It wasn't long before I noticed them sitting there. Little white envelopes near the time clock. "The Such and Such Family" written on each one. When I had first started my internship, I didn't understand what they were, until I recognized a last name. "Did So and So pass?" I asked. Of course, I would learn that I wouldn't have to ask that question the next time I recognized a name on a card.
Slowly, the more I started working there, each and every name was familiar, as were their stories. I work in a Long Term Acute Care facility which means we often have very sick patients whose stays can be quite long. We come to know our patients and their families well. Many get better and it's exciting to watch them grow stronger each day. It's a triumph when they come off the ventilator. It's heartwarming to hear their voices for the first time. It's a proud moment to watch them get out of bed and take their first steps. But not all of them get better. Sometimes it's a painfully slow process as they deteriorate and the family struggles to make a decision regarding continuing their care. Sometimes it's peaceful and quick, with lots of loving family at the bedside. And each one that passes gets a sympathy card sent to the family.
At first, I didn't know what to write on the card. "I'm sorry for your loss" seemed insufficient, though it was genuine. Then we lost a patient whom I had grown quite fond of, I wanted to say something more personal. As a nurse, how did I feel about caring for this patient? Then it came to me; it was an honor and privilege. And so that's what I began to write on each card; "It was an honor and a privilege to care for your loved one. Peace be with you during this time. -Carsen, RN" In essence, it is a cliche because it's what I always write. But it's the most genuine thing I can think of.
Medical professionals have some of the most crass humor of anyone I know. Curse like a sailor? Try curse like a nurse. When we are uncensored and in the company of other medical professionals, we make morbid jokes and effortlessly "cross the line." It's a hard exterior to protect our ooey, gooey, mushy insides. Death is a normal part of life. When we watch people suffer, we also know that it is often a welcome reprieve. We come from a perspective that death isn't always the worst thing that could happen. However, losing a patient is still hard. It isn't uncommon to see a nurse cry after a code, even a seasoned nurse who has heard "time of death" a hundred times.
This job isn't an easy one. The hours are long, the pressure is big, and people are often rude. However, nurses often come into people's lives at their absolute worst. Especially in the setting where I work, we are not seeing people at their best. Being hospitalized is a very vulnerable state. We see and clean parts of the body that only a small handful of people have ever seen. We administer medications that could potentially harm or kill, and patients put their trust in us to do it correctly. Family members look to us for answers or comfort during an exhausting and confusing time. And the truth is, to be that trusted person is a huge responsibility, but it's also an honor. Nurses are often the last face someone sees when they pass. The last kind word or warm touch. The last hand to hold. So from nurses everywhere, it is an honor and privilege to care for your loved one, in sickness and in healing, in life and in death.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Friday, September 12, 2014
wild
I used to write. In dusty notebooks that sit upon lonely shelves. In Word documents left unopened. I used to write in my bed in the early mornings on my laptop. Stories, thoughts, lyrics, and poems would flow out of me. Words would come unexpectedly and intensely, like a sneeze you can't hold in. They would come in half empty diners at two a.m. as I frantically scrawled onto a napkin, for fear they would be gone in an instant, just a shooting star of my mind. I would write lyrics for cigarette-smoking, guitar-playing boys who thought they'd make it big someday. I would write fiction with strong characters and poor plot development. I would write poems, meant to be performed, yet too vulnerable to be read.
My mind is constantly going, ramblings of ideas and inspirations. It feels like the busy mind of a genius, yet the thoughts are unoriginal and unimpressive. So they are just that: ramblings. Ramblings of a girl who has the soul of a wild mustang; who, at present, feels more broken in than wild. But perhaps these fences are self-imposed, resulting from a need to slow down and feel secure within the walls. However, there is this swirl of energy that burns deep and starts to rise in me that causes me to bend my head low and rare at the metal bars that encage me. I want to run. Fast, free, and wild. But like most wild things, my thoughts and words are unfocused, untamed, directionless.
I had a professor tell me once that the best way to be a writer is to write. He proposed that good writing didn't have to start with strong inspiration and a knowledge of the direction that it would take. He taught me that the toughest part was simply to begin. (And maybe that's the truth about anything.) You don't need a purpose for your writing, he suggests, but just take off, run, go, write. The wild mustangs may be directionless, but at least they run. Maybe I'll break out of the cage and run free with my thoughts again.
