This is the story of how I went from being a decidedly childless feminist, to a Feminist Breeder, and what that change meant for my conflicted views of the Modern Woman.
I inherited my early feminist views from my non-traditional family. I had no mom or dad around, so I was raised by grandparents, aunts, and uncles, and sometimes lived on my own for months at a time while the guardians went off to find work in other areas. I find that horrifying these days; that a child not more than 10 yrs old could be left in another state to feed themselves and get themselves off to school in the morning, but such was my life, and it all seemed normal at the time. This helped me develop an independence that lays a fertile soil for feminist ideology.
My maternal grandfather was the type of man who wanted his girls to be able to take care of themselves. Though terribly physically and emotionally abusive (which I now attribute to a lifetime of undiagnosed anxiety and clinical depression), there was a part of him that treated women with far more respect and dignity than most men of his generation. Women were complex and mysterious creatures to him, though I believe he was sometimes so intimidated he lashed out, and those were the days I got my ass kicked. My grandmother handled everything of importance, and whatever she wanted she got. He wanted his daughters (of which I was always considered to be one) to excel and succeed. He taught me to change the oil in my car so I wouldn’t have to depend on a man to do it. He tried (in his own way) to raise me with common sense and a good work ethic, so I could make my way in the world. He raised me like a man raises his son, while still entertaining my need to be a girl sometimes. I suppose if anyone “taught” me to be a feminist, it was him.
There were no Stay-At-Home-Moms in my family. The women in my family worked; not as a matter of politics or choice, but as a matter of survival. My grandmother worked as a roofer right alongside my grandfather, every day for nearly 40 years. She didn’t get to stay home with me, even when I would beg her. Not working meant not eating, though there were many days I went hungry anyway. We were poverty-stricken, a fact I did not fully realize until I became an adult.
My aunt liked to tell me that “Every woman is only one man away from welfare” – meaning don’t rely on anybody. My aunt helped raise me when my grandparents couldn’t and she’s as Feminist as a woman can be. Well, any woman who’s never been a mother, that is. It’s not that she didn’t want babies, she did, desperately, but she was not able conceive, and then re-married to a man who didn’t want them anyway. She’s Pro-Choice in terms of reproductive freedom yet often refers to pregnant women as “a buncha whiners.” She has little tolerance for anyone unlike herself, and even less tolerance for women complaining about their girly bits. She also helped convince me during my first pregnancy that childbirth was "deadly" and “thank god” for that birth rape cesarean or I’d have ended up just like Great-Great Aunt Mable from the old black & white pictures who died during childbirth in the 1910’s. I had never spent any time around women who discussed birth, and only knew what I saw from shows like "A Baby Story" or "Maternity Ward" so I didn't question any of this.
After the trauma of being gutted like a fish in an operating room with my arms strapped out at my side like Jesus on the cross, convulsing and throwing up all over myself while my husband watched in horror, I started to question my Aunt’s understanding of feminism and politics in general. If being a feminist meant allowing masked Med-Pros to violate my body, I don’t know if I’m cut out for her feminism after all.
Because of my upbringing, I saw children as a punishment. I had never seen a planned pregnancy in my family. The children all seemed to be consequences of a loose, irresponsible woman looking for love in the wrong place. Nine months later, a welfare case was born. I decided very early on that I would not be one of those women. I did not want children. I didn’t want to be punished. But if I there ever was a day when I wanted a child, they would be born into a stable family – into wedlock at least – unlike any other child in my family’s sordid history.
To me, feminism meant avoiding anything and everything that was exclusive to women. Childbirth seemed oppressive, as did my biology in general, and I wanted no part of it. As far as I was concerned, it could all be removed and I'd be better off.
When I got accidentally pregnant, I was angry. Angry at myself for being so stupid, and angry at my (now) husband for wanting me to keep it. I always assumed two pink lines on pregnancy test would have me out the door to Planned Parenthood for my quickie abortion before the urine dried. But until I was in that situation, I never could have known how I would end up handling it.
