The Business of Breastfeeding

On my way to work every morning, while driving on SR-14 east, I always pass by the Beaches billboard, which is familiar to most Vancouverites. Though sponsored by the waterfront restaurant, the billboard usually displays a message unrelated to it, as they must allow random advertisers and individuals to pay for the space. They change it pretty frequently--almost daily--so there is always something new to read. Oftentimes, it advertises some upcoming event, but most of the time it displays a personal message for a known passerby. For example, today it read, "Happy birthday, Bob, you're old. From, Dirt." I have also seen propositions for dates and brief love notes posted. However, lately, the billboard has been dominated by sporadic plugs for breastfeeding. Who sponsors these, I do not know, but there have been several. One of them read, "Breast milk never gets recalled," while others have had similarly snarky quips. Most of these haven't bothered me, but the most recent one has, for some reason, gotten under my skin. It said, "Normalize breastfeeding! Nurse in public!"

Now, the reason this irks me is not because I harbor some illogical animosity towards breastfeeding, but because it sparks an issue I have heard a lot about in recent years: whether or not it's appropriate to nurse openly in public. I was also a bit annoyed by the use of "normalize" in the message because, to me, breastfeeding is considered quite normal in our culture. I realize that a few decades ago, there was a trend towards using formula in lieu of breast milk, which I assume was based on a flawed assumption that breast milk was somehow less healthy for the baby. However, this trend is so dated that I don't even know the real reason behind it. I and all my siblings were breastfed, and this has been the case for most people I know. I constantly hear commentary from the medical community that breastfeeding is healthy for both baby and mom, and as someone who has associated closely with feminist circles, I have been exposed to plenty of pro-breastfeeding rhetoric. Additionally, it seems the message is prevalent in the mainstream, and I never hear anyone say, "Breastfeeding is dirty!" (or anything to that end).

If breastfeeding publicly is what it takes for certain people to be convinced that it has been normalized, then I still don't know what the problem is because I would certainly say it's not uncommon to witness a woman nursing in public. However, I want to pursue this notion a bit further because I think there are issues in the logic of free-for-all breastfeeding. I don't mind if a woman nurses in a public place, provided that she uses some type of covering (blanket, jacket, shirt, etc.) to shield unsuspecting passers-by from her nude breast. There have been instances in which I have seen women I don't know from Eve just whip it out with no discretion (including a woman in a string bikini at the Fort Vancouver 4th of July firework show one year...), and to me, this is just inconsiderate. I am uncomfortable with seeing the breasts of someone I don't know well (if at all) randomly exposed to me in a place where random breasts are not slated to be exposed. I wouldn't even classify myself as a prude; I just find this inappropriate. Now, I know many proponents of public breastfeeding (sans cover-up) would argue that I am simply uncomfortable with it because I'm not used to seeing it often enough, and that I should just get over it. I believe I have commonly heard the argument phrased like so: "It's JUST a boob, stop making it into something sexual and deal with it!" This is where the logic gets fuzzy for me. You see, natural and necessary activities such as relieving one's bowels, changing one's clothes, or picking one's nose are certainly considered normal; they are not condemned and they are not considered unhealthy or shameful, provided they occur in private. I don't want to see someone pop a squat and take a crap right in front of me at the mall, so why would I want to see you pop out your nipple for your infant to suckle? It's not about sexualizing women's bodies in this case--there is nothing sexually appealing to me about a woman breastfeeding, for the record--it's just that there are some things in life we don't need to see a stranger do, and nursing is one of them. Again, if the baby is whining and it can't wait for the bathroom, the car, or the home, I have no qualms about a mother breastfeeding discreetly, but I don't understand the recent push for nursing to be so in-your-face. Am I alone on this? Perhaps I just don't understand the issue because I'm not a mother, so if someone has a different perspective to share on this, I welcome it. I try to be sensitive to issues like this because it's not fair for one to feel condemned or "abnormal" for doing something that is not only essential, but also perfectly morally sound. However, I guess I'm just not enough of a hippie to see the value in eliminating social mores that exist for good reasons.