And maybe I'll leave the gate open for the other mustangs to run with me.
My mind is constantly going, ramblings of ideas and inspirations. It feels like the busy mind of a genius, yet the thoughts are unoriginal and unimpressive. So they are just that: ramblings. Ramblings of a girl who has the soul of a wild mustang; who, at present, feels more broken in than wild. But perhaps these fences are self-imposed, resulting from a need to slow down and feel secure within the walls. However, there is this swirl of energy that burns deep and starts to rise in me that causes me to bend my head low and rare at the metal bars that encage me. I want to run. Fast, free, and wild. But like most wild things, my thoughts and words are unfocused, untamed, directionless.
I had a professor tell me once that the best way to be a writer is to write. He proposed that good writing didn't have to start with strong inspiration and a knowledge of the direction that it would take. He taught me that the toughest part was simply to begin. (And maybe that's the truth about anything.) You don't need a purpose for your writing, he suggests, but just take off, run, go, write. The wild mustangs may be directionless, but at least they run. Maybe I'll break out of the cage and run free with my thoughts again.
And maybe I'll leave the gate open for the other mustangs to run with me.
Friday, June 13, 2014
6 Steps to More Radiant Skin
There are so many beauty tips out on the Internet and in women's magazines, that I'm not sure I have much more to offer. There are countless products- pills, soaps, creams, scrubs, and serums. However, I believe that beauty starts from the inside. And no, I don't mean being a kind and beautiful soul, though that certainly helps one's appeal. I mean that you are going to look and feel better when you are healthier. When you start taking care of your body on the inside, you don't need as much stuff to put on the outside. I learned this in a very real way.
1. Sleep
I know this seems like a no-brainer, but it is truly amazing how much better one looks and feels with adequate sleep. New parents, shift workers, nursing students, and insomniacs are all shaking their heads at me. I know, I know, you would get more sleep if you could. If you can't change your schedule to accommodate more sleep, strive for better sleep. One way you can do this is to establish a routine before bed. When you do the same thing before bed every night, it cues your body that it's time for sleep which can make better use of your down time. Avoid screen time in bed; this means no TV, laptops, or cell phones in bed. The light and images stimulate the brain and can make it more difficult to finally fall asleep. Invest in blackout curtains, a good mattress and pillows, and a white noise machine. Sleep is the rejuvenating part of our lives. Your cells need it to repair and rebuild. Don't skimp on the sleep.
2. Drink More Water
Most humans need 2-3 liters of water everyday, and many don't even get half of that amount. There are certainly exceptions: some conditions require water restrictions; while others, such as athletes or breastfeeding mothers, may need more. However, if you are a healthy adult with no preexisting conditions, I encourage you to increase your water consumption if you are not getting at least 2 liters. (There is such a thing as "water intoxication" so don't go crazy and always check with your doctor first.) Buy yourself a bottle or jug with markings so you can keep track throughout the day. I have a 1 liter bottle and I know that I need to drink 3 of those throughout the day for optimal health. Dehydration can cause headache, constipation, lethargy, dizziness, irritability, and confusion. Without adequate hydration the skin becomes dry, dull, and less supple and elastic.
3. Be Mindful of Nutrition
It is difficult to get the recommended 5-7 servings of fruits and vegetables a day, especially when you have a busy life. When I'm eating poorly, my whole body shows it, but especially my skin. A multivitamin is an easy way to make sure you are getting adequate micronutrients, however the most bioavailable vitamins and minerals come from food sources. If adding produce is difficult for you, start small. I do this by making green smoothies. The thought of drinking spinach make may you gag, so only add a tiny bit in your blender with some frozen fruits like strawberries and pineapple. You will eventually get used to it, and then you will crave those nutrients. It takes some time for the body to respond, but soon you will notice how much better you feel and how much your body actually wants all those nutrients.
