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Entries in lesbian parenting (4)

Friday
Nov122010

New Friends (1986)

 

This is the only picture we have of Sarah pregnant. I wish we had more!

We'd met a month earlier, when Aimee was 2 days old. At a La Leche League meeting. (Inside, I wondered how the heck that dyke got pregnant! I learned later; the old fashioned way.)

We were in Frankfurt, Germany. Not sure why Aimee is naked there... she wasn't jaundiced. And if she was at a month old, I'd really be worried! 

I remember, even 24 years later, exactly how I felt lying there, nursing Aimee and learning all about the woman that was to be the love of my life. It was delicious.

Monday
Nov082010

Two Types of Moms

There are, of course, an endless number of ways to be a mom... even a parent. But, when our kids were little, there were distinct roles Sarah and I followed. Beyond Butch and Femme (which we acknowledge and embrace), Sarah was the Fun Mom and I was the Not-So-Fun Mom. (circa 1987)

Exhibit A

Sarah with Aimee walking on her back.

Exhibit B

Sarah twirling Darren around.

and Exhibit C

I'm reading to all four kids before bedtime... Aimee behind my head, Tristan in front of me, Meghann on the right and Darren at my right arm. 

Now, doesn't Sarah look like more fun? 

Monday
Aug022010

Separatism: conflict amongst the ranks

We recently celebrated Pride here in San Diego, PrideFest, aka HomoFest. I went to the parade and stood with 150,000 others, cheering for our freedoms (and demanding even more), our hard-won self-esteem and for the sheer joy of hanging out with friends. When I marched with the kids in 1990, the parade was all of forty-five minutes long. This one went on for a couple of hours. 

Sarah and I had broken up for awhile in 1988. I was a crazed mess, so went into therapy and immersed myself into the lesbian community here in San Diego. I went to several lesbian support groups, but the one on Thursday nights turned out to be the most interesting of them all. 

Those weekly meetings at the (then) Gay & Lesbian Center, took me from the myopic, white, heterosexual, middle class mindset and introduced me to… nay, challenged me… to see from various vantage points and acknowledge that I was really just a self-centered, ego-driven, hypnotized woman who thought she knew what was going on in the world. I sat, spellbound, listening to women talk about oppressions I never knew existed. I grew up in the Deep South, so had an inkling of racial oppression, but sitting face to face with women of color was stunning. I endured finger pointing, enumerating the ways I, too, was oppressing women of color… saying things like “I don’t see color; I see people,” and not knowing the PC (politically correct) terms for the nuanced cultures of the women right around me. 

I learned about other marginalized cultures (“marginalized” was a word I heard many times in those days)… the bdsm (bondage/discipline/sadism/masochism) folks, the butch (more “masculine” energied) dykes, teens coming out, lesbian mothers (my people! …who were few and far between back then), migrant lesbians, etc. and the subcultures of each of the marginalized people. Those nights at Group opened my eyes to worlds I’d never imagined. It was there I realized that every topic, every person had their own subtext within them. And those subtexts were never-ending. None of that even begins to examine the “isms” of the day, including classism and sizeism (another group I embodied). 

It’s like this in birth, too, isn’t it? Under the umbrella of human procreation, there exist an infinite number of choices women can make (or are forced to endure). Depending on where you live and even the political atmosphere of the day, the choices are rounded up like a huge net grabbing fish in the ocean. Whoever does the throwing can alter the birth’s path and outcome. Birth in the hospital? At home? With a midwife? Alone? Or, if we live in a Third World Country, does the mother feel safer with her family or the local Traditional Birth Attendant (TBA)? Do we risk losing our safe hiding place to transfer to the hospital because of a hemorrhage? (And, please know, this is an area I do not have much information about… the different choices women have in other, less mechanized, cultures. I welcome the education.) 

And then we move down the flow chart, each choice above having an infinite number of options, or, if not options, an outcome that is different for every single woman… maybe not in the live baby/live mother, live baby/dead mother, dead baby/live mother or dead baby/dead mother, but each woman carries her own experience, some in the body, others in the heart and some even deep in their souls. 

At the Festival, I ran into a couple of women from those long-ago rap groups and the flood of memories prompted me to write this. The analogy was so striking, the things that are going on in birth; I just couldn’t ignore the beckoning sirens. I hope I don’t crash amongst the rocks. 

When Sarah (who was in the Army) and I were in Germany, we’d found an underground group of gay men and women (Friends of Dorothy) and one of those women called herself a Separatist. Not having the Internet, I learned through context what that meant. 

