When I moved to Washington, first thing I did in my new apartment was open all windows. When it snowed first time, I watched snow that I had never seen before falling through an open window, shivering and talking excitedly to my father on phone. When it rained that hard and angry rain that sounds like gunshots pelting down, I heard it through an open window. I wasn’t scared of getting wet or cold or struck by lighting; I was just scared of closing that window. Because when I thought about it, that was how my father always took care of me. That was him telling me how much he loved me. That was his gift to me, his way of saying: “as long as you keep your windows open, Abigail, I will always be able to reach you.” And he did. For years now he has been here and I was always somewhere else, and for years he had found me through that open window. Now I am here and he is somewhere else, but my window stays open. So of all things my father taught me, that is one thing I keep telling myself over and over again right now: “just keep your windows open, Abbe.”

When I was approached by an angry man one day who shouted obscenities at me and my nursing daughter, onlookers were quick to intercede on my behalf. I was not afraid, nor was I tempted to give his accusations a second thought. When, however, an employee later asked me how come I didn’t tell her I was going to do “that” so she could have let me use a back office, I quickly wondered if I should have. It was well-wisher who made me question my actions, and it is exactly this kind of statement that reflects a society largely uncomfortable with idea that breasts are multi-functional. Most importantly they are an instrument of sustenance and a means of nourishing our young, although in wake of their own revolution we seem to have forsaken this foremost purpose for one purely sexual. We witness breasts bared in nearly imagined bikini tops; we walk around malls and are confronted with posters advertising women’s lingerie, bathing suits, and blouses cut to accentuate cleavage. And hidden among these blatantly sexual depictions is lone maternity store, proudly displaying an enlarged photograph of a sensibly dressed woman in a nursing shirt cleverly designed to hide her breasts. As though now that they are suddenly useful for something more than a wet t-shirt contest we should forget we have them. Now don’t get me wrong; I am a big fan of breast. But I am a fan of breast in all its glory. There are many faces to each woman’s own, and I am as proud of ones I have now as I was of those I had ten years prior. Please, don’t make me feel ashamed to put them to their rightful use. As a mother I am expected to care for my child as I best as I can, and yet I am bombarded with criticism for doing exactly that.

It is seldom ignorant and angry public who intimidate this breastfeeding mom, but kindly folk who think they are doing a good thing by propagating idea that breastfeeding should be a private experience. Our breasts, in end, have been so sexualized that even those with best intent cannot separate their sexuality from their functionality. Even those of us who choose to integrate ourselves into communities which embrace our choice to breastfeed are hammered with advertisements for clothing offering “discreet” access. The world around us is telling us over and over again that they don’t want to see our breasts (at least not until we are finished breastfeeding and then only if they are still adequately perky), that we should hide them, that breastfeeding is a public issue when in reality it has as much to do with those who happen to be around you as what you ate for breakfast. The only people who should be concerned about how you breastfeed are your child and yourself, and whether concern of others’ manifests itself in an angry or a “helpful” way, as breastfeeding women we should learn to ignore it all. I’m tired of slings that allow you to breastfeed with minimum breast exposure; I’m tired of being offered a blanket or a jacket to “cover up” with; I’m tired of being asked to pay an arm and a leg for clothing with slits on chest permitting one to breastfeed while their breasts remain covered. I’m proud of my breasts and their ability to nourish my daughter; I love way she fondles and molds them as she nurses, way she stops every so often to say “hi, mama” and smile or coo (thereby, god forbid, letting my entire breast hang free for all who pass to see!). I don’t expect her to eat under a blanket or slurp continuously until she is done, never pausing for conversation. My daughter eats same way I do (or at least did, before I had a baby to care for!): slowly, socially and savoring each bite. What she has for lunch is as much your business and what you have for lunch is hers. Let us nurse in peace, however and wherever we choose to do it.