4. Stop Wearing Makeup
It is difficult to get the recommended 5-7 servings of fruits and vegetables a day, especially when you have a busy life. When I'm eating poorly, my whole body shows it, but especially my skin. A multivitamin is an easy way to make sure you are getting adequate micronutrients, however the most bioavailable vitamins and minerals come from food sources. If adding produce is difficult for you, start small. I do this by making green smoothies. The thought of drinking spinach make may you gag, so only add a tiny bit in your blender with some frozen fruits like strawberries and pineapple. You will eventually get used to it, and then you will crave those nutrients. It takes some time for the body to respond, but soon you will notice how much better you feel and how much your body actually wants all those nutrients.
4. Stop Wearing Makeup
I know some of you just cringed. I know that when we are not feeling good about our skin, the last thing we want to do is to stop wearing our foundation. But hear me out: I don't care how expensive or "natural" your makeup line is, it's probably making your skin worse. Our skin isn't meant to be covered with all those chemicals. It needs to breathe. It will be difficult at first. Trust me, I know. But once you make the conscious decision to stop piling on the brightener, concealer, and powder, you will start to see the improvements. It will be freeing. Our skin is a giant organ, and it absorbs much of what we put on it. I certainly still wear it for special occasions, but it's not a part of my everyday face.
5. Stop Washing Your Face
Am I losing you? I know this seems ludicrous, but if you do number four, this one isn't so crazy. Here's my face-washing regimen: rinse face with warm water in shower. That's it. I use makeup remover or coconut oil to take off my eye makeup or lipstick, but since I don't wear concealer, I don't really need to scrub my face. What I found was that when I washed my face with soap, it caused my skin to be tight and dry regardless of the type of soap I used. My skin then responded to this drying effect by producing more oil, which caused me to breakout, wear makeup, and feel the need to wash more. It's a vicious cycle. Your skin will probably respond negatively to this at first, but just let it do its thing and stick with it. It may take a couple of weeks, but I believe lessening the harsh chemicals on the face via soap and makeup (as well as flushing out toxins and improving hydration via upping our water intake) will eventually improve the health of your skin.
5. Frankincense
The only product I put on my face is frankincense essential oil. It's expensive, but I only need one drop. Frankincense is an antiseptic and an anti inflammatory. It's an amazing plant and there is some new research coming out that shows that it may have an antitumoral effect. It is also believed to be a cytophylactic meaning that it promotes the regeneration of cells, decreasing the appearance of scars and wrinkles. There are many other systemic health benefits of frankincense essential oil, so I feel comfortable knowing that it is being absorbed through my skin. Its benefits have been hailed by different cultures throughout the years; it was, after all, a gift the Wise Men brought to Jesus.
I do these things for vanity's sake because I want radiant, youthful skin for many years to come. However, I can assure you that many aspects of my health improved when I simply began sleeping better, drinking more water, and adding some much needed nutrients to my diet. Maybe that's a good place to start. I wish you health, happiness, and positively beautiful skin!
I do these things for vanity's sake because I want radiant, youthful skin for many years to come. However, I can assure you that many aspects of my health improved when I simply began sleeping better, drinking more water, and adding some much needed nutrients to my diet. Maybe that's a good place to start. I wish you health, happiness, and positively beautiful skin!
Monday, March 17, 2014
family
Sometimes she brought home baked cookies. More often, it was her much-requested fresh salsa. "Change your clothes; we're going to Daddy's work," she'd say as she fixed her own hair and makeup. Going to Daddy's work was a special treat, filled with excitement. It meant seeing my hero strong and handsome in his uniform, sitting on his lap "driving" in the parking lot with lights and sirens on. It meant a group of hungry officers happily greeting my mom and me, and the salsa. It meant taking a nap in the dark dispatch room. Growing up with "the boys in blue" meant Christmas parties where the Chief dressed as Santa. It meant boys were afraid to date me. It was being embarrassed to be seen with my dad when he worked undercover and grew out his hair and beard. It meant being a part of a family, one that mourned when another fell, seeing that dreaded stripe across the badge. It meant growing up knowing people hated your Daddy, that someone he had arrested stalked your Mama when she was pregnant with you. It meant being in high school and hearing about the "pigs," and knowing these "pigs," who just wanted to go home to read bedtime stories and tirelessly run up and down the street until it was safe to be on two wheels. It was a bright light in my face in a dark parking lot and an immediate, "Miss Gray, what would your dad think? I'm going to call him." It was kisses on my cheeks on my wedding day from men and women who watched me grow up, men and women who would take a bullet for my Daddy. Being a police officer's daughter meant questions- "Has he ever killed anyone?" "Aren't you afraid he's going to get shot?"
