The story of how this blog began
I have always valued my privacy. That, among others, is one of the reasons why I am a city dweller. Cities allow you to blend in, to move anonymously through your day if you so choose. Privacy is both freedom and pleasure, and I never imagined that parenthood might curtail it.
Pregnancy made me a celebrity. It was all about my "state of grace", about the spotlight on the promise of my expanding belly, and had very little to do with me: I only happened to be there. Strangers smiled at me, spoke to me unbidden, or touched me as if I were public property. I was given advice, told intimate details of pregnancies and birth experiences, given dire, graphic warnings of all that might befall me. It mattered not if I expressed interest or disgust. I was the embodiment of something bigger and- a little like the flash of Julia Robert's smile- my state of being 'with child' evoked reactions everywhere I went.
Strangely enough, I also found myself being treated like a child, or a mentally impaired adult, unable to make independent, informed decisions (particularly by the medical profession). This undermined my authority, and my pregnancy and body became "open to the general public". The principles of physical integrity or privacy ceased to apply.
Then I had my baby. Suddenly, I became not anonymous, but invisible.
I was now the child's mother, and my thirty-seven years of studying, working, and living vanished into thin air. My conversation with other adults could be described as 'motherhood musak' and its only theme was my son. I was rarely asked about work, interests, or any of the other parts of my life, and soon I stopped mentioning them myself. Occasionally, a family member or close friend would refer to the mother-formerly-known-as, and I would make a guest appearance. But I quickly tired of foraying outside of the scripted mommy dialogues, for it felt defensive. What was I defending myself from? There was also the nagging sensation that maybe I was being oversensitive, selfish, or that somehow I was at fault. And frankly, who cared what the world thought?
I came to realize, however, that I did care. Not because of me in particular, but because of what this indicated about the current state of parenthood. While I had experienced my share of being pigeonholed into social definitions, those occasions had lacked the impact that comes from being catalogued as a mother. And even worse, I had not expected the large amount of negativity that would be hurled my way by others.
This was in sharp contrast to my husband's own crossing of the parenthood threshold, where his every bit of involvement was heralded with admiration and respect. In the NICU where our son spent his first few days of life, my husband's presence was greeted with awe, his every move a testament to his status as a new father. I, on the other hand, was given small lectures on what I should or shouldn't do with my child, with a tone that underscored my ignorance and incompetence in all matters. I kept quiet, thinking that exhaustion and shock after birth complications were making me imagine things. But the contrast was so obvious that my husband remarked on it.
And that set me to thinking, and to asking questions. Why are pregnancy (and for that matter parenthood) and privacy at such odds? What is it about pregnancy that alters a woman's cultural and social status so radically? What is it about pregnancy and parenthood that makes one’s decisions open to discussion (and judgment) by everyone and anyone?
I am aware of the many positive social dynamics that surround pregnancy and parenthood. Parenthood has allowed for a different kind of intimacy and understanding in relationships with other adults, and has reshaped my public personality for the better. Those experiences are worth considering and writing about. But there is something compelling about the sometimes strange behavior elicited by a mother-to-be, perhaps because it points to the cultural ambivalence that still exists towards women, their role in procreation, and their work as mothers (to say the least).
These first unanswered questions are the catalyst for this blog. Since privacy, as I knew it, will never return, I may as well make my presence felt. Rather than just follow the current discussions on mothers, parenthood and children, this will be a space from which to tackle those cultural behemoths.
Pregnancy made me a celebrity. It was all about my "state of grace", about the spotlight on the promise of my expanding belly, and had very little to do with me: I only happened to be there. Strangers smiled at me, spoke to me unbidden, or touched me as if I were public property. I was given advice, told intimate details of pregnancies and birth experiences, given dire, graphic warnings of all that might befall me. It mattered not if I expressed interest or disgust. I was the embodiment of something bigger and- a little like the flash of Julia Robert's smile- my state of being 'with child' evoked reactions everywhere I went.
Strangely enough, I also found myself being treated like a child, or a mentally impaired adult, unable to make independent, informed decisions (particularly by the medical profession). This undermined my authority, and my pregnancy and body became "open to the general public". The principles of physical integrity or privacy ceased to apply.
Then I had my baby. Suddenly, I became not anonymous, but invisible.
I was now the child's mother, and my thirty-seven years of studying, working, and living vanished into thin air. My conversation with other adults could be described as 'motherhood musak' and its only theme was my son. I was rarely asked about work, interests, or any of the other parts of my life, and soon I stopped mentioning them myself. Occasionally, a family member or close friend would refer to the mother-formerly-known-as, and I would make a guest appearance. But I quickly tired of foraying outside of the scripted mommy dialogues, for it felt defensive. What was I defending myself from? There was also the nagging sensation that maybe I was being oversensitive, selfish, or that somehow I was at fault. And frankly, who cared what the world thought?
I came to realize, however, that I did care. Not because of me in particular, but because of what this indicated about the current state of parenthood. While I had experienced my share of being pigeonholed into social definitions, those occasions had lacked the impact that comes from being catalogued as a mother. And even worse, I had not expected the large amount of negativity that would be hurled my way by others.
This was in sharp contrast to my husband's own crossing of the parenthood threshold, where his every bit of involvement was heralded with admiration and respect. In the NICU where our son spent his first few days of life, my husband's presence was greeted with awe, his every move a testament to his status as a new father. I, on the other hand, was given small lectures on what I should or shouldn't do with my child, with a tone that underscored my ignorance and incompetence in all matters. I kept quiet, thinking that exhaustion and shock after birth complications were making me imagine things. But the contrast was so obvious that my husband remarked on it.
And that set me to thinking, and to asking questions. Why are pregnancy (and for that matter parenthood) and privacy at such odds? What is it about pregnancy that alters a woman's cultural and social status so radically? What is it about pregnancy and parenthood that makes one’s decisions open to discussion (and judgment) by everyone and anyone?
I am aware of the many positive social dynamics that surround pregnancy and parenthood. Parenthood has allowed for a different kind of intimacy and understanding in relationships with other adults, and has reshaped my public personality for the better. Those experiences are worth considering and writing about. But there is something compelling about the sometimes strange behavior elicited by a mother-to-be, perhaps because it points to the cultural ambivalence that still exists towards women, their role in procreation, and their work as mothers (to say the least).
These first unanswered questions are the catalyst for this blog. Since privacy, as I knew it, will never return, I may as well make my presence felt. Rather than just follow the current discussions on mothers, parenthood and children, this will be a space from which to tackle those cultural behemoths.
posted by Camille Lizarríbar at 3:52 PM
2 Comments:
You might be interested in Avital Ronnell's Stupidity. She talks about the infantilization of the sick in a way that corresponds nicely with your thesis.
I just want to say that I think you've gotten your blog off to a nice start! I hope you keep it up, because I like what you've written so far--a lot. And I think the rumination on pregnancy as a public event is really interesting. I was very shocked when someone told me, early in my pregnancy, that it wasn't unheard of for a stranger to rub a pregnant woman's belly. Until it happened to me! Well, actually, it wasn't a stranger, just a casual acquaintance, but still.
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