As a quick tangential, for the sake of emphasis, I'd like to share that when I worked as a student office assistant in the Women's Studies Department at PSU, a professor, who shall remain unnamed, came into the office one day with her toddler--yes, TODDLER--and in the middle of a conversation with another student and myself, started breastfeeding her. Now, in her defense, she may have assumed that, because she was in a woman-centered, progressive environment, it was a "safe space" for her to do this. I suppose in that regard it wasn't the worst place for her to flop out her rather sizable mammary gland, but this fact aside, I found it wildly inappropriate that she would do this in a professional atmosphere, while on the job, in front of two students with whom she did not have a close relationship. Perhaps some of her colleagues were not opposed to this, but why would she automatically assume we were? I was extremely uncomfortable, unsure of where to rest my gaze, as I didn't want to stare at her breast but found it nearly impossible not to. Whatever conversation we were having was immediately shot to hell because of the mental gymnastics I was doing to avoid registering utter discomfort and distaste on my face. I won't even get into the weirdness of nursing a child that could feasibly chew steak (to semi-quote an episode of Sex and the City) because I think the general situation speaks for itself. Those of you reading this who may find my opinion on the matter to be somewhat conservative, please tell me, would you start nursing your child, without warning and without covering, in front of a coworker or client? For example, if you were a therapist, would you do it in front of your patient while they were trying to talk about their day? For me, it's not a matter of what the breastfeeder is comfortable with, it's a matter of what the onlooker(s) is comfortable with--common courtesy. Had she even so much as interjected a brief, "Do you mind if I nurse?" it would have been more appropriate. Again, if I'm missing the point, someone please tell me, but in my humble opinion, the business of breastfeeding should remain inconspicuous.

this popsicle stand

So on Sunday I went up to Seattle to check out some apartments, and, due to the fact that only a handful of the fifteen or twenty apartment managers I contacted actually got back to me, I only ended up having two appointments to look inside the units. The first was in West Seattle, right on Beach Drive, across the street from Alki Beach. The location was absolutely adorable and ideal (albeit a little far from campus), but the apartment itself was tiny (400 sf) and rather dingy. I proceeded to do several drive-bys in West Seattle, South Seattle, First Hill (one was literally right across the street from SU, but of course no one called me back), and Eastlake. The one in Eastlake was great, and also an ideal location, being about a block away from Lake Union. Unfortunately, though, I wasn't able to see much of any of them, just the exterior and the neighborhood. My second appointment was supposed to be at this brand new apartment complex in north Seattle, but when I got there, they told me that they couldn't accept full-time students as residents, unless they have dependents. No one said boo about this to me when I set up the appointment, and it was not indicated anywhere on the web listings. So, that pissed me off because I took the time and gas to drive up there, and also, talk about discrimination! By the time I got done there, I was pretty much sick of driving around and not getting to actually see any apartments, so my aunt (who came with me) and I got some cheap cheeseburgers, fries, and floats from the Dick's in the U District, and headed back south. We took a scenic route through Ballard and Fremont, then Queen Anne and Belltown. It was a nice day, so it was cool to drive around all those funky/hip neighborhoods and see Seattleites in their natural Sunday habitats. Then, trying to play it smart by catching 99 south from downtown and avoiding I-5, we realized, too late, that they had closed off all the freeway entrances down there, and traffic was backed up like crazy. I got stuck on lots of near-90-degree hills in a standstill, which is always fun, knowing that when you have to accelerate, there's a reasonable possibility you will roll back into the car behind you or otherwise burn rubber trying not to. Anyway, we finally got on the road and headed back to Olympia, where I had a low-key night at my aunt and uncle's house.

