I could probably have a subset of "everyday sexism A, B, C", so we'll just start here and label as necessary.
Today's installment again references boobs, which I admit, are not *technically* only a female thing, but tend to lean that way, especially when lactation is involved. Here's the story.
I was at a really fantastic spiritual retreat led by *my* student Krista D, on the topic of spiritual practices. I had hung out all day, and neglected to take the time out to express milk. Things were pretty far gone, and I was engorged and a little crabby about it (that is completely my own fault). Evening approached, and things became uncomfortable. But in a retreat house FULL of people, where should I go? So after getting my supplies together, I addressed the group. It's useful to say that out of 29 people, only 4 were men; in the immediate vicinity were about a dozen women and my one male colleague.
Me: "Hey everyone, is there someplace private I could go so I could take care of my business?" And I made a circle gesture around my chest. Admittedly, this wasn't very clear. I could have been referring to a pacemaker for all they knew.
Several students: "Huh?"
Me: "Oh, I'm sorry, I need to be clearer. I need to find a room with a plug because I need to pump my breasts of the milk my child will eat." Hey, you have to say it to make it happen. It was clear.
Male colleague/fellow minister: "Ugh, TMI."
<mind racing. Oh dear friend, no, you did not.>
Me: <Looking directly at the young women> "Oh no. T M NECESSARY."
Male colleague: "Oh, I..." I know what was happening here for him. He's got four kids. He has a successful, empowered minister wife who has SURELY schooled him lovingly. He was trying to be "cool" for the college students. It just came out. But this is everyday sexism.
Female volunteer: "You can use our bathroom."
Me: "Thank you, but I'd rather not make food my child will eat in the bathroom." Because you don't cook where you poop, do you? No. Why does it seem reasonable to suggest that a woman hide in the bathroom to make baby-food? Probably because that's where she goes to hide the rest of her feminine experience.
Female volunteer: "Oh, I..." I know what was likely happening here too. She is a smart woman, an aspiring minister, a known feminist, committed to challenging the institutions of oppression where ever she finds them. Her face suggested she did not realize what she'd said until she said it.
Different female college student: "You can use our bedroom."
Me: "Thank you. You know ladies, one of these days, the most radical thing you will do is be yourself." We go to her room.
FCS: "She needs to use our room to pump."
Roommate: "ok, sure. We're women; we got a lot of stuff to deal with. Want to use the bed?"
Me: "No thanks. I'll just use the chair by the plug in the wall."
Roommate: "Have fun."
Why is this an example of everyday sexism? Well the first note is the snarky "TMI" comment. It was NOT too much information, it was in fact the amount of information actually needed to get the accommodation I was requesting. It was also information that might make someone uncomfortable if they didn't want to acknowledge my reality as an embodied mother--and it wasn't 'everyday' sexism because it involved a breastfeeding mom. It was "everyday" because of the easy way of dismissing that reality as important. Too much information? No. Surprising information? Sure. Slightly awkward? Yes, even that. Too much? No.
But it is "everyday" as the natural purview of a male (or this man) to receive information about a woman and judge it publicly as appropriate or not; to feel comfortable saying it aloud without forethought.
Here's the thing: he's a REALLY nice guy. I like him a lot. And he didn't mean harm...he really didn't. And yet that's what came out of his mouth without thought--a statement to demean and undercut the request AS IF it was out of line, when it wasn't. It was precisely and simply what I needed as a woman to fulfill my own expectations, only (and here's the everyday sexism part) it made him uncomfortable. So he commented negatively on it, without repercussion.
As if it was his natural right to do so, to define MY reality as a woman-- and THAT is the male privilege he has been given his whole life. That "he" may decide when "she" is too much.
Second issue of everyday sexism: the bathroom is not the catch-all space for containing women's issues...but we've been taught that it is. I can see why: a toilet and sink for cleaning and disposing of feminine hygiene products, which is what we tend to think of as the typical "women's issues". She needs space and time to "deal" with the facts of her womanhood, and the bathroom is usually where she does it.
But what is it about making food that would seem to belong in the same space as a toilet, sink or shower? The only item that would fit with the concept of breast pumping might be the sink, for washing pump parts afterwards; otherwise literally every other surface in a bathroom is a potential food contaminant. Why on earth would you send me there?
Unless what you are thinking about is not the food I am making, but the breasts I am touching. If boobs=sexy ladies (and not food), then you might equate it to the same space as other feminine hygiene issues, even though they are not located in the same body zone nor dealing with similar bodily fluids. Bluntly put, it is not seeing the milk for the boobs; not seeing the whole body for the erogenous zones.
So that happened. It sorta does #everyday.
Sunday, February 28, 2016
Monday, February 22, 2016
It's Margarita Day! Plastic Challenge #3: biohazards and bloodbags
I just want to start this off by saying "It's Margarita Day!" and for once I didn't give up anything for Lent that would prevent me from enjoying it. Even the margarita mix is in a glass bottle which my partner bought for that express reason, that it was not plastic, of course that also meant that it was organic, which was not necessary, but whatever. Fine. I guess that's a bonus. (?)
Not that I am drinking a margarita. I'm just noting the day.
Anywho, on Saturday I learned the fascinating fact that I have managed to donate over 25 pints of O- whole blood in my lifetime, and since there are 8 pints in each gallon, that means I've donated over 3 gallons of blood! I could fit it in my fridge, but it wouldn't fit in a backpack. This feels simultaneously significant and insufficient.
While pondering this fact with my phlebotomist Dennise (I was so pleased to find someone as chatty as me) and chatting about my darling good right-arm-veins, I asked if she happened to know what sort of plastic the blood bags were made of; she did not, but she did recall one petrochemist donor and explained to her in exacting detail how difficult they were to make. Apparently we plebians do not appreciate exactly how difficult it is to produce medical grade plastics, with the quality checks and precision performance required of equipment that saves and maintains lives. A moment of silent appreciation was held for medical grade plastic.
She then began to share of her own accord how much she liked recycling, but that her neighborhood in the southwest part of Little Rock did not have recycling. This was confusing, as I thought the city recycling was done by wards. I resolved to look it up later. I shared that there was a map on the city website, and she said she'd look it up too, but that she hated saving up recyclables and then not being able to properly dispose of them, which had happened so often that she'd basically given up. I imagined this was the same for her whole neighborhood.
Meanwhile Dennise was looking at the bloodbags for a recycling symbol, when both of us realized that of course it wouldn't have a recycling symbol on it, because any use of them at all would make the biohazards--and to our knowledge, all biohazards were either incinerated or perhaps buried (we agreed that maybe not all were incinerated). Thus began challenge 3a "where are our city's recycling regions" and 3b "what the hell happens to biohazard plastic bags?"
So 3a is pretty easy: you can find the map here. Thing is, Dennise would have to live pretty far to the southwest to not be covered. I'm thinking that if I've got the guts, I might bring the map to the Red Cross and leave it for her, even asking if she's in a covered area. BECAUSE, and I'm not saying this is a possibility even though it is, that she's not getting service when she SHOULD. And from a strictly legal standpoint, her taxes pay for that service. So there.
3b took more research: I first googled "what plastic are blood bags made of?" I got a surprising number of hits. The first of which wasa patent application for blood bags. Here is a quote from the paper. "Multiple blood bag systems currently available are made of polyvinyl chloride (PVC) plasticized with di-2-ethylhexyl phthalate (DEHP). Whole blood can be stored at about 5°C. for up to 21 days in bags of such a formulation without significantly reducing the quantity of surviving red cells so that the blood can be used within this period of time for transfusion...U.S. Patent No. 4,222,379 discloses a multiple blood bag system in which the blood storage bag (donor bag) is made of conventional PVC formulation containing DEHP plasticizer. ... It was discovered that it was the DEHP extracted or leached from the plastic by the blood which was responsible for inhibiting hemolysis of the red cells and thus allowed them to be stored for 21 days without generating significant amounts of hemoglobin. Thus the high degree of survival appeared to be dependent upon the presence of DEHP."