Fast forward a few decades, and it's the same questions, only this time about my soldier husband. And again, the same feeling of family. When I became a wife, I followed the example my mom set. Growing up, I learned to love rough men who loved gently, dancing on the toes of dangerous men. When we were engaged, I had dreams that our home would be a soft place to land for single soldiers. It's hard to deny dinner to someone who would take a bullet, grenade, or IED for your spouse. Being a military wife means a ragtag group of people for Thanksgiving; it means a text saying "I invited one more. I hope that's okay." It means metal bracelets carved in memoriam of fallen soldiers. It's 550 cord and duffel bags and smelly green socks. It's drunken stories that start with, "The day we got blown up for the third time..." It's peeled beer bottles and cigarettes on anniversaries of deaths. It's grown men exclaiming, "Furniture!" because they are so happy to be out of the barracks and into a home with couches and tables and chairs. It's buckets and water and blankets when they've drank too much, and kissing them on the foreheads before bed. It's care packages and choppy phone calls. It's the look in their eyes when you call them by their first name just days after coming back from deployment. It's the startled look when they tell you no one has called them that since they last saw their mom over a year ago. It's having a group of protective brothers that come and go, who are stretched from California to Georgia to South Korea. It means family- not because of shared genes or the same last name, but because of a uniform worn.
Fast forward a few decades, and it's the same questions, only this time about my soldier husband. And again, the same feeling of family. When I became a wife, I followed the example my mom set. Growing up, I learned to love rough men who loved gently, dancing on the toes of dangerous men. When we were engaged, I had dreams that our home would be a soft place to land for single soldiers. It's hard to deny dinner to someone who would take a bullet, grenade, or IED for your spouse. Being a military wife means a ragtag group of people for Thanksgiving; it means a text saying "I invited one more. I hope that's okay." It means metal bracelets carved in memoriam of fallen soldiers. It's 550 cord and duffel bags and smelly green socks. It's drunken stories that start with, "The day we got blown up for the third time..." It's peeled beer bottles and cigarettes on anniversaries of deaths. It's grown men exclaiming, "Furniture!" because they are so happy to be out of the barracks and into a home with couches and tables and chairs. It's buckets and water and blankets when they've drank too much, and kissing them on the foreheads before bed. It's care packages and choppy phone calls. It's the look in their eyes when you call them by their first name just days after coming back from deployment. It's the startled look when they tell you no one has called them that since they last saw their mom over a year ago. It's having a group of protective brothers that come and go, who are stretched from California to Georgia to South Korea. It means family- not because of shared genes or the same last name, but because of a uniform worn.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
vows
John and I went through what you may call a "rough patch." There were (are) many things that contributed to our success. We worked hard, we trusted the character of our spouse, we went to counseling, we sought spiritual guidance, and with the grace of God I can confidently say we are at a better place in our relationship than we have ever been. However, in some of those toughest times- when we weren't in counseling yet; when we weren't talking, let alone working hard; when we didn't have the energy to pray- there was something that kept me grounded: our wedding vows.
I made a promise on that day, several in fact. I took vows before God and family, and signed a legally binding contract. There are certainly reasons for divorce. If there is abuse present, whether it is physical, sexual, substance, financial, verbal, or emotional, I believe that one should distance and protect themselves from that kind of assault. But our situation wasn't anything like that. It may have been easier to just be done, to not engage in the kind of work it takes. However, when I made those vows, I wrote them carefully. I took them seriously. What was I willing to promise to? What would I need to promise in the midst of romance to sustain me when the honeymoon wears off?
I have noticed a trend in weddings. The part where the couple exchanges their vows seems to be more of a profession of affection and not a promise. There is no more "for better or for worse," but "you are so amazing." Let me tell you something I have learned about love: it is NOT a feeling. You can thank oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin for those feelings. Love is a choice. It's a verb, an action word. You do love, not feel it. So professing your feelings of attraction and affection on your wedding day is actually pretty unromantic. You might as well say, "I have so many hormones flowing through my veins right now!" No, the romantic, loving thing to say is to promise what you will do when things get rough, because they will get rough; what you will do when you are hurt, because you will get hurt; to promise how you will act when you make a mistake, because you will make mistakes. Love is doing. Feelings are neurotransmitters.
