On Breastfeeding

Here's what bothers me about the breastfeeding discussions lately. Well, there is the obvious, the “why is a breast okay to sell a product but not to feed a baby?” and “I wouldn’t want to eat in the bathroom” points. Yes, yes, yes. Breastfeeding is healthy, and it is natural, but breastfeeding is also hard, and hard in the marathon, endurance way, even if you have an “easy” time breastfeeding (avoiding mastitis, low production, incorrect latch, teething, food irritations, pumping etc., but you likely won’t avoid all these things anyway.) The not sleeping, constantly nursing, not to mention eating large quantities of food and never feeling fully hydrated hard. Did I mention that nursing around the clock and waking at all hours to feed a child is challenging? Did I mention that I haven’t had a full night of sleep in three years, because I have been nursing for three years straight?

Yes, I have been breastfeeding for three years straight. My daughter turned three years old yesterday, and my son turns one in a few weeks, and I have been nursing one and two children for three years. I don’t breastfeed because I love whipping my breasts out in public, nor do I breastfeed because it is the most fulfilling thing I have ever done. I breastfeed because it is the healthiest thing for my children. This is an established fact. I have sacrificed much more than sleep to be able to breastfeed my children. I can’t pump very well (and my oldest, a lean baby, refused a bottle, so it was impossible to leave her), so especially for my children’s first year of life, everything is scheduled around their feeding. I work from home and have a babysitter come to my house, so I can nurse my baby from my desk when he wants. Progress on my doctoral dissertation from Princeton (which I will be finishing in the next few months—yay!) has been much delayed by the constant demands of my children. Yes, mothering takes time as well, but breastfeeding takes the mother’s time, and the mother’s time alone. Even if you are hooked up to a pump, your time being poured into those bottles. Producing milk takes a lot of extra calories (energy), so in addition to waking up frequently with a baby, I also feel more tired and at times depleted. It is even inconvenient if you don’t have your baby with you because you need to take care of your breasts. A couple of weeks ago, I flew to Seattle for the day (I couldn’t go any longer than this because of breastfeeding) and found myself squatting in the corner of the airport bathroom pumping (with a cover on, mind you), and desperately wishing to be invisible.

Does this sound fun so far? Now think about the physical discomfort. Your nipples will crack and bleed, and even if you don’t have that at first, it is still uncomfortable. We just aren’t used to having little Hoovers attached to our breasts. And just wait until your children start to teethe, because mine have bit me so hard that my nipples bleed, and three years into breastfeeding, I hardly notice. It is normal. I have had mastitis, complete with fevers and tremendous pain twice, once with each child. Worse than all this is the boredom from so many hours spent with a small child who cannot talk. I read the entire Bones series of books within the first few months of my son’s life, not to mention countless history and sociology books, until I can’t read anymore. And when your child reaches a certainly (entirely too young) age, it will be almost and sometimes impossible to read because your child will hit your book right out of your hand. How could I forget the food sensitivities newborns sometimes have? My son had severe food intolerances, so for seven months I ate ONLY white rice, organic hamburger meat, over-cooked squash, and eggs. FOR SEVEN MONTHS. It was the hardest thing I have ever done, and I have never wanted a salad so badly in my entire life, but I did it for the health of my son.

In sum, breastfeeding moms deserve a f***ing medal because they are doing the most selfless work in the world, or at least just turn your head the other way if they happen to be nursing. Maybe if you are so inclined, you can say something nice to them, because they probably have not talked to another adult in way too long, and they don’t get out much. If I’m nursing my baby covered up in an Ergo in the grocery store, it is because I need to feed my family, not because I want to show a glimpse of side-boob to a stranger. If you don’t like it, don’t look! I need to feed my three year old, I have a job and am busy, and my husband travels a lot. Deal with it.

In comments to articles about breastfeeding, a recurring theme is to tell mothers to stay home and breastfeed. Are we telling them they aren’t fit to be in society, or do women who have babies need to stop their careers altogether so that their boobs don’t offend anyone? I have modified my life in order to breastfeed, but I have not stopped it, which, given the treatment I have received, is yet another act of sheer will and determination. I have hiked mountains while breastfeeding, installed computer software in a walnut warehouse while breastfeeding, taught yoga and meditation classes while breastfeeding, written parts of my dissertation while breastfeeding, talked on the phone with clients while breastfeeding, shopped for appliances and tile and groceries, yes, while breastfeeding. Life doesn’t stop when you have a baby, and we shouldn’t ask women to stop their lives because they are breastfeeding. I am amazing because my breasts can feed my baby while I am living a full and varied life. I am a breastfeeding superhero, and when I breastfeed in public or post a picture of myself breastfeeding on Facebook, I’m showing women and girls that life, while breastfeeding, is possible.

  The first day of my breastfeeding adventure!