In short, while this patent made it possible to avoid DEHP contamination for some blood products, it was precisely the DEHP plasticizer that made it possible for the blood product to keep for so long! Amazing! Do you see? Plastic actually HELPS the blood keep fresh! This statement is further repeated by the American Association of Blood Banks, who rather grudgingly admit that while maybe maybe DEHP causes cancer and feminization of male subjects, the FDA hasn't made them remove it, only recommended it, so YOUR BLOOD BAGS TOTALLY CONTAIN DEHP. The more you know. Upside: the blood contained in it lasts longer because it does. It's a trade off I guess.
AND THEN I FOUND SHANGRILA. By that I mean, "I found this one guys presentation on the development of blood bags over history." whoa! Wow! I read the whole thing! It's fascinating! It's an amazing testament to the human will to innovate and achieve! It's also a 57 page PowerPoint, so I read the outline. But thank you Dr. Ravi C Dara for sharing your wealth of knowledge, even if it isn't very succinct.
Also, Dr. Dara shared that blood bags are usually PVC due to their chemical inertness, durability, sterilizable, heat sealable, low cost production; polyvinyl chloride plastic is #3 and is thus totally recyclable...if it weren't full of blood and thus completely unrecyclable in most cases.
Seriously though, it's a great PowerPoint, you should watch.
But back to the original question, and its subtext: what happens to PVC if you burn it as biohazard?
Well, for starters, PVC is a halogenated plastic that releases dioxins when burned. According to this website, "Dioxin is a known human carcinogen and the most potent synthetic carcinogen ever tested in laboratory animals. A characterization by the National Institute of Standards and Technology of cancer causing potential evaluated dioxin as over 10,000 times more potent than the next highest chemical (diethanol amine), half a million times more than arsenic and a million or more times greater than all others.
The World Health Organization said “Once dioxins have entered the environment or body, they are there to stay due to their uncanny ability to dissolve in fats and to their rock-solid chemical stability.”That is because dioxins are classed as one of the persistant organic pollutants, POPs, also known as as PBTs (Persistent, Bioaccumulative and Toxic) or TOMPs (Toxic Organic Micro Pollutants.)
POPs are a small set of toxic chemicals that remain intact in the environment for long periods and accumulate in the fatty tissues of animals. They are extremely toxic and cause all manner of illnesses."
Well poop. No one wants to hear that. So are most blood bags incinerated, or magically sterilized and recycled? ...
A short review of many, many Environmental Health and Safetry procedures seems to indicate that most anything touched by blood and body fluids are autoclaved, which is to say sterilized into melting in some cases of plastic, but definitely not recycled. This feels like I'm missing some information. I wonder if a call to a hospital could reveal more information.
So there you have it. Happy Margarita Day!
Not that I am drinking a margarita. I'm just noting the day.
Anywho, on Saturday I learned the fascinating fact that I have managed to donate over 25 pints of O- whole blood in my lifetime, and since there are 8 pints in each gallon, that means I've donated over 3 gallons of blood! I could fit it in my fridge, but it wouldn't fit in a backpack. This feels simultaneously significant and insufficient.
While pondering this fact with my phlebotomist Dennise (I was so pleased to find someone as chatty as me) and chatting about my darling good right-arm-veins, I asked if she happened to know what sort of plastic the blood bags were made of; she did not, but she did recall one petrochemist donor and explained to her in exacting detail how difficult they were to make. Apparently we plebians do not appreciate exactly how difficult it is to produce medical grade plastics, with the quality checks and precision performance required of equipment that saves and maintains lives. A moment of silent appreciation was held for medical grade plastic.
She then began to share of her own accord how much she liked recycling, but that her neighborhood in the southwest part of Little Rock did not have recycling. This was confusing, as I thought the city recycling was done by wards. I resolved to look it up later. I shared that there was a map on the city website, and she said she'd look it up too, but that she hated saving up recyclables and then not being able to properly dispose of them, which had happened so often that she'd basically given up. I imagined this was the same for her whole neighborhood.
Meanwhile Dennise was looking at the bloodbags for a recycling symbol, when both of us realized that of course it wouldn't have a recycling symbol on it, because any use of them at all would make the biohazards--and to our knowledge, all biohazards were either incinerated or perhaps buried (we agreed that maybe not all were incinerated). Thus began challenge 3a "where are our city's recycling regions" and 3b "what the hell happens to biohazard plastic bags?"
So 3a is pretty easy: you can find the map here. Thing is, Dennise would have to live pretty far to the southwest to not be covered. I'm thinking that if I've got the guts, I might bring the map to the Red Cross and leave it for her, even asking if she's in a covered area. BECAUSE, and I'm not saying this is a possibility even though it is, that she's not getting service when she SHOULD. And from a strictly legal standpoint, her taxes pay for that service. So there.
3b took more research: I first googled "what plastic are blood bags made of?" I got a surprising number of hits. The first of which wasa patent application for blood bags. Here is a quote from the paper. "Multiple blood bag systems currently available are made of polyvinyl chloride (PVC) plasticized with di-2-ethylhexyl phthalate (DEHP). Whole blood can be stored at about 5°C. for up to 21 days in bags of such a formulation without significantly reducing the quantity of surviving red cells so that the blood can be used within this period of time for transfusion...U.S. Patent No. 4,222,379 discloses a multiple blood bag system in which the blood storage bag (donor bag) is made of conventional PVC formulation containing DEHP plasticizer. ... It was discovered that it was the DEHP extracted or leached from the plastic by the blood which was responsible for inhibiting hemolysis of the red cells and thus allowed them to be stored for 21 days without generating significant amounts of hemoglobin. Thus the high degree of survival appeared to be dependent upon the presence of DEHP."
In short, while this patent made it possible to avoid DEHP contamination for some blood products, it was precisely the DEHP plasticizer that made it possible for the blood product to keep for so long! Amazing! Do you see? Plastic actually HELPS the blood keep fresh! This statement is further repeated by the American Association of Blood Banks, who rather grudgingly admit that while maybe maybe DEHP causes cancer and feminization of male subjects, the FDA hasn't made them remove it, only recommended it, so YOUR BLOOD BAGS TOTALLY CONTAIN DEHP. The more you know. Upside: the blood contained in it lasts longer because it does. It's a trade off I guess.
AND THEN I FOUND SHANGRILA. By that I mean, "I found this one guys presentation on the development of blood bags over history." whoa! Wow! I read the whole thing! It's fascinating! It's an amazing testament to the human will to innovate and achieve! It's also a 57 page PowerPoint, so I read the outline. But thank you Dr. Ravi C Dara for sharing your wealth of knowledge, even if it isn't very succinct.
Also, Dr. Dara shared that blood bags are usually PVC due to their chemical inertness, durability, sterilizable, heat sealable, low cost production; polyvinyl chloride plastic is #3 and is thus totally recyclable...if it weren't full of blood and thus completely unrecyclable in most cases.
Seriously though, it's a great PowerPoint, you should watch.
But back to the original question, and its subtext: what happens to PVC if you burn it as biohazard?
Well, for starters, PVC is a halogenated plastic that releases dioxins when burned. According to this website, "Dioxin is a known human carcinogen and the most potent synthetic carcinogen ever tested in laboratory animals. A characterization by the National Institute of Standards and Technology of cancer causing potential evaluated dioxin as over 10,000 times more potent than the next highest chemical (diethanol amine), half a million times more than arsenic and a million or more times greater than all others.
The World Health Organization said “Once dioxins have entered the environment or body, they are there to stay due to their uncanny ability to dissolve in fats and to their rock-solid chemical stability.”That is because dioxins are classed as one of the persistant organic pollutants, POPs, also known as as PBTs (Persistent, Bioaccumulative and Toxic) or TOMPs (Toxic Organic Micro Pollutants.)