You will fall short of your vows from time to time, but that is exactly why you make them in the first place. Your vows are something to be constantly striving to achieve. Every anniversary John and I repeat our vows to each other. Last year we went for a hike, sat down by the creek, had a picnic, and reminded ourselves and each other what we had promised. Hearing those vows roll off his lips is better than any compliment he can give me. He knows me better than anyone and knows my worst flaws. Those vows are a promise to love me despite them. Emotions wax and wane, and often are temporary. There are days when I am just bursting with happiness and affection towards my husband. Then there are the "other" days. The vows are the constant, the unchanging, the foundation of the relationship. The vows say I will respect and honor you even if I *feel* disdain. The vows say I will put you first even when I feel selfish. The vows say I will comfort you even if I feel tired. The vows say I will forsake all others even if I feel bored. The vows say I love you, and this is how I'm going to DO it.
So to those of you who are engaged, I urge you to thoughtfully consider what you want to profess on your wedding day. You will need the promise. And to those who are married, if you haven't read what you promised in years, find those old vows and remind your spouse. How are you going to do love?
"We went dancing in the minefields
We went sailing in the storms
And it was harder than we dreamed
But I believe that's what the promise is for"
I made a promise on that day, several in fact. I took vows before God and family, and signed a legally binding contract. There are certainly reasons for divorce. If there is abuse present, whether it is physical, sexual, substance, financial, verbal, or emotional, I believe that one should distance and protect themselves from that kind of assault. But our situation wasn't anything like that. It may have been easier to just be done, to not engage in the kind of work it takes. However, when I made those vows, I wrote them carefully. I took them seriously. What was I willing to promise to? What would I need to promise in the midst of romance to sustain me when the honeymoon wears off?
I have noticed a trend in weddings. The part where the couple exchanges their vows seems to be more of a profession of affection and not a promise. There is no more "for better or for worse," but "you are so amazing." Let me tell you something I have learned about love: it is NOT a feeling. You can thank oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin for those feelings. Love is a choice. It's a verb, an action word. You do love, not feel it. So professing your feelings of attraction and affection on your wedding day is actually pretty unromantic. You might as well say, "I have so many hormones flowing through my veins right now!" No, the romantic, loving thing to say is to promise what you will do when things get rough, because they will get rough; what you will do when you are hurt, because you will get hurt; to promise how you will act when you make a mistake, because you will make mistakes. Love is doing. Feelings are neurotransmitters.
You will fall short of your vows from time to time, but that is exactly why you make them in the first place. Your vows are something to be constantly striving to achieve. Every anniversary John and I repeat our vows to each other. Last year we went for a hike, sat down by the creek, had a picnic, and reminded ourselves and each other what we had promised. Hearing those vows roll off his lips is better than any compliment he can give me. He knows me better than anyone and knows my worst flaws. Those vows are a promise to love me despite them. Emotions wax and wane, and often are temporary. There are days when I am just bursting with happiness and affection towards my husband. Then there are the "other" days. The vows are the constant, the unchanging, the foundation of the relationship. The vows say I will respect and honor you even if I *feel* disdain. The vows say I will put you first even when I feel selfish. The vows say I will comfort you even if I feel tired. The vows say I will forsake all others even if I feel bored. The vows say I love you, and this is how I'm going to DO it.
So to those of you who are engaged, I urge you to thoughtfully consider what you want to profess on your wedding day. You will need the promise. And to those who are married, if you haven't read what you promised in years, find those old vows and remind your spouse. How are you going to do love?
"We went dancing in the minefields
We went sailing in the storms
And it was harder than we dreamed
But I believe that's what the promise is for"
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
asking for normalcy
It doesn't take very long to know that I am pro-breastfeeding. My support of breastfeeding doesn't include shaming those that don't. Just as I believe that women should be supported in their choice to nurse their babies, I believe women should be supported who choose to formula feed. There are many reasons not to breastfeed. This post isn't about that. I know and respect those reasons. This post is about a cultural attitude that I cannot ignore. It is about human rights.