Kathy Belge describes Separatism like this: 

“Lesbian separatism is the feminist political act of choosing to be around only lesbians or only women. In the early years of the Feminist Movement, some lesbians chose to avoid interacting with men as a way to remove themselves from male-dominated society. Their belief was that even well-meaning men were sexist and influenced by the patriarchy. They chose to be around only women in order to understand what womanhood and sisterhood is really all about. Some women moved to the country, bought land and created women-only societies. Avoiding all men was impossible, but they chose to have all of their significant relationships with women. The idea was that women could never truly understand themselves as powerful beings if they were immersed in the dominant, sexist culture. From lesbian separatism the idea of women-only space came into being at concerts, conferences and festivals.” 

This particular woman we met in Germany was so much of a Separatist, she gave her son to his father because she couldn’t abide by having a penis in the house. 

Historically, it’s important to note the connection between the Black Separatist movements of the sixties, acting as models for the women who came after in the seventies. Other societies have also chosen to remove themselves from the mainstream, too; the Amish and the Shakers, for instance. 

Any of us who’ve been in the birth world for any length of time have watched the same happen. Doctor? Obstetrician? Doctor of Osteopathy? Family Practice MD? Registered Nurse? RN with or without a BSN? Certified Nurse Midwife? Certified Midwife? Licensed Midwife? Certified Professional Midwife? Unlicensed/Direct-Entry Midwife? Religious Midwife? Overseeing organizations are created, a board elected, rules written (and continuously debated); exclusivity is a hallmark of any patriarchally-oriented organization.

Again, under each of the above monikers, factions develop, pulling together and, at the same time, pulling apart, oftentimes creating a whole new category. 

In the late 1970’s, the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival was born. Note the spelling of “womyn” (alternately spelled “wimmin”) – any derivative of the word “men” in it was changed to a different, “womon”-centered word. (We find this same mindset in birth with the renaming of the vagina to yoni or contractions to surges.) While I didn’t come out until late 1986, the Music Festival, and many others like it were still going strong, this one in particular continuing today. 

 If you poke around, Googling MWMF, you’ll see an on-going discussion, years long, about whether to allow transgender folks to attend. Lisa Vogel, one of the founders of the yearly event says: 

“Since 1976, the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival has been created by and for womyn-born womyn, that is, womyn who were born as and have lived their entire life experience as womyn. Despite claims to the contrary by Camp Trans organizers, the Festival remains a rare and precious space intended for womyn-born womyn.” 

Interestingly, this wasn’t a concern back in the mid-late 80’s. Instead, then, it was the battle between allowing male children to attend or not. Some didn’t want any males there… no penises at all. Others were okay with nurslings and there were women who said kids under five. They picked five years old because they were still heavily influenced by their mothers, but after that they were in school and being influenced by the patriarchy. I see now, they’ve got two delineations: five and ten. They are segregated, but still permitted to attend. Why the five to ten-year olds? They were in school, but before puberty hit, when they would be considered real men. 

To some of us, this might sound absurd. People are people! How are men supposed to change without women around to show them the way? My eleven-year/fourteen-year/seventeen-year old son is not a man yet. But, I promise, to these women, Separatism was a grave and intensely crucial topic that required an opinion, one way or the other; black or white – choose or you were dismissed (physically and emotionally). Gray simply did not exist. Whole groups (and clubs) revolved around defining the word “Separatism” and who “qualified” as a real Separatist. In a fantastic article in the New Yorker, Ariel Levy says: 

“Different groups had different definitions of separatism, ranging from a refusal to associate with men to a refusal to associate with straight women to a refusal to associate with gay women who weren’t separatists.” 

The most idealistic/dogmatic womyn transformed their lives into a world where they rarely, if ever, had any contact with men. Some moved to womyn-owned land, allowing only womyn to live or visit there, excluding even male-born children; meaning mothers were required to divorce themselves from their sons. 

Does any of this sound familiar? 

Looking around, can we see parallels in the birth community? Groups form and morph depending on the cause célèbre. Should fathers be present at births? (Interestingly, while this was a big issue in the seventies and eighties, it’s come around again with Dr. Michel Odent’s belief that men should not be at births after all.) Which childbirth classes should women take? Bradley? Lamaze? None? Of course, the gulf widens as we add in Natural Birth, Normal Birth, Cesarean Birth and Unassisted Births. 

We also see this in the politics of birth even as I speak. Whether it is women who schedule a cesarean, get an early epidural or have an Unassisted (child)Birth (UC), proponents and detractors tend to be rabid about their choices. It’s very hard to find some gray. Sometimes I wonder if it even exists. 