POPs are a small set of toxic chemicals that remain intact in the environment for long periods and accumulate in the fatty tissues of animals. They are extremely toxic and cause all manner of illnesses."
Well poop. No one wants to hear that. So are most blood bags incinerated, or magically sterilized and recycled? ...
A short review of many, many Environmental Health and Safetry procedures seems to indicate that most anything touched by blood and body fluids are autoclaved, which is to say sterilized into melting in some cases of plastic, but definitely not recycled. This feels like I'm missing some information. I wonder if a call to a hospital could reveal more information.
So there you have it. Happy Margarita Day!
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Plastics Challenge #2: Grocery shopping wins and fails. And the Hospital.
Ok. I've been working on trying to reduce the plastics purchased during grocery runs, and so far I've been winning at the following:
- Toilet Paper packaged in paper, Walgreens
- Dish Detergent in a box, Walgreens
*Orange Juice in a frozen can, Kroger--a potentially permanent solution! Only one ribbon of plastic on the lid!
- Fresh fruit and vegetables: broccoli, lettuce, kale, bananas, Kroger. You know, it's all Kroger unless I say otherwise.
- Fancy blue corn chips! Expensive, but in paper sack. Also, delicious.
- Canned organic corn and green beans. I prefer frozen, but we'll give these a shot.
- Pastas, all kinds, boxed in a box. Some have a little plastic window, but I think it shouldn't count. Or count less.
- Pasta sauces: Red, marinara and pesto in glass jars!
- Canned sliced olives!
- Flavored oatmeal!
- Loose granola! Edwards Food Giant!
- Loose granola bar bites! Edwards Food Giant!
- paper sacks!
Grocery Fails:
- carrots only come in plastic bags at Kroger. Might have to go to some FANCY store to find "free" carrots. Dratted winter. Bet the farmer's market would have them...
- aaaand the Brussel sprouts only come in plastic nets. Ugh.
- crackers and cereal that come in plastic sleeves. How else could one possibly get crackers?? Maybe we'll start getting Goldfish again.
- egads. Cheese. Will have to make it to the FANCY deli counter, and even then it comes sliced onto waxed paper.
- Yogurt. Worse yet, yogurt with extra plastic labeling. Why? Why not print ON the plastic? Or use a sticker? Who knows.
- Milk in plastic jugs. Not sure if I can build myself up to get the powdered stuff. I used to think that it smelled like elephants, if you know what I mean. Forgot to look for cartons. Yes. Forgot.
- Giant box of diapers, but wrapped in plastic inside. Why? I mean, it's already in a box and it's not like they're going to escape the box or go stale. This one is curious--might be worth sending a letter? That'd be amusing. "Dear Sir or Madam, I am writing to inquire as to why your Kroger brand infant diapers, size 0-5 are all packaged in plastic inside of a cardboard box. Do diapers go stale? Is there a best-fresh-by date? You are aware that these are non-perishable, yes?" Yeah, that letter sounds totally sane.
- plastic shell of lettuce. I broke down. It's at least better than the salad in bags; the shell is recyclable. I know. If only I'd had the fortitude to be willing to shred my own lettuce. I just couldn't, ok? It's hard, staring at groceries, judging their covers instead of their contents. And I can't even be ironic about how very first-world-problems this is. "Oh dear. Should I get the organic heritage kale with a rubber band, or the kale tied with waxed-paper zipties? I'm so torn!"
I will say this. I went to visit a friend in the hospital today, and I was very grateful for plastic. He's hooked up to an IV (or was and may be again) and needed a catheter, and had those puffy leg decompression units on. His liquids were in plastic bags, his meds pushed by plastic plungers, and his monitors beep out giant plastic digital faces. He might be dead of sepsis without it. So there. Plastic win: modern medical care.
--Goodnight, and remember to say "I love you" to your family and friends. You never know when they last heard you say it.
- Toilet Paper packaged in paper, Walgreens
- Dish Detergent in a box, Walgreens
*Orange Juice in a frozen can, Kroger--a potentially permanent solution! Only one ribbon of plastic on the lid!
- Fresh fruit and vegetables: broccoli, lettuce, kale, bananas, Kroger. You know, it's all Kroger unless I say otherwise.
- Fancy blue corn chips! Expensive, but in paper sack. Also, delicious.
- Canned organic corn and green beans. I prefer frozen, but we'll give these a shot.
- Pastas, all kinds, boxed in a box. Some have a little plastic window, but I think it shouldn't count. Or count less.
- Pasta sauces: Red, marinara and pesto in glass jars!
- Canned sliced olives!
- Flavored oatmeal!
- Loose granola! Edwards Food Giant!
- Loose granola bar bites! Edwards Food Giant!
- paper sacks!
Grocery Fails:
- carrots only come in plastic bags at Kroger. Might have to go to some FANCY store to find "free" carrots. Dratted winter. Bet the farmer's market would have them...
- aaaand the Brussel sprouts only come in plastic nets. Ugh.
- crackers and cereal that come in plastic sleeves. How else could one possibly get crackers?? Maybe we'll start getting Goldfish again.
- egads. Cheese. Will have to make it to the FANCY deli counter, and even then it comes sliced onto waxed paper.
- Yogurt. Worse yet, yogurt with extra plastic labeling. Why? Why not print ON the plastic? Or use a sticker? Who knows.
- Milk in plastic jugs. Not sure if I can build myself up to get the powdered stuff. I used to think that it smelled like elephants, if you know what I mean. Forgot to look for cartons. Yes. Forgot.
- Giant box of diapers, but wrapped in plastic inside. Why? I mean, it's already in a box and it's not like they're going to escape the box or go stale. This one is curious--might be worth sending a letter? That'd be amusing. "Dear Sir or Madam, I am writing to inquire as to why your Kroger brand infant diapers, size 0-5 are all packaged in plastic inside of a cardboard box. Do diapers go stale? Is there a best-fresh-by date? You are aware that these are non-perishable, yes?" Yeah, that letter sounds totally sane.
- plastic shell of lettuce. I broke down. It's at least better than the salad in bags; the shell is recyclable. I know. If only I'd had the fortitude to be willing to shred my own lettuce. I just couldn't, ok? It's hard, staring at groceries, judging their covers instead of their contents. And I can't even be ironic about how very first-world-problems this is. "Oh dear. Should I get the organic heritage kale with a rubber band, or the kale tied with waxed-paper zipties? I'm so torn!"
I will say this. I went to visit a friend in the hospital today, and I was very grateful for plastic. He's hooked up to an IV (or was and may be again) and needed a catheter, and had those puffy leg decompression units on. His liquids were in plastic bags, his meds pushed by plastic plungers, and his monitors beep out giant plastic digital faces. He might be dead of sepsis without it. So there. Plastic win: modern medical care.
--Goodnight, and remember to say "I love you" to your family and friends. You never know when they last heard you say it.
Saturday, February 13, 2016
Womansplain #1: pumping my boobs during international training
There are times that you realize: "I can be good, or I can be great." This was one of those times.
Let me explain.
I left for a trip to Vancouver, Canada for some (quasi-international) community organizer training with the IAF (Industrial Areas Foundation) for some local work I plan to do. While this was awesome, it was only the setting for what was to transpire.
It was I think the second day of training, and since I had not fully committed to the idea of weaning my 9-month old child (I really wanted fate to step in and decide it for me) I was committed to the idea of pumping at least three times a day to keep up my breastmilk supply. This means that at least three times a day (roughly at wake up, sometime midday, and before bed) I need to get out my charming little Obamacare provided Medela Pump In Style Advanced Breastpump Starter Set-Model # 57081 breastpump and all her accessories and find a standard socket in a semi-private space for at least 15 minutes, 20 if possible. This is not your momma's hand pump, ladies, this is serious suckage. I use only the highest suck setting, because I am a Boss (also because, well, that is the correct setting for me. The Boss setting.) The pump itself involves two sets of suction devices that are composed of a breastshield, a connector with undeniably-necessary plastic-flappy-bit-suction-maker, and what I lovingly call the boob-tube. It's basically a bottle.
