A pregnant woman's thoughts on culture's "Shrinking Women".

I've linked to this spoken poetry video before (because it's awesome), but I didn't comment on the content specifically. The poet talks about her "shrinking" mother being unsure "how much space she deserves to occupy" (see minute mark 2:30ish), and my self-consciousness about my newly expanding pregnant belly reminded me of this video.

Partly I think of this because I have always been self-conscious of my less-than-toned-abs, and have done my best to arrange my wardrobe to distract from that area. Then, suddenly, my second trimester belly is the source of attention and adoration. While this is cultural and sweet, I find that I can't simply change my mindset overnight, as it has been cultivated over years of insecure womanhood. When people tell me that my belly is "beautiful," I honestly have to think for a moment about why they would ever say that... especially say it out loud. Aren't others supposed to graciously ignore the bodily imperfections we are insecure about? ...And then I remember these people are referring to a baby bump. Perspective shift is a funny thing, isn't it?

And partly I identify with that line of the poem because my job as a medical assistant often requires invisible presence: I must physically help with my hands, but otherwise be silent and out of the way. During surgeries, I hold my sterile-gloved hands far away from my body, holding suture scissors and a tail of thread, being as still as possible, while the doctor is wedged up next to the patient to sew her up. This is normal and totally fine with me on a regular day. Lately, however, I wonder, Where will my 36 week belly fit in those situations, when I get to that point? Certainly my belly (and baby) deserve to occupy however much space they require, but it's not convenient.

Just like it's not convenient to be a "larger" person and fit into the backseat of a car with too many peers as we drive to Sonic for a late-night milkshake. Just like it's not convenient to be a "larger" woman in our culture--and I'm not even plus-size! I'll never forget the time in college when a big group of us were going on a road trip to a conference for the weekend, and we were short on cars. One of the guys looked from the remaining girls on the sidewalk to the last backseat of a car, and said frankly, "They're girls! Just squish 'em all together."

Do you see?
Do you see what that shows? That comment has stuck with me a long time. My friend didn't mean to be hurtful, of course. But do you see how culturally ingrained the shrunken "space that women deserve" is? Because college men "deserve" a different amount of personal space. You may not agree, but I believe he never would have said that about a bunch of guys of equivalent sizes.

It's not only inconvenient for women to take up as much space as men, but we are taught we must also recognize and apologize for what space we do occupy. The poet's words are so apt when she shares her own experiences. "I have been taught accommodation. My brother never thinks before he speaks; I have been taught to filter....  You have been taught to grow out, I have been taught to grow in." Elsewhere, she observes, "I asked five questions in genetics class today, and all of them started with the word 'Sorry...'" It's incredibly subtle, this aspect of womanhood, but do you see it?

I read a wonderfully insightful book last year called "Lean In: Women, Work and the Will to Lead" written by the COO of Facebook, Sheryl Sandberg. She cited studies that support these observations about accommodation: for example, men are pushier with their questions and will often blurt them out even after a speaker's Q&A session is over. Often those questions still get answered, but women's don't get their equally-valid questions answered because they didn't push. Women put their hands down and obey the rules. They accommodate. They filter.

This is not a rant. I am not complaining, truly. Maybe you think this is the craziest perspective on pregnancy ever, something that should be a miracle and a glorious experience. And please hear me, I am thrilled and grateful to be expecting a healthy girl. It is wonderful! I just see that years of subconsciously apologizing, long before I was pregnant, has made this difficult to unlearn. I am just saying, here and now, I do not want to apologize for my "inconveniently" expanding belly. Pregnancy even gets a special opt-out clause in this area, but I think this has been the opportunity to learn to stop my spacial insecurity-- forever. I think that is what this comes to for me: I have been taught to grow in, and do so invisibly. So growing out is decidedly difficult... yet good for me.


--Ellen H.

20 week ultrasound photo and bump<3 br="">

"Cognitive Dissonance": a poem.

It’s snowing in April.

A thick, heavy, slushy snow

outside my kitchen window.

I resent it

this weighted snow

burdening budding branches

and covering up the first green I’ve seen

in months.

But I also welcome it

with open arms--

I always welcome much needed moisture

and think of the Spring it will bring.

Besides, a snowy scene is serene,

no matter the month.

The two reactions stand up inside me

to fight

to decide who’s right.

But instead

my wizened head

peacefully steps in, because

I am learning to tolerate the tension

and the dissonance of Both/And.

We can both be hurt by each other

and

we can both be right, too, still.

Instead of assuming one must be wrong,

let us learn to honor each

as having its place

and just watch the snow come down

in April.