The breastfeeding rates in the US are on the rise, and that is encouraging (according to the CDC the rate of babies breastfeeding at 6 months of age went from 35% in 2000 to 49% in 2010). Even though more women are doing it, there still hasn't been a cultural shift to "normalcy" yet. There is still vehement opposition to breastfeeding, specifically to the act in public. Breastfeeding in public is protected in federal buildings as long as the woman is legally allowed to be there; the law doesn't not differentiate between using a cover or not. According to the National Conference of State Legislatures, "forty-five states, the District of Columbia and the Virgin Islands have laws that specifically allow women to breastfeed in any public or private location" (http://www.ncsl.org/research/health/breastfeeding-state-laws.aspx). Breastfeeding is encouraged by the Centers for Disease Control, World Health Organization, and American Academy of Pediatrics. It is legally protected both at the federal and state level. Yet why are we, as the American people, so offended by it?
Like I said before, our country's opposition to public breastfeeding is not universal, but a cultural attitude. The front of the passport for Gabon features a woman breastfeeding, the opposite breast exposed. Talk about normalcy for the Gabonese! One American woman took to the internet to vent about being discriminated against for breastfeeding. An Australian woman replied, "I don't understand your country's problem with breastfeeding! Us Aussies do it without anyone bothering us. It's just a part of life." I find it odd that human beings all over the world can go about their business feeding their babies without opposition, that no one bats an eye, yet we can be utterly disgusted and enraged over breastfeeding in the United States.
Let's just look to social media for a minute. There is a page that I follow on Facebook that is attempting to support all women throughout pregnancy, birth, breastfeeding, and parenting. It repeatedly gets pictures removed of breastfeeding mothers and bans are placed on the page for "violating the user terms." Women who simply post pictures of themselves enjoying a nursing/snuggle session with their little one often get the same results. The images are removed. Yet, soft porn images are not removed. Women giving life is not allowed, but women as sex objects are. For me, this is the core of the issue. Our society is okay with the sexualization of the female form, but not the nurturing, life-sustaining one.
*warning! graphic images!*
Let's just look to social media for a minute. There is a page that I follow on Facebook that is attempting to support all women throughout pregnancy, birth, breastfeeding, and parenting. It repeatedly gets pictures removed of breastfeeding mothers and bans are placed on the page for "violating the user terms." Women who simply post pictures of themselves enjoying a nursing/snuggle session with their little one often get the same results. The images are removed. Yet, soft porn images are not removed. Women giving life is not allowed, but women as sex objects are. For me, this is the core of the issue. Our society is okay with the sexualization of the female form, but not the nurturing, life-sustaining one.
*warning! graphic images!*
This photograph, and many like it, has been removed from Facebook.
This photo, and many like it, is allowed to stay on the social media site.
The breastfeeding rates in the US are on the rise, and that is encouraging (according to the CDC the rate of babies breastfeeding at 6 months of age went from 35% in 2000 to 49% in 2010). Even though more women are doing it, there still hasn't been a cultural shift to "normalcy" yet. There is still vehement opposition to breastfeeding, specifically to the act in public. Breastfeeding in public is protected in federal buildings as long as the woman is legally allowed to be there; the law doesn't not differentiate between using a cover or not. According to the National Conference of State Legislatures, "forty-five states, the District of Columbia and the Virgin Islands have laws that specifically allow women to breastfeed in any public or private location" (http://www.ncsl.org/research/health/breastfeeding-state-laws.aspx). Breastfeeding is encouraged by the Centers for Disease Control, World Health Organization, and American Academy of Pediatrics. It is legally protected both at the federal and state level. Yet why are we, as the American people, so offended by it?
Like I said before, our country's opposition to public breastfeeding is not universal, but a cultural attitude. The front of the passport for Gabon features a woman breastfeeding, the opposite breast exposed. Talk about normalcy for the Gabonese! One American woman took to the internet to vent about being discriminated against for breastfeeding. An Australian woman replied, "I don't understand your country's problem with breastfeeding! Us Aussies do it without anyone bothering us. It's just a part of life." I find it odd that human beings all over the world can go about their business feeding their babies without opposition, that no one bats an eye, yet we can be utterly disgusted and enraged over breastfeeding in the United States.