And before I go any further, I need to note here that I am incredibly grateful for the ability and technology to be able to express and pump breastmilk. Yes, this is an instance where no other material other than plastic could probably do the job (well, may-ay-be glass and rubber. Maybe.) but moreover I'm grateful for the thousands of hours of research and development that determined how to make it work well--very well--and how to make it affordable for women. I'm also grateful for the billions of women before me who simply dragged their child along with them. You set the pace that occasionally leaving my baby might be possible. I knew that my mother and grandmothers had struggled with lactation and public life, and so I don't feel alone. I am aware of the privilege and first-world-problems of this post. I even want to explore them further. Later.
But all of that is to say that THIS, right now, is a production rather like an off-off-Broadway one woman show of COWS, which is like CATS, only more awkward. I have this glam kit packed in my purse, because I looked ahead at our schedule and saw a 30 minute break around 10am. "Perfect!" I thought, "I can pump and then not miss any of lunch or our lunchtime relational one-on-ones". (These are important, so I was scheduling around them.) The break comes. I ask our host, Michael, if he knows where I might find a secluded location with a socket. I've already checked out the rest rooms, they do not have sockets.
*NORMALLY I would pitch a little fit about not making food in a public restroom, but in this case I was thousands of miles away from my child and sacrificing enough to just keep up this level of lactation. In this case I was planning a pump-and-dump (that's a term for ditching your milk, not pumping while pooping--you're so gross for thinking that) so I wouldn't have minded.
** I DID mind one person's repeated inquires as to why I wasn't freezing my milk or giving it to orphans--no, I am not making this up--but oblique references to trying to navigate customs with a gallon of breastmilk "I swear it's mine officer" or overt references to "I'm not even from this country," and "I don't think anyone has a right to any part of my body without my consent" didn't seem to make much difference. Oh well.
Michael proudly exclaims that "they" are a breastfeeding family too, and sweetly offers his office--unfortunately, it's about 5 buildings away, on the third floor. I've already proven my ability to get lost within an acre of space, so I ask for something a little closer. We walk upstairs--the classroom is inexplicably locked. We find the gender neutral bathroom--no plugs. We go to the First Nations lounge: the offices are locked. I step inside ANOTHER bathroom to check for plugs, and I lose Michael. I spend several minutes looking for him, get lost (told you!) and find my way back to our plenary room.
The break is over. Michael chirps, "Did you find what you needed?" "NO." I reply, "But I'm FINE." "You don't look fine."
I am not fine. This happens ALL THE TIME. You can't find someplace to go, and you're going to miss even MORE of the public discourse that you are there to participate in, and then you KNOW you've got to pump, because even if there isn't a baby in front of you right now, if you don't pump, you won't make more, and that's not even considering the rather excruciating pain of overfull breasts.
Do you know what that feels like? I imagine--not being a man of course--that it's a little like having blue balls, only instead of them being a private, night time (I'm assuming here) affair in your pants, they are large, sweaty, public issues right in the front of your everything wherein your usually lovely soft breasts become hard angry coconuts of displeasure, and every flounce causes a twinge of agony. Plus your bra suddenly doesn't fit AT ALL and your nipples get all hard and that's a whole other problem. I'm only speaking for myself here. Me, and all the other women in the whole entire world who need you to know that. Probably your mom.
So I'm standing in the middle of the room, watching my colleagues top off their coffee and get snacks, holding my stupid breastpumping supplies and deciding whether that hot feeling in my face is tears, anger, frustration, shame, indignation, self-righteousness or an unpleasant combination of all that. I use cuss words in my head. I whisper them as well. I might have said one of my favorites aloud.
And I realize, this is my moment. I can either walk out of here and shamefully find a place to hide and pump, or I can participate in this public event that good money has paid for like a fully adult woman and pump while I do so. These are my only two options.
I gird my loins. Metaphorically. I march up to the trainer, and in a voice that only quivers a teeny bit announce, "I have not been able to find a place to pump my breasts. May I pump here?"
And she says, "Would you like to address the class?" No I m_____f___ing would not like to ask permission from the class, but sure. If we're going to test the very fabric of this liberal bastion then let's test it right. "Yes please."
"Hey. Hey everybody? Hey! Um. Hi. I haven't been able to find a place to use my breast pump during the break, and I'm not willing to miss any more of this training, so do you mind if I just plug in and pump over there in the corner? I'm pretty discreet; no one will have their delicate eyes harmed by the sight of my breasts." (reading that, I sure demurred a lot.)
There is a pause, just long enough for all the air to be sucked out of the room, before folks fall over themselves in assent (Canada!). And I hear, "Yes!" and "Of course!" and "Do you have to be in the corner?" and "Do you even have to ask?" To that one, I did respond. "OF COURSE I have to ask, do you even live in the same world?" To which she replied, "I breastfed my daughter until she was two, I totally understand." To which I hotly thought, yes, you have totally asked a roomful of strangers for permission to touch your boobs in their vicinity. It's like the same thing.
I can't quite describe how fraught this was for me. I was doing what I needed to do, but OH how this was transgressing all the things I'd sworn were not big deals to transgress, because we are 21st century women who can have it all, but I was actually having to think things like "breathe normally" and "don't cry" and "I can do this. I am a rockstar. I can do this." I was working very hard at looking serene and confident.
So I did. I turned my back on the room, plugged in my extractor--I mean expressor--and hooked up all the bitty plastic pump parts, including the wretched tubing which always looks dirty, even if you've just cleaned it, because it manages to extract moisture from the very air. I gave sweet thanks to merciful Jesus for loving his own mother enough to have me wear my cute easy-access sweater that day, and truly, once attached, no one could see anything. But GADS how I wished I'd ever gotten one of these:
SO. I do the thing. I plug myself in like a cow and wrench life-juice from my boobs, in public, before strangers, in another country. I take a deep breath. I can do this. I AM doing this. It will be one hell of a story. With one arm I hold up the bottles against my chest (this is a learned maneuver, very useful), and with my other hand I begin to take notes. And then I take stock of the situation. About three minutes have passed since my announcement.
End Act I.
Act II.
Hmm. Things continue to progress, I see. My colleagues were aligned in a circle of rolling chairs around the main presenter, casually spaced from one another to afford easy access to the snacks. While I've been hooking up, they have literally formed ranks. Where once there was open space between people, folks are now touching elbows. I could have missed the request to pull closer though, it could be my imagination that everyone, including those still facing me, are quite studiously avoiding even glancing in my direction. It is as though the cardinal direction of East were forbidden to their eyes. Fine. Whatever. It's a lecture.
The soft "whrrrrrr, whmp. whrrrr, whmp" of the pump is plainly audible. Like I said, Boss setting.
But then the trainer deviates from previous sessions, and asks us to get into pairs. Oh shit. Oh, I know! Tracy! Tracy the beautiful environmentalist, she's also a doula! She won't be weirded out! She'll be my partner! So while folks are doing that weird eye-glancing ritual to catch the attention of someone you don't find distasteful, I say loudly (because she's clear across the room), "Tracy!" Doesn't hear me. "Tracy!" Still nothing. "TRA-cy!" No. She...she can't hear my voice.
And this is the worst moment, just the utter worst, when I realize that maybe they can't see OR hear me. So I yell. I actually shout, "YO TRACY!! TRACY!" Absolutely no response from the entire group. No one so much as flits their eyeholes towards me to acknowledge this breach of protocol, this maniacal shouting in the midst of civil discourse.