Monday morning I got up bright and early (well, wasn't so bright yet) so that I could drive a good hour and a half back north for my interview, which was at Edmonds Community College in Lynnwood (about 20-30 minutes north of downtown Seattle). Traffic was pretty much abysmal at that time of the day, but I still made pretty good time (thanks, cruise control and traffic-weaving skills!) and got to Lynnwood about an hour and a half earlier than my interview time. I decided to try and find a Starbucks, since Lynnwood appeared to be prime suburban location for that, and in the process realized that Lynnwood is one dreary and miserable town that I certainly wouldn't write home about. It reminded me of the ghetto-est parts of Gresham or Troutdale, except maybe worse. Not only did it possess 0% of the Seattle culture and charm, it wasn't even nice by suburb standards. All I saw, lining the major arterials, were used car dealerships, automotive repair shops, and sketchy Asian restaurants. Oh yeah, I think I also spotted a casino and an oversized family fun center, too--I guess that's the local entertainment. I decided to just find the college and kill time there, since there was clearly nothing worth exploring elsewhere. The campus was decent, considering the rest of the town, but it too seemed a bit sleepy. I tried to solicit a visitor login at the library, so I could use a computer while I was waiting for my interview, but they told me there was no such thing. So, out of sheer boredom (and a dead cell phone), I just hoofed it to the Developmental Learning Division office, which houses the position I applied for, figuring I would risk looking too eager in lieu of being bored to death for another half hour. Fortunately, they gave me a list of questions for the interview that I could use for brief preparation, so I used my best extemporary skills and came up with some answers that I thought were specific and relevant. The position is along the lines of customer service and student services, both of which I have experience doing, so it wasn't too hard to talk about why I'm a good fit. I felt really good about the interview; they seemed to like me, and they were also very nice and professional, which was a relief after not getting a great impression from the commute, surrounding town, or campus. They told me they would make a decision by tomorrow, so I sent a little email of gratitude today, and now I'm just crossing my fingers that it will work out. I don't want to live in Lynnwood, so I'd have to commute if I got the job, which sucks, but at this point I haven't heard back from any other potential employers, so I'll take what I can get. The pay isn't bad, either, and I would have a three-day weekend every week!

So, now I just get to play the waiting game. Waiting for a job offer, waiting for an opportunity to see more apartments, waiting for school to start, waiting to get out of Vancouver and start something new. I appreciate everything I have here, but I'm uber restless right now. I've also had too much time on my hands this summer, working only halftime most weeks, and the boredom is really getting to me. I'm starting to get really irritable with family and friends, which probably wouldn't happen if I was busier. Boredom causes me to have less realistic expectations of those around me because I can't fathom why they don't have as much down time as I do. What's this? People work full-time? What a concept! Anyway, with all due respect to my Vancouver-PDX family, I'm ready to blow this popsicle stand! Until next time...

the early boys part deux

The second part of my mini-memoir on crushes of the mid-90s. See the first part below, if you haven't already. Otherwise, confusion may ensue. Thanks for tuning in...

***

Johnny, like William, had a mien that properly reflected his all-American name. He was about the same height as most of the girls in the class, perhaps shorter, and was also just as slender. His hair was dirty blond and rounded closely to the scalp, while still appearing soft, much like a traditional Roman cut. Having eyebrows that were notably darker than the hair on his head and teeth that were spaced far apart, he imparted a gremlin-like aesthetic that was somehow not off-putting. What made him most appealing was his polite charm, which stood the test of childhood tendencies to engage in cruel and unusual ridicule. I have no memory of him asking me my gender, nor commenting on my strange boy haircut, so that counted for something.

I can recall one juvenile summer that was comprised of sporadic and spontaneous visits to Johnny’s house. It was never my idea, and I never went alone—my timidity wouldn’t allow it. Instead, it just so happened that one of my best friends, Gabby, who also lived in the humble but quaint Casper neighborhood, was a close friend of his. A typical day started off with my older sister suggesting we take a walk down the block to our friends’ house (she was besties with Gabby’s older sister), where we would play out in the front yard for a while, perfecting cartwheels, round-offs, and other pseudo-gymnastics. After tiring of that, we’d eat a hearty lunch, which I recall always included blue corn chips—the origins of which mystified me for years—and fresh-squeezed lemonade. Finally, just before wearily nudging my sister to take us home, someone would suggest we stroll over to Johnny’s house, and I’d nearly bubble over with nervous excitement.

His abode had a comforting quality, despite being outdated and kitschy. Like most Wyoming homes of the 1990s, it was a ranch-style with dark, marbled brown shag carpeting and wood-paneled walls. It smelled of stale cigarette smoke, which may or may not have been from its then-inhabitants, mixed with Lipton soup or another quick, easy meal. Every inch of countertop was adorned with some trinket likely purchased at a holiday bazaar: creepy rubber dolls with crocheted dresses; stuffed animals dyed obnoxious colors; Virgin Mary and Jesus statuettes; sugar canisters and cookie jars with matching paisley patterns; and tacky but endearing plaques announcing that “home is where the heart is.” I can’t say what exactly about it was comforting; perhaps just the fact that it was his, and it contained character and unconditional love. 

We’d usually end up playing “Go Fish” or another mundane card game, and all the while, I would try to keep a running tally on how often Johnny asked me if I had any sevens. I’m quite certain, in retrospect, that he had the hots for Gabby or even for my sister, but I maintained the deluded fantasy that I was his secret shy-girl crush. He was an only child, whose mother taught at our Catholic primary school, so he was good-natured, smart, and just lonely enough to spend his summer days with a bunch of girls. In fact, I don’t recall Johnny having many male friends. He got along with just about everyone at school, but I could tell he preferred the more conversational and creative company of females, which of course earned him the hearts of each of them. Despite our time together, nothing ever came of my unrequited feelings for Johnny, not even a staged recess wedding. I wonder what he is doing these days, and I especially wonder if he ever came out of the closet.

***

the early boys

This is the first little vignette in a series of mini-memoirs I've decided to write, just to keep the creative juices flowing. The topic of the first mini-memoir is boys I had crushes on as a kidlet. This was inspired by my most recent reading of Lolita, in which Vladimir Nabokov is utterly fearless about describing in rich detail all those Freudian thoughts and memories most of us are too reserved to talk about. Mine won't be quite as intimate, since I'm posting it on this here blog (nor will it come close to being as genius, for that matter). I may only post this first mini-memoir and confine the others to forever remain nestled on my hard drive, just so I can write them without imagining a potential audience that is anyone with Internet access. Anyway, here's what I got so far...

***

I don’t know what developmental psychologists would say is the normal age for little girls to start developing attractions, but I know that by first grade, if not sooner, I was fully capable of such a feat. I may not have known the implications behind these feelings, but they were identifiably amorous or romantic in nature. Actually, even those aren’t the right words because it’s not as if I knew what sex was at the time, nor did I have any concept of the meaning of romance, which to my elementary mind, was about as esoteric and useless as it is to most adults. There was just something about the way I perceived and interacted with certain boys that set them apart from others. Put differently, I didn’t think they had cooties, but if they did, I had no qualms about catching them.

One such fortunate fellow was William Koenig, whose appearance was as charmingly German as his name. He had blond, thistle-like hair that sprouted straight up from his head like the wildflower itself, presumably impervious to even the most copious amounts of water or hair gel and resistant to the coarsest of boar-bristle brushes. His face had the seemingly unlikely quality of being cherub-y and Neanderthal at the same time, for his brow was protruding, especially for a young boy, but was balanced by gentler features, like his cheeks (which are dimpled in my mind). 

Throughout kindergarten and most of first grade, I didn’t believe William wanted anything to do with me, since I was a shy, boyish-looking teacher’s pet who tended to blend into the walls during class time and the chain-link fence during recess. He was as much of a jock as a six- or seven-year-old can be and probably spent most of his recess time playing kickball and throwing rocks. In the classroom, I imagine he was none too bright, for which the only evidence I possess (aside from his Cro-Magnon brow) is the fact that he blatantly used me for answers on math quizzes. I put up with it for quite some time, despite that he was pushy and unsubtle (“Hey, let me cheat off you,” he would say) because it flattered me to receive any attention whatsoever from him, especially the kind that would indicate I was smarter. 

However, one day I was feeling particularly saucy, and, like usual, consented to his entitled request to exploit my intellect, but instead of diligently cranking out flawless arithmetic, I penciled in wrong answers for every problem. Like a fool, William fastidiously copied them down, without so much as a feigned pause for the appearance of thoughtfulness, and turned his quiz in to Mrs. Morrison’s tray. I then erased my incriminating answers and filled in the correct ones, post-haste, giving him a quick glance of smugness, before submitting my own quiz. Where most boys would have written me off like the wily Benedict Arnold I was (rightly or not), I think using such trickery to defend my honor earned me points in William’s book. Things changed after that. For one, he never demanded to cheat off me again, and for two, he invited me to marry him. 

Now don’t get too riled up, it was all part of a new coed trend at recess to enact a mock-wedding between a boy and a girl whom the whole class knew to be crushing on one another. Up until this point, I had only assumed the pathetic roles of congregant and presider, due to the fact that none of the boys openly admitted to liking me and instead doubled or tripled up on my more popular and feminine-looking friends. But finally it was my turn! Nervously tucking my hand into William’s hooked arm, we glided down the blacktop to our classmate’s rudimentary rendition of “Here Comes the Bride” (they at least had the reverence to omit “all fat and wide”). I put on my best bride face, which was likely very sad and unconvincing—growing up being mistaken for a boy causes one to forget how to be girlish—and said my “I do’s.” 