John MacAdams of the Marquette Warrior, says “It’s a chronic problem in the rarefied world of political correctness -- and that world has spread out of academia into the mainstream media. Members of designated victim groups are allowed to be offended at the barest slight, but feel perfectly free to express rank bigotry toward those who disagree with them, or even merely adopt a different lifestyle.” 

We see any discussion deteriorate, almost as they begin, into accusations, hurt feelings and an absolute insistence on the rightness of the speaker. Isn’t there something, anything, we have in common? How do we find it amongst the sludge we all seem to be slogging in?

 Occasionally, the thought rises to the top, “What is this doing to benefit women?” On-lookers turn their heads back and forth as if they were at a tennis match; but where’s the ball? Is all this in-fighting hurting our causes (if you will)? Or is this the normal push and pull of a larger entity, clamoring to break off and live on its own. 

The latter stages of (the larger) Separatism movement found the lesbians raging against the heterosexual women, each “side” having ghastly epithets to heave at each other. “Breeder” came from that time. 

Jill Johnston says, in “Lesbian Nation,”: (emphasis mine) 

“Women wanted to remove their support from men, the ‘enemy’ in a movement for reform, power, and self-determination. A revolutionary prototype existed in their midst. But the prejudice against women within the ranks of women, much less loving women at the intimate level, was so great (still is, of course) that feminists could only act against their own best interests and trash the women who modeled their beliefs. The split between straight feminists and lesbian feminists was extremely damaging, and will no doubt continue to be in any future wave, to the cause of women’s liberation. The internal damage within the lesbian feminist ranks was also lethal.” 

I worry the same thing will happen in birth. Will the in-fighting be so intense we will only appeal to the most radical of those interested? Will women who are simply curious be so disgusted with our polarized beliefs, they couldn’t care less if we had the answer to the riddles of the Universe because it’s impossible to hear over the roar of anger? 

In those rap group days, I worked on the San Diego Lesbian Press, the local magazine/newspaper, obviously geared towards dykes who live here in San Diego. Working on SDLP was my first experience 1. working with only women and 2. using consensus to problem solve. Working with women is a whole blog post on its own. (Sarah should write it; she has extremely strong feelings about it.) But, can I tell you now how much I HATE consensus?! I mean, seriously. Could there be anything more time-consuming and more manipulative than trying to come to a consensus? Blech. I will no longer participate in groups that use consensus as their method for problem solving. (And I know others love consensus, think it’s the only way to come to “fair” answers, but that is not the way I see it. At. All.) 

I was ignorant then, a joiner and a newly self-discovered writer, so I became a part of the SDLP Collective

The defining moment came when there was a discussion about accepting an ad from a company owned by a man. There wouldn’t be any man in the ad, no penis would subliminally peek through, but this discussion turned into a humongous, weeks-long “discussion” (and I use the term loosely). You see, SDLP needed money something fierce; could they/we afford to turn away money… even though it did come from a man? The separatist side vociferously refused to even consider accepting money from The Enemy; the ad was absolutely not to be in the paper. Just as emphatically, less rigid, though still feminist, women could see the benefit of taking the money. Wouldn’t it be using a man’s money for a good cause? Wouldn’t we be bettering our women’s lives by being able to put out a paper? (Something we very likely would not be able to do otherwise.) When using consensus, everyone has to agree, no dissenters at all. I remember occasionally making a comment, but it was obvious I was a neophyte and no one cared what I said. I was probably asking basic questions like, “What are we fighting about again? I can’t even remember anymore!” 

I ended up leaving the SDLP to fight themselves to death; and they did, too. SDLP died shortly thereafter. I snarkily say dogma killed them. 

Is this our fate as well? Are the two extremes going to kill themselves off, leaving nothing but the center? 

Thinking about myself personally, I participate in this Us vs. Them as much as the next gal… maybe more sometimes. I’ve been implored to keep my mouth shut about certain issues, to try and make peace with all the birth sisters around me, no matter how much I disagree. But, you see, I wasn’t mature enough to ask the right questions back in early 1990. However, today, with many years of birth work under my belt, I feel qualified to defend my position and to speak, if not somewhat eloquently, at least pretty darn clearly about what I see and why. I’m an old crone of a midwife now (even though my midwife years are nothing compared to many of my peers), sharing the stories of those around me. Most are gloriously beautiful, wondrous births. But, too many of the stories aren’t fabulously perfect births; they have ended in tragedy and pain. I tell those stories, too. If it angers some women, then so be it. Their stories piss me off, too, so I guess, in some alternate-universe way, we’re even. 