Honestly, it almost undoes me. So really, really? No one can see or hear me while I'm pumping? I mean I get wanting to grant me privacy, but how is this conspiracy even possible? Tears start to form in my eyes and I can feel that hot flush up my cheeks--you know, the one that crinkles behind your ears and makes the scalp prickle with shame? You last felt it in middle school. You hated it.
But right behind that feeling was a still, small voice that told me "You are in m____f__ing community organizer training. Get yourself heard." Yes ma'am! I told the voice of the Spirit, who cusses like a sailor when I need her to, and so I turned to the pair nearest me, Margaret and Brian. Margaret is a pastor. We've bonded. She won't be weird. Brian works with homeless medical patients. We've bonded too. Excellent.
"Margaret. MARGARET." Dammit. "Brian. BRIAN. HELLO? GUYS?? ANYONE??!"
It was like orbiting earth from space without contact to NASA. I realized that the only way out of this twilight zone was to physically move myself closer and touch their bodies. So I started scooting.
Scootch. "Guys". Scootch. "Hey, ya'll" Scootch. "Ya'll can totally hear me now right? I am literally right next to you. YA'LL. YA-ALL" (I think my accent came out by the end of this.) And I poked Margaret in the arm. Maybe a bit hard. "Can I get in on this? I've been left out." "Oooh, sorry," she says, totally like a Canadian, "We didn't want to bother you."
--a pause to breath. Thank you Lord.--
"Yes. So I see. Well, thank you, but I don't want to be left out."
And we went on., me pumping, them carefully making eye contact. I made a point later in the day of telling Margaret and Brian and Tracy about their inability to hear me, and they genuinely didn't. I don't think it was intentional at all. They too were shocked that I couldn't be heard. It was quite the puzzle.
But here's the thing: I stepped WAAAAY outside of my own comfort zone, and I know that despite the protestations of how normal and ok it was--and IS, I will claim--I was well outside the comfort zone of pretty much every person in the room. It's probably a testament to Canadian hospitality that they wanted to be welcoming and affirming, that my request was only met with assent and permission. But I become aware very quickly of the toll it took on me personally. Instantly I grew a pounding headache, and tension snaked through my body. Every inch of me hurt, and in all honesty I was too stressed out to do a good pumping; I only got about 2 ounces. Usually I get almost 5. But I also felt like I'd taken an important stand for something--the right to feed one's child. Mine might be a thousand miles away, but he needed me to take care of myself, and for me to be a whole and complete person in that moment, I had to walk an extremely uncomfortable line between my public and private life. If I had gone to find a private spot, even gone back to my hotel room, I wouldn't have made the stand that this private act WAS intensely public, in that it is a "right" so many of us claim to support and are seldom challenged to do so.
I know there are other, more amazing women who pump on the subway with their battery powered hand bags, and women who protest inequality with nurse-ins, but I was my own hero that day. It got done. Frankly, I scoured that conference schedule and studiously avoided having to pump in public again--our last day, when I was already out of the hotel, I asked the college bookstore if there was a quiet spot I could pump, and they kindly directed me to a corner of the warehouse. Not the greatest, but a genuine and unflinching offer. I thanked them then and I thank them now.
My point is this: I don't think non-lactating people know how much work it is to try to do "the best thing" for a baby. I would go stark mad as a stay-at-home mom, even as I know how fulfilling and awesome it is from friends who have that capacity. I don't. I'm trying to do it all, and I LIKE doing it all. I love working, I love being a mom and wife, I love it all and I'm happiest juggling it. I will try my best to make it all work together, but dammit, it is WORK--muscle aching, mind blowing, conceptually stretching work that is not often recognized by pretty much anyone except other nursing moms and our partners. Even a progressive university like Capilano was unprepared. What would a woman less aggravating, less bold than I have done?
She'd have suffered. She will suffer. She is probably suffering right this second.
If my act could in any way prevent that for one other mother, it was worth it. No. Scratch that.
It was worth it for me. It showed me my own power. My own resolve.
And if I do say so, it was just a little bit funny. And maybe even holy. I'm always caught off guard when the most revolutionary thing I can do is just be a woman, to just be me. And as a pastor, all of this has funny shades and haloes, wings and fires, because I never know what's going to shove me off the pedestal and into real ministry. One night over drinks a young woman told me that she was sorry I'd taken my collar off after the organizing action we'd been a part of, because she'd invited a friend to see me. SEE me, because as she put it, "I'm fan-girling so hard. You're like a cool pastor and a woman and you wear boots and a leather jacket and you've got a nosering and you don't care what people think about you." Oh, sweet heaven, were that true. But if YOU think it might be, if that gives you confidence and opens doors you thought were closed, yes. Yes I am.
God bless us all, this is a strange world. Hope you understand.
-Marie
Let me explain.
I left for a trip to Vancouver, Canada for some (quasi-international) community organizer training with the IAF (Industrial Areas Foundation) for some local work I plan to do. While this was awesome, it was only the setting for what was to transpire.
It was I think the second day of training, and since I had not fully committed to the idea of weaning my 9-month old child (I really wanted fate to step in and decide it for me) I was committed to the idea of pumping at least three times a day to keep up my breastmilk supply. This means that at least three times a day (roughly at wake up, sometime midday, and before bed) I need to get out my charming little Obamacare provided Medela Pump In Style Advanced Breastpump Starter Set-Model # 57081 breastpump and all her accessories and find a standard socket in a semi-private space for at least 15 minutes, 20 if possible. This is not your momma's hand pump, ladies, this is serious suckage. I use only the highest suck setting, because I am a Boss (also because, well, that is the correct setting for me. The Boss setting.) The pump itself involves two sets of suction devices that are composed of a breastshield, a connector with undeniably-necessary plastic-flappy-bit-suction-maker, and what I lovingly call the boob-tube. It's basically a bottle.
And before I go any further, I need to note here that I am incredibly grateful for the ability and technology to be able to express and pump breastmilk. Yes, this is an instance where no other material other than plastic could probably do the job (well, may-ay-be glass and rubber. Maybe.) but moreover I'm grateful for the thousands of hours of research and development that determined how to make it work well--very well--and how to make it affordable for women. I'm also grateful for the billions of women before me who simply dragged their child along with them. You set the pace that occasionally leaving my baby might be possible. I knew that my mother and grandmothers had struggled with lactation and public life, and so I don't feel alone. I am aware of the privilege and first-world-problems of this post. I even want to explore them further. Later.
But all of that is to say that THIS, right now, is a production rather like an off-off-Broadway one woman show of COWS, which is like CATS, only more awkward. I have this glam kit packed in my purse, because I looked ahead at our schedule and saw a 30 minute break around 10am. "Perfect!" I thought, "I can pump and then not miss any of lunch or our lunchtime relational one-on-ones". (These are important, so I was scheduling around them.) The break comes. I ask our host, Michael, if he knows where I might find a secluded location with a socket. I've already checked out the rest rooms, they do not have sockets.
*NORMALLY I would pitch a little fit about not making food in a public restroom, but in this case I was thousands of miles away from my child and sacrificing enough to just keep up this level of lactation. In this case I was planning a pump-and-dump (that's a term for ditching your milk, not pumping while pooping--you're so gross for thinking that) so I wouldn't have minded.
** I DID mind one person's repeated inquires as to why I wasn't freezing my milk or giving it to orphans--no, I am not making this up--but oblique references to trying to navigate customs with a gallon of breastmilk "I swear it's mine officer" or overt references to "I'm not even from this country," and "I don't think anyone has a right to any part of my body without my consent" didn't seem to make much difference. Oh well.
Michael proudly exclaims that "they" are a breastfeeding family too, and sweetly offers his office--unfortunately, it's about 5 buildings away, on the third floor. I've already proven my ability to get lost within an acre of space, so I ask for something a little closer. We walk upstairs--the classroom is inexplicably locked. We find the gender neutral bathroom--no plugs. We go to the First Nations lounge: the offices are locked. I step inside ANOTHER bathroom to check for plugs, and I lose Michael. I spend several minutes looking for him, get lost (told you!) and find my way back to our plenary room.
The break is over. Michael chirps, "Did you find what you needed?" "NO." I reply, "But I'm FINE." "You don't look fine."
I am not fine. This happens ALL THE TIME. You can't find someplace to go, and you're going to miss even MORE of the public discourse that you are there to participate in, and then you KNOW you've got to pump, because even if there isn't a baby in front of you right now, if you don't pump, you won't make more, and that's not even considering the rather excruciating pain of overfull breasts.
Do you know what that feels like? I imagine--not being a man of course--that it's a little like having blue balls, only instead of them being a private, night time (I'm assuming here) affair in your pants, they are large, sweaty, public issues right in the front of your everything wherein your usually lovely soft breasts become hard angry coconuts of displeasure, and every flounce causes a twinge of agony. Plus your bra suddenly doesn't fit AT ALL and your nipples get all hard and that's a whole other problem. I'm only speaking for myself here. Me, and all the other women in the whole entire world who need you to know that. Probably your mom.
So I'm standing in the middle of the room, watching my colleagues top off their coffee and get snacks, holding my stupid breastpumping supplies and deciding whether that hot feeling in my face is tears, anger, frustration, shame, indignation, self-righteousness or an unpleasant combination of all that. I use cuss words in my head. I whisper them as well. I might have said one of my favorites aloud.
And I realize, this is my moment. I can either walk out of here and shamefully find a place to hide and pump, or I can participate in this public event that good money has paid for like a fully adult woman and pump while I do so. These are my only two options.
I gird my loins. Metaphorically. I march up to the trainer, and in a voice that only quivers a teeny bit announce, "I have not been able to find a place to pump my breasts. May I pump here?"
And she says, "Would you like to address the class?" No I m_____f___ing would not like to ask permission from the class, but sure. If we're going to test the very fabric of this liberal bastion then let's test it right. "Yes please."
"Hey. Hey everybody? Hey! Um. Hi. I haven't been able to find a place to use my breast pump during the break, and I'm not willing to miss any more of this training, so do you mind if I just plug in and pump over there in the corner? I'm pretty discreet; no one will have their delicate eyes harmed by the sight of my breasts." (reading that, I sure demurred a lot.)
There is a pause, just long enough for all the air to be sucked out of the room, before folks fall over themselves in assent (Canada!). And I hear, "Yes!" and "Of course!" and "Do you have to be in the corner?" and "Do you even have to ask?" To that one, I did respond. "OF COURSE I have to ask, do you even live in the same world?" To which she replied, "I breastfed my daughter until she was two, I totally understand." To which I hotly thought, yes, you have totally asked a roomful of strangers for permission to touch your boobs in their vicinity. It's like the same thing.
I can't quite describe how fraught this was for me. I was doing what I needed to do, but OH how this was transgressing all the things I'd sworn were not big deals to transgress, because we are 21st century women who can have it all, but I was actually having to think things like "breathe normally" and "don't cry" and "I can do this. I am a rockstar. I can do this." I was working very hard at looking serene and confident.
So I did. I turned my back on the room, plugged in my extractor--I mean expressor--and hooked up all the bitty plastic pump parts, including the wretched tubing which always looks dirty, even if you've just cleaned it, because it manages to extract moisture from the very air. I gave sweet thanks to merciful Jesus for loving his own mother enough to have me wear my cute easy-access sweater that day, and truly, once attached, no one could see anything. But GADS how I wished I'd ever gotten one of these:
Can we digress just a moment to talk about the utter insantitty of this picture for a moment? Just to note that this model has itty bitty boobies (not in itself objectionable) on what is meant to be a lactating juggernaut of self determination? Don't give me sassy eyes, show me how those little bottles are going to successfully hang off these bouncing mammarous mountains! When I fill those bottles to the brim, how will calamitous gravity NOT cast my hard-won trophies upon the floor (or worse, on my pants, milk stains are SO hard to get out of clothing)?
There is nothing about this picture that I can imagine emulating...
except that I really wanted to be wearing one in this precise moment. 'Nuff said.
SO. I do the thing. I plug myself in like a cow and wrench life-juice from my boobs, in public, before strangers, in another country. I take a deep breath. I can do this. I AM doing this. It will be one hell of a story. With one arm I hold up the bottles against my chest (this is a learned maneuver, very useful), and with my other hand I begin to take notes. And then I take stock of the situation. About three minutes have passed since my announcement.
End Act I.
Act II.
Hmm. Things continue to progress, I see. My colleagues were aligned in a circle of rolling chairs around the main presenter, casually spaced from one another to afford easy access to the snacks. While I've been hooking up, they have literally formed ranks. Where once there was open space between people, folks are now touching elbows. I could have missed the request to pull closer though, it could be my imagination that everyone, including those still facing me, are quite studiously avoiding even glancing in my direction. It is as though the cardinal direction of East were forbidden to their eyes. Fine. Whatever. It's a lecture.
The soft "whrrrrrr, whmp. whrrrr, whmp" of the pump is plainly audible. Like I said, Boss setting.
But then the trainer deviates from previous sessions, and asks us to get into pairs. Oh shit. Oh, I know! Tracy! Tracy the beautiful environmentalist, she's also a doula! She won't be weirded out! She'll be my partner! So while folks are doing that weird eye-glancing ritual to catch the attention of someone you don't find distasteful, I say loudly (because she's clear across the room), "Tracy!" Doesn't hear me. "Tracy!" Still nothing. "TRA-cy!" No. She...she can't hear my voice.
And this is the worst moment, just the utter worst, when I realize that maybe they can't see OR hear me. So I yell. I actually shout, "YO TRACY!! TRACY!" Absolutely no response from the entire group. No one so much as flits their eyeholes towards me to acknowledge this breach of protocol, this maniacal shouting in the midst of civil discourse.
Honestly, it almost undoes me. So really, really? No one can see or hear me while I'm pumping? I mean I get wanting to grant me privacy, but how is this conspiracy even possible? Tears start to form in my eyes and I can feel that hot flush up my cheeks--you know, the one that crinkles behind your ears and makes the scalp prickle with shame? You last felt it in middle school. You hated it.
But right behind that feeling was a still, small voice that told me "You are in m____f__ing community organizer training. Get yourself heard." Yes ma'am! I told the voice of the Spirit, who cusses like a sailor when I need her to, and so I turned to the pair nearest me, Margaret and Brian. Margaret is a pastor. We've bonded. She won't be weird. Brian works with homeless medical patients. We've bonded too. Excellent.
"Margaret. MARGARET." Dammit. "Brian. BRIAN. HELLO? GUYS?? ANYONE??!"
It was like orbiting earth from space without contact to NASA. I realized that the only way out of this twilight zone was to physically move myself closer and touch their bodies. So I started scooting.
Scootch. "Guys". Scootch. "Hey, ya'll" Scootch. "Ya'll can totally hear me now right? I am literally right next to you. YA'LL. YA-ALL" (I think my accent came out by the end of this.) And I poked Margaret in the arm. Maybe a bit hard. "Can I get in on this? I've been left out." "Oooh, sorry," she says, totally like a Canadian, "We didn't want to bother you."
--a pause to breath. Thank you Lord.--
"Yes. So I see. Well, thank you, but I don't want to be left out."
And we went on., me pumping, them carefully making eye contact. I made a point later in the day of telling Margaret and Brian and Tracy about their inability to hear me, and they genuinely didn't. I don't think it was intentional at all. They too were shocked that I couldn't be heard. It was quite the puzzle.
But here's the thing: I stepped WAAAAY outside of my own comfort zone, and I know that despite the protestations of how normal and ok it was--and IS, I will claim--I was well outside the comfort zone of pretty much every person in the room. It's probably a testament to Canadian hospitality that they wanted to be welcoming and affirming, that my request was only met with assent and permission. But I become aware very quickly of the toll it took on me personally. Instantly I grew a pounding headache, and tension snaked through my body. Every inch of me hurt, and in all honesty I was too stressed out to do a good pumping; I only got about 2 ounces. Usually I get almost 5. But I also felt like I'd taken an important stand for something--the right to feed one's child. Mine might be a thousand miles away, but he needed me to take care of myself, and for me to be a whole and complete person in that moment, I had to walk an extremely uncomfortable line between my public and private life. If I had gone to find a private spot, even gone back to my hotel room, I wouldn't have made the stand that this private act WAS intensely public, in that it is a "right" so many of us claim to support and are seldom challenged to do so.
I know there are other, more amazing women who pump on the subway with their battery powered hand bags, and women who protest inequality with nurse-ins, but I was my own hero that day. It got done. Frankly, I scoured that conference schedule and studiously avoided having to pump in public again--our last day, when I was already out of the hotel, I asked the college bookstore if there was a quiet spot I could pump, and they kindly directed me to a corner of the warehouse. Not the greatest, but a genuine and unflinching offer. I thanked them then and I thank them now.
My point is this: I don't think non-lactating people know how much work it is to try to do "the best thing" for a baby. I would go stark mad as a stay-at-home mom, even as I know how fulfilling and awesome it is from friends who have that capacity. I don't. I'm trying to do it all, and I LIKE doing it all. I love working, I love being a mom and wife, I love it all and I'm happiest juggling it. I will try my best to make it all work together, but dammit, it is WORK--muscle aching, mind blowing, conceptually stretching work that is not often recognized by pretty much anyone except other nursing moms and our partners. Even a progressive university like Capilano was unprepared. What would a woman less aggravating, less bold than I have done?
She'd have suffered. She will suffer. She is probably suffering right this second.
If my act could in any way prevent that for one other mother, it was worth it. No. Scratch that.
It was worth it for me. It showed me my own power. My own resolve.
And if I do say so, it was just a little bit funny. And maybe even holy. I'm always caught off guard when the most revolutionary thing I can do is just be a woman, to just be me. And as a pastor, all of this has funny shades and haloes, wings and fires, because I never know what's going to shove me off the pedestal and into real ministry. One night over drinks a young woman told me that she was sorry I'd taken my collar off after the organizing action we'd been a part of, because she'd invited a friend to see me. SEE me, because as she put it, "I'm fan-girling so hard. You're like a cool pastor and a woman and you wear boots and a leather jacket and you've got a nosering and you don't care what people think about you." Oh, sweet heaven, were that true. But if YOU think it might be, if that gives you confidence and opens doors you thought were closed, yes. Yes I am.
God bless us all, this is a strange world. Hope you understand.
-Marie
Thursday, February 11, 2016
Plastic Challenge #1: cereal
It's the second day of Lent, and I'm greeted by my first challenge of the plastic fast: we are almost out of breakfast cereal. You see, this year my family is not immune from my plastic fast--no no, they are subject to it, like worker bees are subject to the will of the queen. (That analogy breaks down pretty quick if you know anything about bees.)
ANYWAY, I woke up this morning and realized I'd need to go buy more cereal, but DANG IT, cereal usually comes in a box with a plastic baggie in it; if memory serves me right, that bag is not labeled for recycling, but is likely either #4 or #7 plastic, and as a bag probably can't be recycled anyway. This year, when confronted by seemingly required plastic use, I've decided to first spend time seeing how to avoid purchasing said plastic entirely. If I MUST purchase it, then I need to either know how to recycle it, or research its recyclability and repent in dust and ashes and a blog post.
Today, I won. You see, I remembered that I could buy some cereals in bulk, and when I went to my local Edwards Food Giant (employee owned and operated) I found three delicious sorts of bulk granola cereal. Problem though: the bulk items were decanted into plastic bags for purchase. Damn!
But I have grown bold in my cause. I marched my happy self to the customer service counter for the following conversation, carefully reconstructed from real, quality, freshly served quotes.
"Excuse me, do you have a moment? I have a question, but it might be more of a conversation, and if you don't have time or it's not really for you, you'll probably know who I should be speaking to." (This was probably not as charming in real life as it was in my head).
"I have a moment."
"Well, you see, for Lent this year I've decided to give up plastic --I know--and I'd like to start by buying bulk granola instead of from a box with a baggie, only the bulk uses plastic baggies and I'd like to use paper sacks instead."
"Huh. Hey, I have no problem with what you want to do, that sounds nice, but those paper sacks are going to cost you, and they're heavier too, so you'll be paying extra for that as well."
"Mmm mhh. Yes." (awkward pause. We realize we understand one another.)
"Sure, ok."
"Thank you. Ah, where are the paper sacks?"
"Aisle 10, right after the aluminum foil, bottom shelf."
"Thank you!"
And they were right where he said. So I took the bags to the checkout, because I WILL do this decently and in order, and own these bags BEFORE I use them for bulk purchases.
"Just this ma'am?"
"Yes, but oh, don't put up my basket please, I'll be right back. Ah, um, I'm going to go use those bags right now. I'll come back through your line, since you'll understand what I'm doing--I'm giving up plastic for Lent, so I'm going to use these paper sacks for the bulk foods instead of a plastic baggie."
"What an interesting idea! I never thought of that. I'll be watching YOU all 40 days to see how you do."
"Oh, great, that'll be fun."
"You know your bag of bags here come in a plastic bag."
"So they do. Oh well."
"Good luck!"
I went to bulk foods, and got a pound and a half of vanilla crunch granola. I also got a half pound each of chocolate almond and carob spirulina bar bites. I also got some kale and apples, because. I went back to the same checkout.
"Look at you! Bulk food in a paper sack! What a good idea!"
"Thanks. Can I have a paper bag?"
"Even for the kale? It's wet."
"Yes please."
"It'll get your bags wet."
"I know, turn it upside down, so the cuttings don't drip."
"Sure if you think that'll help.... What are you going to do about milk?"
"Milk. Well, I guess that's next."
"You could do powdered milk. Or shelf stable milk."
"Maybe someone still uses glass?"
"Maybe! Not here. Not anywhere I know."
"Me neither."
"Well you have a good day honey. Good idea you got there. Good luck!"
I tested all the items bought on the kids, and they loved them. I explained that we'd be avoiding plastic this Lent. My daughter said, "sounds like fun!"
Oh you say that now. For the record? I think the plastic bag containing the paper bags is #4, but unrecyclable. I've saved it in my "Lenten Plastics Unrecyclable Bag" for future study.
Interesting thought: when you recycle electronics, do they recycle the plastic coating on cords as well?
Good night folks, and have a great day.
ANYWAY, I woke up this morning and realized I'd need to go buy more cereal, but DANG IT, cereal usually comes in a box with a plastic baggie in it; if memory serves me right, that bag is not labeled for recycling, but is likely either #4 or #7 plastic, and as a bag probably can't be recycled anyway. This year, when confronted by seemingly required plastic use, I've decided to first spend time seeing how to avoid purchasing said plastic entirely. If I MUST purchase it, then I need to either know how to recycle it, or research its recyclability and repent in dust and ashes and a blog post.
Today, I won. You see, I remembered that I could buy some cereals in bulk, and when I went to my local Edwards Food Giant (employee owned and operated) I found three delicious sorts of bulk granola cereal. Problem though: the bulk items were decanted into plastic bags for purchase. Damn!
But I have grown bold in my cause. I marched my happy self to the customer service counter for the following conversation, carefully reconstructed from real, quality, freshly served quotes.