Let's just look to social media for a minute. There is a page that I follow on Facebook that is attempting to support all women throughout pregnancy, birth, breastfeeding, and parenting. It repeatedly gets pictures removed of breastfeeding mothers and bans are placed on the page for "violating the user terms." Women who simply post pictures of themselves enjoying a nursing/snuggle session with their little one often get the same results. The images are removed. Yet, soft porn images are not removed. Women giving life is not allowed, but women as sex objects are. For me, this is the core of the issue. Our society is okay with the sexualization of the female form, but not the nurturing, life-sustaining one.
*warning! graphic images!*
Let's just look to social media for a minute. There is a page that I follow on Facebook that is attempting to support all women throughout pregnancy, birth, breastfeeding, and parenting. It repeatedly gets pictures removed of breastfeeding mothers and bans are placed on the page for "violating the user terms." Women who simply post pictures of themselves enjoying a nursing/snuggle session with their little one often get the same results. The images are removed. Yet, soft porn images are not removed. Women giving life is not allowed, but women as sex objects are. For me, this is the core of the issue. Our society is okay with the sexualization of the female form, but not the nurturing, life-sustaining one.
*warning! graphic images!*
This photograph, and many like it, has been removed from Facebook.
This photo, and many like it, is allowed to stay on the social media site.
Here's the thing:
We do not have a problem with breasts in this country. We love boobs! I mean, who wouldn't? We simply have a problem with breasts being used for anything but sex. We can't possibly understand that something has more than one function. It bothers us to see an innocent baby sucking on something so sexual in nature. And this is where the women's rights issue comes in. A woman's body isn't only for sex. It has other purposes and functions.
My mouth has many functions. It can be used to eat and communicate. It can also be used for sex. We don't have a problem separating the two. When the mouth is used for sexual purposes it is expected to be done in private. However, I don't have to keep my mouth hidden when I'm using it for nonsexual purposes, such as eating. I am not denying that breasts aren't sexual because they are. I'm just denying the looney idea that our minds can't possibly separate the two acts- sex and breastfeeding. What you do with the body part, whether it's your mouth or hand or breast, defines its function.
(I understand that someone will try to use my analogy to say, "Then if I'm not using my penis for sex, I should be able to whip it out anywhere." I understand that the example isn't flawless. I'm just asking you to think differently for a minute. I'm attempting to challenge your perspective.)
I've heard several arguments. I've heard "I don't have a problem if you breastfeed, I just don't want to see it." or "I do not want to walk into a restaurant and watch someone do that while I'm trying to eat. It's disgusting." or "I don't want my son to see that." I get it. I'm not trying to disrespect anyone's feelings. What I AM trying to do is to challenge you to forget that mindset for just a second. What if your son grew up seeing women breastfeed? What if his first experiences with breasts were that of nurturing? What if he saw a woman's body doing extraordinary things like make milk and sustain a life solely with her own body? What if he grew up learning that breasts are more than sex objects? What if from the beginning of his life he saw the act as an innocent way to feed a baby and not something sexual and perverse? What if YOU grew up that way? Imagine yourself for a moment being from another culture. Imagine that you saw your mom, your neighbor, your sister, your friend all breastfeed. Imagine that it was a normal part of life and no one had anything to say about it. Imagine no one ever asked a woman to cover up, sit in a dirty bathroom, or hide out in a sweltering hot car to feed her baby. It wouldn't be so bad would it? If you grew up seeing it, everyone around you did it, and no one had any objections to it... you probably wouldn't think it was gross/odd/perverse, right?
Or just imagine you and your child enjoying this Mister Rogers' Neighborhood episode from the 60's. Or this Sesame Street episode from 1977. Our country hasn't always been so against breastfeeding, which gives me hope that us Americans can once again begin to see it as normal. We won't ever get past the sexualization of breastfeeding unless we take down these cultural attitudes that limit breasts to sex. And women will never be free unless they are supported to do what their bodies are meant for. Let's stop the shaming. Let's stop the ugly stares. Let's stop the banning of these images from our society. Let's stop the discrimination. Breastfeeding may be legally protected and encouraged by reputable health organizations, but cultural norms are always more powerful than laws and expert advocacy.
And please, women, it starts with us. If women won't support other women, who will?