Lessons from a Stranger

I recently had the honor of speaking at Take Back the Night at Princeton University. Several people asked me to share my speech, so I offer it here. namaste


I took off my earrings before I went out that night. They were the long dangly kind, and a little voice in my mind told me that if something were to happen, my earlobe would rip. As women, these moments of fear, these “what if’s” are woven into our lives, but as I walked into the night, I thought no further of what might be. I allowed myself to be enveloped by the darkness, by the moonlight. Sipping my peppermint tea, I breathed out the tension of a stressful day.

It was around 9:30 at night. September 2, 2009—a night that changed my life. I had a cell phone in my pocket, and my favorite tea in my hand. I had just stepped back into life after spending several weeks outdoors in California, and the night and the silence felt more comfortable than the chaos going on in my life. I felt safe and strong, as I walked slowly down the street I lived on. I didn’t know it, but I was being watched.

As I reached the end of the street, I took my phone out of my back pocket and returned a call to my friend. I noticed the houses and the trees. I noticed a woman painting in the window of her house. It was when I was between two houses and between two streetlights that I felt it—a hand reached over and covered my eyes. “Is this some kind of joke?” I thought, and as I turned to look at the prankster, I felt an elbow clamp over my mouth--pure aggression, pure pain. “This is real,” I thought. Things always happen to somebody else until they are happening to you.

And then I can’t remember, though he pulled my almost six foot frame over, ripped my glasses from my face and hair from my head, dragged me behind trees, hidden from the street. The police tell me we had some kind of fight while I was on my back, and my friend, the only witness who was a phone line away, tells that I screamed the whole time. The next thing I remember, I was in a fetal position, hugging my body in tightly, desperately trying to disappear, and a very strong man was over me punching my left eye with a force that I have never felt before, trying to get me to pass out. “Get off of me,” I screamed repeatedly, and I knew, I knew that if I stayed on the ground, I would get raped. “Just get up. Just get up,” I told myself, and a cougar awoke. Somehow I threw the man not just off, but a distance away. I got up into Malasana, a yoga squat pose. I was too dizzy to stand up all the way. I thought, “I don’t know how to fight, but I’m big, and I’m going to make myself as big as I possibly can, and I stretched my arms wide. And he ran toward me, and still in a squat, I ran toward him. I thought, “I’m going to go for his crotch. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I get there, but I gotta do this.” It was fight or be dominated. I screamed, “Get away from me, you asshole,” and we locked eyes. That did it. Suddenly I became not a woman but a person, a force to be reckoned with. We stared, and he moved from running toward me to running down the street. And I screamed hysterically to an empty night.

I continued screaming, until there was a circle of people surrounding me, staring. A woman accused me of committing a crime. I was bawling, my face was a mess, and I was on the grass in a center of a circle, screaming for people to call 911—I had been assaulted. All I got was disconnected, blank stares, as if I were insane. Until one woman, an angel of light, swooped in, took charge, and held me in loving arms. She guided me into a house, allowed me to curl up on the floor in a corner, where I felt safe, and said “Go ahead and cry. Something really terrible happened.” And pretty soon there was a circle of police and paramedics swirling around scared, huddled, terrified, and hurt little me.

I wish I felt that comfort from others after the assault, but instead I received more blank stares and blame than hugs. Indeed, what hurt most wasn’t my bruised body, my cracked ribs or my concussion and my pounding headache—it was my voice not being heard. It was the shame placed upon my shoulders. It was stinging words coming from many around me telling me, “You shouldn’t have been out by yourself,” “You shouldn’t have been on the phone,” “You should be more aware of your surroundings,” as if I didn’t learn these lessons the hard way. “At least he didn’t take your wallet.” I would give all the money in my bank account to not have to go through what I went through. “Why can’t you just forget about it?” as if I don’t want to forget, to erase the pain. Further, healing from trauma is a long process that takes time and strength and loving support. The reactions of so many people were trauma on top of trauma. I was treated as if I committed a grave felony by being, by not living in fear of men, by going out of my house at 9:30 at night. Am I supposed to be imprisoned by my gender? I say, “No.” I say, “Man, who followed me, who dragged me and was on top of me punching my face so hard, you shouldn’t have done that. I was simply out for a walk. I was living.”

I wish these were simply isolated voices, but instead they are choruses echoing. You hear them as you walk through the grocery story, and the “I’m sorrys” spill from the mouths of women. You hear them in domestic violence centers, as women struggle to free themselves from the belief that they somehow caused the abuse that they often so passively suffered through, responding to violence with love and forgiveness. And you hear them too often from their families, saying, “How could YOU allow HIM to do that do you?” I ask, “How could HE do that?” When we stop accepting violence against women as natural and a given, and thus something a woman is responsible to prevent, I know the world will change.

I probably blend in as one of the many women that man has done and will do this to, but I will never forget him--his eyes, his elbow around my mouth and his fist meeting my face. I will never forget the karmic dance we performed that fateful night, and I actually am grateful for the experience. Because through my interaction with him, I found my voice and my strength. Because of him, I deleted the words I’m sorry from my vocabulary. He helped me learn to break the pattern of abuse, harassment and indeed victimhood that has persisted throughout my entire life because of my gender. He taught me “no” and strangely taught me how beautiful it is to be a woman.