As it turns out, abortion wasn’t an option for me. Not at that time. Not in this relationship. I felt that I just didn’t “qualify.” While our circumstances at the time were less than ideal for starting a family, I wasn’t a crackhead or a scared teen either. I had the things I felt were required for accepting the responsibility of a positive pregnancy test: a responsible mate who already asked me to marry him, a place to live, help from our family, a good head on my shoulders, and a healthy body. And most importantly, I couldn’t do that to him. He wanted the baby, and I knew that aborting it would kill a part of him that would never recover. I couldn’t justify terminating a pregnancy simply because I got sloppy one night. I had made a bed, and the grown-up thing to do was lie in it. And the fact was, ladies and gentlemen, I wasn’t getting any younger anyway. Every woman in my family had already finished having babies by the time she was the age I was when I got knocked up. People in the family had actually begun to assume I was infertile.
Now, people often ask me when I “knew” I wanted to be a mother. I always have the same answer: “At 7:27 pm, August 1st 2006 – the moment my son was born, and not a minute sooner.” Even through those nine months of pregnancy, I wasn’t sure I was cut out for this. I was a feminist, dammit! I couldn’t be tied down with a child. I had school to finish and places to travel to. There were times during the pregnancy that I told my new husband I wanted out, and that I’d give the baby to him and his mother after it was born and they could raise it. Why not? That’s what my mother did with me. She wasn’t up for the motherhood stuff, so she left me on doorsteps and took off. Why would I – should I – be any different? Well, my mother was/is also a horrible human being and ought to have been chemically castrated before she went on to ruin three more childrens' lives – but that’s a whole other story.
Instead, on that date 3 years ago, I was transformed. Physically, emotionally, spiritually, mentally – all of it. The moment I heard my child cry, my brain chemistry changed, and suddenly I realized that being this person’s mother was not a punishment. On the contrary, it was a gift I probably didn’t deserve, but I would spend the rest of my life trying to deserve it. Though I was overjoyed by this perfect little miracle I had just produced, I felt sad and robbed that he was cut from my womb, instead of being birthed by me. I never knew how much that would matter until it was taken from me. I vowed that my next child would be birthed by his mother – not by a man in a mask.
I started that pregnancy thinking breastfeeding was gross. I’d never seen it done, but it seemed like it was something white trash women did. I was clueless. Then I had my baby, and nurturing him from my breast seemed right. After all, I had made this little baby in my body - it made sense for me to keep feeding him with the same body that had done such a good job making him. Unfortunately, thanks to a cesarean and a period of separation, along with little support from my doctors, breastfeeding wasn’t successful for me with my first son. Once I had to switch to formula feeding, I realized just how oppressive and sexist formula feeding, and formula companies, truly are. Here you are born with two sources of perfect nutrition right there on your body, and our patriarchal society convinces you that custom-made milk isn’t good enough. Your body isn’t good enough, and what you’re providing for your baby – without their help – isn’t good enough. They convince you to enslave yourself (and your wallet) to the formula manufacturer - the buying, mixing, heating, and washing of bottles - all while their product undermines your health and your baby's health. And they do all this while convincing the vast majority of women that it’s somehow liberating them. *headshake*
Right then, my feminism changed. That cesarean, and that formula feeding, taught me that the most feminist thing I could do for myself was to take back my body and my autonomy. I birthed my second baby through my vagina, and it was the most important thing I’ve ever done in my life. I made breastfeeding work that second time, and am still nursing my son 15 months later. I wanted to be an excellent mother and raise my children up to be good people who will become the next generation of feminist freedom fighters.
Having a uterus and breasts wasn’t oppressive anymore. My feminine biology was a gift that no man will ever get to experience, and it is my duty to protect the sacred gift which mother nature provided to me – not to shame myself for having it.
And so, I fight the system, along with all my feminist mothering sisters.
- I fight for a women’s right to give birth naturally, without the medical community descending on her and compromising her health or autonomy with their (often unnecessary) drugs, instruments, and surgical deliveries.
- I fight for women to breastfeed when and where they want without a Puritan, patriarchal society shaming her for her womanly ability to nurture her young.
- And I fight for women’s right to be both a mother and a worker, without having to sacrifice her family just to keep a job or get ahead.
This is what feminism means to me now. And I have my children to thank for this. They opened my eyes to a world beyond anything I had imagined, while forcing me to eat many of my words.
Thank you children. Life wouldn't be the same without you. And knowing what I know now, I would never want it to be.
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