate to food): pre-pregnancy/during pregnancy/after pregnancy and during breastfeeding/post everything.

Pre-pregnancy: It took me a long time to feel comfortable with my body. Like many women (and men), I struggled with weight and self-esteem issues through my teens and into my early twenties. Before I got pregnant, I had gone through a very stressful period in my academic work and had lost some weight (due not to healthy choices, but to lack of proper eating, lack of sleep and general indifference about keeping myself well). However, I pulled myself together once my comps were over and I felt healthy and whole in the immediate weeks before getting pregnant.

Pregnancy: During the first three months (before I knew I was pregnant with twins), I was constantly nauseous and sick. I didn't gain - and perhaps lost - weight. I felt miserable and had no control over my body. I remember when I found out I was expecting twins and the doctors began to worry about my lack of weight gain. I was all of a sudden buying (and trying to eat) high-fat, high-calorie foods. It seemed so incongruous with all the messages I'd been given up to that point about being a young woman: Limit yourself, don't consume, don't overindulge, small portions are best, etc. Now, I was suddenly trying to *gain* weight and that process required a huge mental shift. Around my fifth month, I was overcome with hunger. Constantly. I ate an entire meal every 2 hours (with snacks in between). Even though this was necessary for the health of the babies growing inside me, I felt guilty for wanting so much food. I felt guilty for needing it. When my body started to expand - I eventually gained *a lot* of weight - it felt out of control. I felt out of control. Here I was, awake at 3am eating a bowl of cereal, thinking that women aren't supposed to do this. I wasn't supposed to do this.

Breastfeeding: This stage was much the same as the later part of my pregnancy. I was hungry all the time. My body was producing so much milk that it was necessary for me to eat. And eat. And eat.

Post all of that: Now, I find myself in a very ambiguous position. My weight is healthy. I feel physically well. Yet I have an odd relationship with food. I think I spent so many months eating so much that now I don't really care to eat. I also have no idea what reasonable portion sizes and food choices are. I simply can't make easy decisions about how to best nourish and sustain my body at this size. I don't think this is problematic or pathological. I'm not on the verge of an eating disorder. I'm simply trying to draw attention to the confusion that women face when their bodies (and emotions) go through so many changes so quickly.

As with many things, we're confronted with too many mixed messages: You need to be thin, but still strong; you want your baby to be big, but you don't want to look *too* big while pregnant; breastfeeding is best, but you shouldn't need so much food yourself; give your body time to heal, but you should be exercising immediately after your baby is born, etc.

I know these aren't new insights, but they are new to me as I walk in this post-pregnancy body for the first time. I'm not entirely comfortable with it. I don't like how my clothes fit, or how my weight has shifted in different places. But I feel good! I feel healthy and strong. So why am I still not sure an entire bagel and a banana is an optimal breakfast choice?

Motherhood and Body Image

I spent the weekend out of town with my family. It was great to get away and enjoy being outside before the cold weather sets in.

On Sunday, we were out walking with the girls and someone commented on how good I look after having had twins. I said "thank you" and we continued on our way. I then mentioned to my husband how frequently I hear comments like this. [This is not a post about how I look or an attempt to be immodest. I feel physically healthy and better than I have since before I was pregnant with the girls - the result of lots of exercise, good food, and an attempt to not worry about numbers on a scale. This isn't the point. What I want to draw attention to is how people perceive me based solely on how I appear physically.]

It's interesting that even as a mother (a role that is seemingly less sexual than others), a stranger somehow manages to attach my self worth to my physical attributes. I look good. Physically. This person doesn't know me - it wasn't a comment made about my kindness or generosity or my abilities as a mother. She was commenting on my physical appearance.

There are a few things wrong with this: First, the comment itself assumes that I gave birth. I realize this is a likely assumption but there are many ways to create a family. I could have adopted these children or found a surrogate, or they might not even be my children at all.

Second, why is my value attached to my physical being? No one comments on how my husband looks as a new father. Granted, he didn't go through the physical changes of pregnancy, but no one would say the same thing to him if he's out with the girls. Third, none of these people have any idea what my body was like before I was pregnant. For all they know, I was 50 pounds lighter, so their comments - offered out of context - are rather unreliable.

Finally, and most importantly, why does it matter? Why do strangers feel perfectly entitled to speak to me about my body? [Just to put this in perspective, I receive comments like this almost every day and I suspect most women out with strollers have the same experience.]

I suspect people would say the same thing whether they thought I looked physically attractive or not. This is just something to say, a comment to make to a woman pushing a stroller with two babies. But we know this is based in gender bias. A woman's worth is more often associated with physical attributes than is a man's.

Or, maybe people passing me in the park don't have a chance to assess my personality, my intelligence, my skills as a parent, so they comment on what they can see. However, I know my husband doesn't receive these comments when he's the one out with the babies, so even in motherhood, the double standard persists. This may seem like a small thing, but I hate it. I hate feeling judged just for walking down the street. Now that I am a mother, strangers shouldn't be paying as much attention to my body, right? This was all supposed to be over when I married and became less "available." Clearly not. Women are still under the gaze, no matter which phase of life we happen to find ourselves in.

