...The above is an ode, of course, to a famous poem:
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A Dream Deferred
by Langston Hughes
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
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.
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.
"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."
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:
