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| My growing belly. |
You know that pregnancy glow that everyone talks about? The clear skin, voluptuous breasts,
extra burst of energy? Yah. It’s not all that it is cracked up to
be. Sure, there are a couple of
months where you feel re-energized and the acne which you’ve failed to cure
with a hundred different ointments and face washes miraculously
disappears. And yes. You finally think you have the boobs
you’ve always wanted. But in
reality, those couple of months pale in comparison to the aches, fragility,
leakage, out-of-placeness, and awkwardness that, to your dismay, seem a
frequent companion during those nine months. At least that’s how it was for me, anyway.
In her book, Bodies, Exploring Fluid Boundaries, Robyn
Longhurst (2001) spends chapter three addressing pregnant bodies in public
spaces. She documents her research
with 31 pregnant women in New Zealand over two years and discusses how
“pregnant women are thought to threaten and disrupt a social system that
requires them to remain confined to private space during pregnancy” (p.
33). Subsequently, there is a need
to contain and control these bodies.
As I read through the experiences and feelings of these pregnant women
and digested Longhurst’s (2001) connection to embodiment, spaces, and social
systems and acceptance, I couldn’t help but feel that these stories were mine. That Longhurst (2001) was talking to
me. It took all my willpower not
to highlight every sentence in solidarity. And I probably would have if this wasn’t a borrowed
copy.
As I wondered why I resonated so strongly with the stories
in Longhurst’s (2001) chapter and her conceptualization of pregnant bodies in
public spaces, I realized that it was because women were actually talking about
their discomfort and alienation, not just with their own bodies, but with
public spaces as well. During my pregnancy,
it seemed as though everyone talked about the novelty of being pregnant, the
special moments shared with your unborn baby, the built up excitement and
anticipation of finally meeting the little pea growing in your belly. But not once do I recall a mother
pulling me aside and expressing her frustrations of not being able to fit into
certain spaces because of her growing belly, or the insecurity that came with
getting bigger everywhere – thighs, hips, belly, breasts (In retrospect, I
wonder if the silencing of these stories is related to the containment and
control that comes with pregnant bodies).
So, since I am unable to highlight this copy of Longhurst’s
(2001) book to my heart’s desire, I’ll express solidarity, and perhaps a bit of
closure, by sharing my own story.
Funny commercial portraying a pregnant body in a public space
I was excited about my pregnancy for about two weeks. And then morning sickness hit. Again, and again, and again. Working an 8am-5pm job, with a three
hour break in between, I thought I would be able to navigate, and ultimately
hide, my morning sickness (I don’t think it helped that, at this time, my
husband and I had not told anyone about my pregnancy). With morning sickness striking at random
times of the day, it made being in the public workspace a lot more difficult
than I had expected. There were
awkward bathroom moments as I pretended that the person washing their hands did
not hear me hurl my lunch, and also uncomfortable “I’m sorry” looks when a wave
of nausea would interrupt a conversation.
I felt embarrassed about my situation and often found myself
apologizing. Longhurst (2001)
asserts that bodies that threaten to vomit are not trusted to occupy public
spaces such as work. “The pregnant
woman who enters public space risks ‘soiling’ herself and perhaps even others
with matter produced by her body.
Her body threatens to contaminate and to pollute; her bodily
‘difference’ becomes evident in workplaces, and various other public spaces”
(p. 45). Although no one ever told
me that this was the case, I felt this way, and as a result, I found myself
withdrawing from work, not wasting even a second to socialize after work, and
even calling in “sick” a number of times.
After about the fourth month of pregnancy, my morning
sickness disappeared and I found myself enjoying the sensations of pregnancy a
little more. But again, that did
not last long. As my belly and the
rest of my body grew, I dreaded leaving the privacy and safety of my home. Already lacking in the area of depth
perception even before pregnancy, and being of petite stature, I was a blimp
awkwardly moving through public spaces.
Add to it the dilemma of having to use the bathroom every five minutes and
you have one of the most conspicuous corporeal markers I had ever
experienced. As a student, I found
myself arriving fifteen minutes, sometimes even twenty minutes, early to class
to ensure that no one was around as I gracelessly tried to fit between rows and
guaranteeing a seat close to the door.
I felt that I, the 4’11” Filipina woman with a watermelon for a belly,
did not fit (literally and metaphorically). Mine was a body that did not belong in public space and, as
Longhurst (2001) puts it, a body “whose boundary is constructed as
unpredictable in public realms” (p. 65).
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| A means of containment. |
Yet, as much as I longed to stay at home (or at the mall
because my pregnant body was accommodated there. At some places, I had parking reserved just for me as an
expectant mother!), I knew that if I wanted to graduate in a year, I would have
to brave the public arena with my blimp of a body. Not surprisingly, this came with certain consequences
associated with what Longhurst (2001) describes as the containment of the
pregnant body and the perception of that pregnant body as merely a container
for the fetus. I experienced these
concepts of containment and container in two primary ways: 1) The construction of my pregnancy as
a “condition” that required special care and 2) the belief that my belly was
public space, and thus, susceptible to gazes and rubs.
The ‘condition’ of pregnancy became more and more apparent
the bigger I grew. My husband,
friends, family, health care provider, and strangers all began to treat me as
though I was this fragile object that would burst at any moment. Yes, I recognize that there are significant
changes to a woman’s body that comes with pregnancy and I was very aware of the
fragile being growing inside me. But
treating me, treating my body, as a condition needing special care made me feel
inadequate and disabled in doing even the most mundane things (like picking up
the keys I dropped on the floor).
As I mentioned in class, Hansen and Philo’s (2006) article regarding the
embodiment of disabled bodies brought vivid memories of my experience of
pregnancy, especially in public spaces.
Paralleling the discussion in their article, I not only found my
pregnant body becoming more and more unacceptable socially the bigger I grew,
but I also realized that the interactions I experienced in public spaces where
significantly tied to viewing my pregnant body as a ‘condition’.
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| The container of my beloved daughter, Aryia :) |
As viewed as a container that merely carried my unborn
child, my bodily space was invaded constantly – whether through obvious stares
or well-meaning old ladies coming up to me, asking if they could rub my
belly. To many, I no longer was
Cristine Jeda D. Orillosa-Thurber.
Rather, I was the vessel that held that mysterious being that family and
friend eagerly anticipated. This
was confirmed during many occasions when, rather than addressing me directly,
friends and family would go directly to my belly, asking my baby when she would
arrive or if she was giving me any grief.
As a result of my interactions in social and public spaces,
I resorted to confining myself to home more and more, the bigger I became. I planned out my public interactions
and, with my husband’s help, formulated exit strategies to awkward situations
or unwanted touches.
Although only nine months of my life, pregnancy has given a
new meaning to the term embodiment as it relates to identity and place. Often seen as “matter out of place” and
a source of abjection (Longhurst, 2011), pregnant bodies become both the source
of “self” and “other”. As with
other pregnant women, I dealt with this boundary by constraining myself, as
best I could, to the privacy of my home.
Hand in hand with this decision, the experiences and expectations of
pregnant women in the public sphere have subsequently caused many, including
myself, to confine themselves to the private sphere. Ironic and interesting when you think of the meanings,
embodiment, and identities of women already tied to the private sphere even
before they ever experience the glowing (more like leaking) pregnant body.