©Ellen H. April 18, 2016

Perfect summer recipe: Dandelion Soufflé

One of my favorite recipes comes from "Mud Pies and Other Recipes: A Cookbook for Dolls" by Marjorie Winslow (1961). August is reminding me of this precious book I received as a gift when I was still young enough to cook from it. TV be damned; this is an homage to my backyard, play-by-myself-and-imagination times growing up.

"Dandelion Soufflé"

"After the dandelions in your lawn have gone to seed, shake their fluffy tops into an empty frozen pie pan until it is brimming over. Set in a moderate oven that is out of the wind. While it is cooking, seat your doll at a table located in a light breeze. Serve the souffle immediately and just watch it disappear! You will never have leftovers with this dish."

:-)

Sentimentally, I remain,
Ellen H.

"Ode to silky water" - a poem.

I've been attending a weekly writer's group this summer and it's been great. Yesterday I typed up all the writings I've done so far for the prompts and assignments. Then from a few paragraphs of prose, I crafted a poem. It's an ode to warm lakes (which I miss here in Colorado!) and is getting me excited for the upcoming family reunion/vacation in August in Wisconsin-- by a lake, of course. Sigh... and read on:

I remember—

silky water, languid,

temperature of a bathtub

so poignant in my mind.

impossibly warm--

when large bodies of water

and the water from the hose

are so icy cool.

impossibly smooth--

in summer evenings

of the mosquito-filled Midwest

no wind to disturb

so calming, so quiet.

a consistency so distinct--

sit on the cabin dock, dip your feet in

watch the water-skating bugs

bend the surface

just heavy enough to dent it.

so satiny-- it must be

full of skin-moisturizing algae bits

soaked up from years of

sitting still in a lake.

so unlike clear-as-air water--

purified by mountain descent

and sunlight-sifting

as it tumbles down

the Arkansas River…

yes, the water here in Colorado

is so foreign

to lake water in Wisconsin--

that it’s nearly wholly

A Different Substance.

©Ellen H. 2015 

[*Reminder: please do not copy or use any of my writing without my permission.]

July on a cold January night.

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One bleak, black night, we sped along the highway through the dull plains of eastern Colorado when I heard a song I will never forget. I was sitting in the backseat of my parents’ station wagon, Mom and Dad up front. We were headed to Iowa to return me to college after winter break in my Colorado hometown. In typical parental fashion, NPR was the radio station of choice. The current program was introducing musicians and their new albums. Tonight, the host described the folk singer/songwriter Laura Veirs and her album titled “July Flame”. To really get a taste of her style, he played the title track. With our eyes bored from darkness and flat plains, our ears were captive to the sounds. It’s a beautiful song, but what made it unforgettable was how the mood and the meaning behind it were so perfectly in tune with my life at the moment.

The mystical sound fit the scenery surprisingly well. It was ironic, no doubt, introducing a song called “July Flame” in January. But somehow the steady, beating toms and haunting electric guitar evoked the barren cold of the landscape around us. Then the wistful, echoing female voice sang in lyrics, poetic yet concise: “July Flame, I’m seeing fireworks, they’re so beautiful, tell me why it hurts?” Aching loneliness—that’s what made the song like the scenery. “Can I call you mine? Can I call you mine?” the chorus pleaded softly.

The sound mirrored the feelings inside me too. I had just seen B over Winter Break and told him I liked him again. He hadn’t replied… which hurt, but I understood. I had turned the tables, since I’d been the one to break it off with him a few years prior. He might not trust me enough to try again. I just had to tell him how I felt, in person, before I left. Still, it was rather new experience for me, this uncertain love making my heart sore as I left for another semester of college, states away. “Can I call you mine?” the artist sang over the radio again. The song’s feeling wasn’t just loneliness, but recalled any kind of emptiness that longed to be filled.

The July theme of the song resonated too. It fit in many ways: We spent much of our time together during summers off from school. His birthday is in July. More than that, we’d started dating in July the first time around, so he’d already been my July flame once. And, perhaps most importantly, July represented warmth in contrast to this cold winter and my empty arms.

Amazingly, July would continue to be significant to us: a few months later, Ben became interested in me again and I accepted his offer to date steadily again on July 4^th of that year. Fireworks indeed… but year-round now that he’s my husband. But in a way, that flame first warmed me on a January night amidst the desolate plains.

You see? You were my July Flame. Only you.

It was too perfect a song not to ascribe it to you.

You were, and still are,

the July flame to my cold January.

For my love,

Ellen H.

P.S. To listen to this wonderful song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iLilpPtY2JU

Lyrics:

July flame
Fiery kite
Will-o-the-Wisp
Lead me through the night

July flame
Sweet summer peach
High up in the branch
Just out of my reach

Can I call you mine?...

July flame
I'm seeing fireworks
They're so beautiful
Tell me why it hurts

July flame
Ashes of a secret heart
Falling in my lemonade
Unslakable thirsting in the backyard

Can I call you mine?...