My story was not one of shame that I was or am going to hide in the closet, which it seemed most people wanted me to do. It was a story of pain but ultimately, it is empowering. I refuse to take blame, for I firmly believe I was doing what every human has a right to do—take up space, go for a walk on a nice evening, to just be. When we, as women, raise our voices and say assault is not the woman’s fault, and it will no longer be tolerated; when we, as women, collectively hold up our heads without fear and say no in all areas of life; when we as men and women, as human beings, see others simply as humans seeking happiness and peace, and compassionately witness and respect the lives of everyone around us, then I will stop telling my story. It will no longer be relevant.

On "Should"

I was five years old the first time I remember hearing it. “You should be able to this!” I couldn’t fold paper straight, and thus I had to stay in at recess folding, folding. And a few months later, I heard it again. This time, I couldn’t bounce a ball, and I had to stay inside trying to bounce, watching the other kids run around outside kissed by the California sunshine. Guess what? I still can’t fold straight--I would be a very bad employee in a clothing store, and I’ve never been particularly good at basketball, although I eventually learned to dribble. (The you-have-to-stay-in-everyday-until-you-can-do-this rule was eventually broken when it became apparent it wasn’t going to happen.) “Should” is a straight line and all people (or at least those I like!) are curvy. Who drew this line, created this standard?

“Shouldn’t” can be just as binding. I was seven when I first started playing music, and I picked up a plastic recorder and just knew how to play. “You “shouldn’t” be able to do that?” But I could, and I did, and it was joyous. Had I listened, had I been less stubborn, would have set the instrument down? And teachers had previously said I had no hand-eye coordination because I could not fold or dribble—how then could I play music with such ease? No, I was not a straight line, nor am I one now.

“Should” and “shouldn’t” are words that cause the body to shut down, and they make the mind start to doubt—to doubt ability, to doubt reality and even to doubt one’s own personal truth. It seems that too often we identify and define a person by their lacks rather than their myriad of different parts; in doing so, we put them in a prison—this is what it is to be person, and you should be this. Further, to see people only by their actions and abilities (and all to often lack thereof) rather than feeling a whole person robs us of the most incredible part of being human.

On Strength

I see then all the time when I’m swimming in the pool, those little yellow bracelets--“Live Strong.” I hear it from so many people around me, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

But the strongest walls crumble, skyscrapers fall, the Titanic sank; it is the softest thing that does not break. I don’t want to be strong nor, Lance, do I want to live strong. I strive not to be a pillar but rather a droplet of water. I do not crumble, but when circumstances require it, I transform. Vapor or liquid or ice. Why this obsession with strength? The good ol’ Merriam Webster gives many definitions for strength, and many of them use the word “resist,” such as “the power to resist force.” But I don’t want to live life with power, I just want to live, laughing, crying, learning changing, responding to forces rather than resisting them.

Do I approach life like the bodybuilder, lifting more and more, resisting, fighting, conquering the physical form, or do I approach life like the yogi, stretching and adapting, listening to the truth within? Strength is sucking it up, grinning and bearing it. But I want to cry, cry when things hurt and sit in that hurt, truly feel it. And perhaps in doing so, in embracing this, I can do the opposite—I can exude joy from every cell of my being. I can allow my body to vibrate with my truth, with my experience. Feeling strong can be exhilarating, but being strong is limiting, just as being happy or being sad or being frustrated is. When we are being without an adjective, we can feel the spectrum of emotions within. We can receive our life experiences with an open heart and truly commit to learning what they offer.

I now have a blog

Once upon a time, I used to love writing and wrote a lot. And then someone very close to me told me I was actually a terrible writer, and I stopped writing. But I'm so done with this good/bad business--the truth is that I love to write. So this summer, I embark on a return to what I once loved to do. Yes, I will still be writing a dissertation (goal: PhD by the time I'm 28--woo-hoo!), but I will also be writing more and playing more music and . . . we'll see. Life is truly an adventure, and often the greatest adventure of all is going within.

The title of my new blog is taken from a favorite poem by Sir Edward Dyer (1543-1607), which was used in a lovely song by John Dowland (1563-1626). It's yogic in an early modern English sort of way. Enjoy!

The lowest trees have tops, the ant her gall,
The fly her spleen, the little spark his heat,
And slender hairs cast shadows though but small,
And bees have stings although they be not great.
Seas have their source, and so have shallow springs,
And love is love in beggars and in kings.

Where waters smoothest run, deep are the fords,
The dial stirs, yet none perceives it move:
The firmest faith is in the fewest words,
The turtles cannot sing, and yet they love,
True hearts have eyes and ears no tongues to speak:
They hear, and see, and sigh, and then they break.