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
they call me sissy
"So where did 'Sissy' come from?"
It's a legitimate question. A Canadian midwife in Haiti wants to know why a grown woman is telling other adults, "My name is Carsen, but you can call me Sissy."
It started out the usual way: my siblings- and there are many of them- started calling me Sissy when I was very young. Then my parents did foster care and over the course of four years, 28 different children were in our home and I was Sissy to them too. When my parents decided to expand our family more by doing an overseas adoption, the name spread to Haiti.
My junior year of high school, I flew to Haiti for the first time to meet my siblings. My mom introduced me to them and the nannies overheard and thought "Sissy" was my given name. I tried to correct them once, but soon found out that "Carsen" doesn't sound quite right in Haitian Creole, so "Sissy" stuck.
I like to joke that my parents "take in strays." People that are lonely or in need of a family unit always have seemed to find their way into my parents' home. It doesn't take long for the nickname to become a part of the vocabulary of those who become family along the way.
That little orphanage where I met my brothers and sister became a home for me at the age of 19. I was already known there as Sissy and so it became the name that I went by for the 8 months that I lived there. When I return to Haiti with other organizations, I always introduce myself as Carsen. However, it still seems to be a name that is difficult to remember or say to Haitians, so I generally offer "Sissy" as an alternative. Somehow, the name has sticking power.
For me, however, it is an identity. For some sweet ones "Sissy" isn't enough and it becomes "My Sissy". I am a sister to many. I'm a shoulder to cry on, a hand to blow noses with, a back to climb on, legs to run with. Someone once said, "I like Sissy because she can make her face look like a monkey." I guess I'm good for that, too. I might come with a lecture or two- or maybe I'll just be there to listen about how unreasonable the adults are being. My heart has been broken into a million pieces as the phases of life require changes that little ones don't understand- like why I don't live with them anymore. "I want my Sissy!"- and my heart breaks with each tear as he tries to figure out why Sissy has to leave all the time. I reminisce about the days when my makeup-wearing sister was small enough to bathe in the sink. I miss when my 6 foot tall, nearly 200 lb brother was small enough for me to carry around in a backpack. As they each grow to tower over me, the relationship changes. These large, hairy, hormonal beings no longer want me to read them bedtime stories. However, I may be good at changing my voice to act out each character's part, but I'm also good at talking about periods and dating and sex.
With the name comes a badge of honor. It is a privilege to be Sissy to each one of them, even if only for a short time. I'm blessed to have these sweet souls in my life. Even more, I'm blessed that they call me Sissy.
It's a legitimate question. A Canadian midwife in Haiti wants to know why a grown woman is telling other adults, "My name is Carsen, but you can call me Sissy."
That little orphanage where I met my brothers and sister became a home for me at the age of 19. I was already known there as Sissy and so it became the name that I went by for the 8 months that I lived there. When I return to Haiti with other organizations, I always introduce myself as Carsen. However, it still seems to be a name that is difficult to remember or say to Haitians, so I generally offer "Sissy" as an alternative. Somehow, the name has sticking power.
For me, however, it is an identity. For some sweet ones "Sissy" isn't enough and it becomes "My Sissy". I am a sister to many. I'm a shoulder to cry on, a hand to blow noses with, a back to climb on, legs to run with. Someone once said, "I like Sissy because she can make her face look like a monkey." I guess I'm good for that, too. I might come with a lecture or two- or maybe I'll just be there to listen about how unreasonable the adults are being. My heart has been broken into a million pieces as the phases of life require changes that little ones don't understand- like why I don't live with them anymore. "I want my Sissy!"- and my heart breaks with each tear as he tries to figure out why Sissy has to leave all the time. I reminisce about the days when my makeup-wearing sister was small enough to bathe in the sink. I miss when my 6 foot tall, nearly 200 lb brother was small enough for me to carry around in a backpack. As they each grow to tower over me, the relationship changes. These large, hairy, hormonal beings no longer want me to read them bedtime stories. However, I may be good at changing my voice to act out each character's part, but I'm also good at talking about periods and dating and sex.
With the name comes a badge of honor. It is a privilege to be Sissy to each one of them, even if only for a short time. I'm blessed to have these sweet souls in my life. Even more, I'm blessed that they call me Sissy.
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