"Excuse me, do you have a moment? I have a question, but it might be more of a conversation, and if you don't have time or it's not really for you, you'll probably know who I should be speaking to." (This was probably not as charming in real life as it was in my head).
"I have a moment."
"Well, you see, for Lent this year I've decided to give up plastic --I know--and I'd like to start by buying bulk granola instead of from a box with a baggie, only the bulk uses plastic baggies and I'd like to use paper sacks instead."
"Huh. Hey, I have no problem with what you want to do, that sounds nice, but those paper sacks are going to cost you, and they're heavier too, so you'll be paying extra for that as well."
"Mmm mhh. Yes." (awkward pause. We realize we understand one another.)
"Sure, ok."
"Thank you. Ah, where are the paper sacks?"
"Aisle 10, right after the aluminum foil, bottom shelf."
"Thank you!"
And they were right where he said. So I took the bags to the checkout, because I WILL do this decently and in order, and own these bags BEFORE I use them for bulk purchases.
"Just this ma'am?"
"Yes, but oh, don't put up my basket please, I'll be right back. Ah, um, I'm going to go use those bags right now. I'll come back through your line, since you'll understand what I'm doing--I'm giving up plastic for Lent, so I'm going to use these paper sacks for the bulk foods instead of a plastic baggie."
"What an interesting idea! I never thought of that. I'll be watching YOU all 40 days to see how you do."
"Oh, great, that'll be fun."
"You know your bag of bags here come in a plastic bag."
"So they do. Oh well."
"Good luck!"
I went to bulk foods, and got a pound and a half of vanilla crunch granola. I also got a half pound each of chocolate almond and carob spirulina bar bites. I also got some kale and apples, because. I went back to the same checkout.
"Look at you! Bulk food in a paper sack! What a good idea!"
"Thanks. Can I have a paper bag?"
"Even for the kale? It's wet."
"Yes please."
"It'll get your bags wet."
"I know, turn it upside down, so the cuttings don't drip."
"Sure if you think that'll help.... What are you going to do about milk?"
"Milk. Well, I guess that's next."
"You could do powdered milk. Or shelf stable milk."
"Maybe someone still uses glass?"
"Maybe! Not here. Not anywhere I know."
"Me neither."
"Well you have a good day honey. Good idea you got there. Good luck!"
I tested all the items bought on the kids, and they loved them. I explained that we'd be avoiding plastic this Lent. My daughter said, "sounds like fun!"
Oh you say that now. For the record? I think the plastic bag containing the paper bags is #4, but unrecyclable. I've saved it in my "Lenten Plastics Unrecyclable Bag" for future study.
Interesting thought: when you recycle electronics, do they recycle the plastic coating on cords as well?
Good night folks, and have a great day.
Lenten Plastics: a new hope
Lenten Plastics: Part Deux. Nah.
Lenten Plastics: Under the wire. Nah.
Lenten Plastics: The Nipple Shield Diaries. Ha. Maybe.
Awww, I'm just trying to say that it's a new Lent, but I'm returning to a familiar theme--plastic. When I left off blogging about two years ago, it was after a rollicking Lent spent avoiding and cataloging plastics, and a good time was had by all. But I had to admit, a few things went unexplored: what actually happens at my local recycling center (Little Rock AR, to be precise)? HOW do they recycle plastics? And rumors: does the price of oil affect the effectiveness of recycling? IS THERE a way to get milk in a glass bottle around here, and does it cost more than it's worth? CAN you recycle a pizza box clean of debris but still oily? What about those shelf-stable boxes?
BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE. So, this year I'm adding another aspect into the mix, the fact that walking in the world as a woman has been...well...a bit aggravating of late. And perhaps to explain it to myself as much as anyone, I've decided to explore some themes of modern femininity as well--and I'm sure we'll discover that plastic and women have far more in common than boob jobs. That being said, one thing I'm keen to discover is whether I can recycle this breast pump and all it's breast-pump-accessories when the time is right. I better be, or I'll be making some sort of artistic statement using pump parts, glitter and a glue gun let-me-tell-you.
So for anyone tuning in for the first time, here's the scoop on me: I'm 35 years old, a wife, mother, Presbyterian minister and currently in flux. I basically left my previous (and first) congregation because I realized that mothering three kids was going to be a lot more work than two, but also because the timing was pretty perfect to leave a growing toxic situation. I don't want to throw anyone under the bus, and I can leave a few names out, unless perhaps that person is my former organist extraordinaire, in which case, yeah, that guy. But I'm working on forgiveness, I really am. I'm pretty sure it's mutual, so maybe someday we can say "that didn't go well" and shake hands or something. Frankly, if forgiveness is being able to let it go, I'm getting pretty close to wanting that. I think I do want that. I just kinda still want revenge too, and that's not healthy, so I'm just going to hope time really does heal wounds. I mean, I'm working through the end-chapter actions and reflections of Desmond Tutu's (A-MAZ-ing) work The Book of Forgiving: The Fourfold Path for Healing Ourselves and the World and WOW that's an incredible digression from plastic. I wonder if my counselor will be pleased with my openness of if she'll recommend I stay more professional. She is invited to comment if she reads this.
SO, I'd rather talk about the ways in which I'm moving forward in life and ministry, and this Lent felt fruitful on the themes of plastic and womansplaining. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy it too.
- Marie
Lenten Plastics: Under the wire. Nah.
Lenten Plastics: The Nipple Shield Diaries. Ha. Maybe.
Awww, I'm just trying to say that it's a new Lent, but I'm returning to a familiar theme--plastic. When I left off blogging about two years ago, it was after a rollicking Lent spent avoiding and cataloging plastics, and a good time was had by all. But I had to admit, a few things went unexplored: what actually happens at my local recycling center (Little Rock AR, to be precise)? HOW do they recycle plastics? And rumors: does the price of oil affect the effectiveness of recycling? IS THERE a way to get milk in a glass bottle around here, and does it cost more than it's worth? CAN you recycle a pizza box clean of debris but still oily? What about those shelf-stable boxes?
BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE. So, this year I'm adding another aspect into the mix, the fact that walking in the world as a woman has been...well...a bit aggravating of late. And perhaps to explain it to myself as much as anyone, I've decided to explore some themes of modern femininity as well--and I'm sure we'll discover that plastic and women have far more in common than boob jobs. That being said, one thing I'm keen to discover is whether I can recycle this breast pump and all it's breast-pump-accessories when the time is right. I better be, or I'll be making some sort of artistic statement using pump parts, glitter and a glue gun let-me-tell-you.
So for anyone tuning in for the first time, here's the scoop on me: I'm 35 years old, a wife, mother, Presbyterian minister and currently in flux. I basically left my previous (and first) congregation because I realized that mothering three kids was going to be a lot more work than two, but also because the timing was pretty perfect to leave a growing toxic situation. I don't want to throw anyone under the bus, and I can leave a few names out, unless perhaps that person is my former organist extraordinaire, in which case, yeah, that guy. But I'm working on forgiveness, I really am. I'm pretty sure it's mutual, so maybe someday we can say "that didn't go well" and shake hands or something. Frankly, if forgiveness is being able to let it go, I'm getting pretty close to wanting that. I think I do want that. I just kinda still want revenge too, and that's not healthy, so I'm just going to hope time really does heal wounds. I mean, I'm working through the end-chapter actions and reflections of Desmond Tutu's (A-MAZ-ing) work The Book of Forgiving: The Fourfold Path for Healing Ourselves and the World and WOW that's an incredible digression from plastic. I wonder if my counselor will be pleased with my openness of if she'll recommend I stay more professional. She is invited to comment if she reads this.
SO, I'd rather talk about the ways in which I'm moving forward in life and ministry, and this Lent felt fruitful on the themes of plastic and womansplaining. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy it too.
- Marie
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)