I wonder what would happen if I started making passing comments to random strangers about their bodies?

Physical and Emotional Intimacy

I've been thinking about how we educate children about relationships. Specifically, what we fail to teach them. We spend much (if not all) our time focusing on the physical - condom use, STI's, pregnancy, etc. We invest far less time (if any) discussing the important emotional aspects of intimacy.

Given this:

How do our children learn about emotionally safe relationships?

How do they gather information about trust and respect and care?

What messages are we sending them about looking for signs of abuse and mistreatment - are we really so naive as to suspect that these things occur only in the adult population?

I wonder what the problem is, really. We now have a generation of parents, many of whom have been raised by feminists, who are having children of their own. Shouldn't this emotional language be easier? We've spent so long dissecting and analyzing linguistic space, commenting on how words associate with gender and what this means, particularly for women. We've been part of a generation that has raised our collective consciousness about the prevalence of domestic violence, rape and other forms of abuse in intimate partner situations. So why do we fail when we now talk to our daughters and sons about emotional intimacy? It seems to me that it is not so much due to a choice to exclude information, as it is a case of simply not recognizing that these things need to be said. It's as though we feel children will just "pick it up" as they go along. But we know, we really do know, how false this is. What they "pick up" comes from their peers, the media, the images they see every day. What they "pick up" often depicts women in positions of vulnerability, unable to express and assert themselves fully.

How different it would be if along with the talks about birth control pills and positive sexuality, we also made real space in conversations for young people to voice their concerns about love. What does it mean? What does it mean in the context of a sexual relationship? What are the limits I, as a 14 or 18 or 28-year old, am comfortable with? How do I express these limits, in addition to asserting my rights and desires, to my partner?

We have done so well with the physical. Many of us, as parents, are comfortable discussing so much with our children. What do we need to do in order to feel this same drive to educate about the emotional piece which is possibly the most important?

Motherhood and Perfection

I've been thinking lately about the goal of perfection in parenting, particularly for mothers. I recently returned to a fabulous book - Perfect Girls, Starving Daughters by Courtney E. Martin - that focuses on the struggles facing young women who, as young adults, are now dealing with both the advantages and dangers of having been raised by second wave feminists.

Martin's basic argument is that the seemingly easy accomplishments, the "effortless perfection" of perfect girls occur at the expense of an internal reality of unhappy, lonely women (starving daughters) who are fighting at every moment not to fall apart. Martin focuses on how this plays out in the body. She argues (quite eloquently and convincingly) that a young woman's body becomes the breaking point. From this, we see widespread evidence of eating disorders and other dysfunctional relationships women have with their physical selves.

Martin traces much of this back to our unique opportunities, the world that was handed to us by mothers (and fathers) who fought so hard for their daughters to have the same rights to achieve as their sons.

Martin writes: "She (my mother) told me: 'You can be anything that you want to be.'

My translation: 'I have to be everything.'" (p.45)

This idea resonates so strongly with me and, I suspect, with many women of my generation. We were told we could be anything; we heard, you must be everything.

But we can't be. Not all the time. Maybe not ever.

My question, pushing this beyond the body focus of Martin's work, is how does this challenge and effect us as mothers? Now that we are older, wiser perhaps, how does the drive to be and do everything perfectly, effortlessly, compound our struggles as parents? Is this a new dimension, not present (or perhaps not as striking) for previous generations of mothers?

An immediate tie to Martin's work might be the recent media attention given to pregorexia - a term used to define women who are so terrified of gaining weight during pregnancy that they starve themselves and their fetuses, potentially risking lasting damage or miscarriage.

Now, assume this same woman - so afraid of losing the perfect body she has worked so hard for - is parenting. Or, assume a woman who did not feel physically out of control and did not deny herself food during pregnancy (but nevertheless caries with her the goals of the perfect girl) is now parenting. Both women are dealing with bodily changes following pregnancy, perhaps breastfeeding, fatigue, and a host of other physical repercussions resulting from childbirth. And both women still want to be perfect, flawless to those around them. Perhaps even in the eyes of the child(ren) they now raise.

But what about how this new mother parents? How does she "perfect" this new goal, this new occupation? If she maintains a career, how does she excel at both? What does this mean?

Too much to get into right now, so I'll close with the questions.

Man of the House?

Earlier today, my husband took our car in for an oil change. An hour later, someone called to tell me (not ask me) that our tires need to be replaced. Fine. This is probably true. I asked him to just go ahead with the oil change and give my husband a quote for the tires when he picks up the car. [For the record, I'm not opposed to replacing the tires. I just didn't want to make a decision over the phone without doing some research and discussing it with my husband because this is, I think, what most people do when large-ish amounts of money and/or possibly less than reputable mechanics are involved].

The mechanic then called my husband at work to get the go-ahead to replace the tires.

What?! I'm trying not to assume that this guy thought me incapable of making car related decisions because I'm a woman. But is there another way to read this? Maybe it's just that he wanted to make the sale so thought he'd try my husband next. Part of the irony here is that this is my car. The registration information as well as any business we do with this mechanic is in my name.

Seriously.