When the bell rang, I should have been a very happy schoolgirl indeed, but there was one problem. Now that I had gotten the guy, I didn’t want him anymore. Oh yes, I was blooming into a fickle pickle already, and the thrill of the chase had dissipated. But all hope was not lost because it was the officiator of my phony nuptials who had captured my heart that day. He spun out his contrived vows with such sophisticated pomp that I knew he was something special. He may not have been the sporty show-off that William was, but Johnny Brown was quite literally the boy next door that earned my affections for the rest of first grade and well into second… 

***

a somewhat pithy snapshot of life on the Lindsey front...

At work again, listening to "Cold Bread" by Johnny Flynn on Pandora (a song which is a bit eerie and monotonous and calls to mind a Depression-era street bum, droning on while waiting for his cold bread at the soup kitchen, but which nevertheless earned a thumbs-up click from me). This week has been busier than recent ones, but now it's another boring Thursday, so I find myself in blogworld again.

It's August (dear god), and times will soon be a-changin' for this gal. I am in the process of hunting for apartments in Seattle, which I have been doing for at least a month now. I plan to move the second week in September, as I have orientation for my grad program on the 18th, and my dad and stepmom will be coming to help me and the little bro move before that (he's off to undergrad at Western Washington). They have already taken it upon themselves to purchase a laundry list of new-apartment items for me, which is awesome. Gotta love being spoiled! As far as apartment-hunting goes, it's hard to tell where I'm going to end up until I actually go up and check these places out. It seems most of the apartments in my price range ($700/month or less) are either in First Hill/Downtown, and therefore are smaller, older places with no parking, or in the suburbs north and south of Seattle, and therefore require a bit of a commute. Most of the hip, young neighborhoods that people talk up, like Fremont and Ballard, don't have anything available in my price range (I assume, because they never show up in my internet searches). I'm finding that it's generally a challenge to find places that are good value for the money, unless a major compromise is made (like distance from campus or price for pets/parking/utilies/etc.). Anyway, I'm sure I'll find something that works for me, but all the unknown factors at this point are just stressing me out.

I'm excited to start my program and excited to move on to something new and different, but I'm also naturally apprehensive. I've always been moderately resistant to change--which is tempered by the fact that I'm pretty adaptable to it once it happens--so it's a bittersweet feeling for me. I'm really not looking forward to having to start the job hunt all over again (another thing I'm in the process of doing, as of this week). It feels like I just went through this. And lo! I did. About eight months ago. I've applied for two administrative assistant positions so far: one at Seattle U and one at Cornish College of the Arts, but it's looking like there are few entry-level positions like this in the higher education sphere that are actually part-time. There's a plethora of full-time positions, but I fear that will just be too much to handle with a full-time graduate courseload. But, I've been told that Seattle is miraculously brimming with jobs for students right now, despite the overhanging economic crisis. Hopefully that's true! I just might have to go outside the higher ed. realm.

So, until my big transition, I'm trying to live it up and enjoy what's left of my summer (Um, didn't it just start? Thanks, Pacific Northwest). Just went camping last week on Government Island with a group of friends, and that was a good time. A backpacking trip to one of the Sisters mountains is still in the cards, as well--date TBD. And then on the 27th there's my going-away party with all the Firstenburg peeps--so sweet of them to do that for me! I hate being the center of attention, but if yummy appetizers, party games, and booze are involved, I think I'll manage. In many ways I'm quite relieved and ready to be leaving my job at the community center, but I'll definitely miss all the people who have made working there totally worthwhile (you know who are!).

It's been a great year off from school: relaxing, rejuvenating, fun, frivolous, and other alliterative adjectives. I've had some rough times here and there, with some major changes, but overall, it's been everything I hoped it could be. To anyone considering going straight to grad school after undergrad because of some fear of losing motivation--think again! It's worth it to take at least a year off, and if grad school is the right option for you, it'll happen. We all need a break to refresh ourselves in a holistic way. I am now ready to get back into the swing of academia (for the most part) because working two part-time clerical/customer service jobs alone just isn't sustainably fulfilling for me. I'm also craving the constant mental stimulation that school always offers, even though it's stressful at times. I get too bored without it. But, hey, no regrets on this much-needed respite! Until next time...