When I stand back and see the parallels between the two Separatist movements, I know they are but two of a billion other arguments/discussions/opinions going on simultaneously. From husband vs. wife, Catholic vs. Protestant and the United States vs. everyone else to Wall Street vs. stockholders, Unions vs. employers and organic vs. commercially grown food… thinking there are just two sides is absurd. The same way couples go to therapy, employers go to mediation and we get to choose our food by which ones we buy, there have to be other ways of bridging the gaps we have in birth besides blowing each other up with bombs. 

I think about the song “From a Distance” that Bette Midler sings. 

“From a distance you look like my friend,
even though we are at war.
From a distance I just cannot comprehend
what all this fighting is for.

From a distance there is harmony,
and it echoes through the land.
And it's the hope of hopes, it's the love of loves,
it's the heart of every man.” 

I promise to remind myself, in the heat of those moments when I am standing toe to toe with another woman, that even as I speak my mind and tell my stories, I will remember she is a sister, she does have valuable things to say and I will keep an open heart and mind to what she is saying. I would only wish the same from her.

 

Me (and my big butt) marching in the LGBT Parade in the early 90's. Look! Polarized views even about marching with kids!

 

Sunday
Sep092007

The Next Time You're Nursing...

Think of This Story...

My partner Sarah and I co-nursed. Having met in Germany when she was 7-months pregnant and my youngest was 2-days old, by the time we left the guys we were well into co-nursing the two babies. It was really nice, this having four lactating breasts around... I, the stay-at-home mom, nursed during the day, and she, the Army diesel mechanic, nursed during the evening hours while I cooked dinner and had a respite from feeling touched out. We shared the family bed with the babies and both nursed all night long. In our waterbed. With the babies on their stomachs. But that's a story for another time. (Yes, they're still alive.)

Anyway.

So, this one time, Sarah had to go to the Field for a couple of weeks. Going to the Field meant leaving civilization and pretending you were at war, no real food, eating MRE's (Meals, Ready to Eat), pooping in makeshift latrines, drills every day and night, very little sleep... things like that. Stuff that would make me cry, but that made the soldiers have big fun and got to play in the mud and with their guns and hand grenades. (Not making any comments about the un-peaceful aspects here.)

Well, Sarah, who was nursing two kidlets, was certainly not going to stop nursing, pumped while in the field. She being a diesel mechanic on trucks 22.5 tons and larger, was the only female in her company, but the guys were pretty used to her crazy ways by the time she brought her Medela cylinder hand pump (I can't find a picture of one for the life of me) on the trip.

The pump was clear plastic and had one tube inside the other. The inside tube was flared at the top to allow the breast to lay inside and when you pulled the bottom tube, the nipple was pulled deep inside the tube and the milk was expressed. I see nothing like that is made nowadays.

Sarah was really great at keeping her milk supply up for two kids, too. She pumped a lot despite maneuvers. We always joked about carrying around a freezer to store the milk since it really seemed a sadness to pump and dump such liquid gold, but she thought her commander might notice the extention cord.

One night about 9 days into the two-week trip, as she was driving after a terribly busy day where she couldn't pump at all, her breasts were hugely full and she had to pump. She put her knees up to steer the 5 ton Army truck and pumped her breasts under her filthy Army tee shirt and BDU's on top of that. Unable to do anything else, she flung the milk out the window, shoved the pump back under her clothes, pumped more, flung more, pumped and flung for more and more kilometers.

When they finally stopped, the driver of the truck behind angrily ran up screaming at her wanting to know what the hell she was doing throwing milk onto his windshield for! Sarah started to laugh, but he continued, screaming, "Here we are, eating nothing but shitty MRE's and you are getting fresh milk! And when you are done with it, you are throwing it out the fucking window! You aren't even sharing it with us?! Where the hell are you getting it?!"

Sarah just said, "It's mine and you can't have any." He was livid.

"What do you mean it's yours and I can't have any... why won't you share with the rest of us? Don't we deserve fresh food, too?" He was screaming so loudly a huge crowd had gathered and many of them Sarah's own company.

Sarah repeated that it was HERS and touched her boobs this time indicating that it was from her breasts.

He still didn't catch it, of course.

"I want some of that milk!!! Where did you get it!?!"

Sarah put the pump under her shirt, pumped a few times and then dumped the milk at his feet, spilling it all over his boots. Shocked, he finally got it.

The crowd roared with laughter. The guy walked back to his breastmilk-stained truck.

Sarah, nursing Darren (looking at us) and Aimee on the hammock in Frankfurt, Germany.