This summer, the British poet Hollie McNish posted a video to YouTube in which she reads one of her poems, “Embarrassed.” With a voice full of emotion, she speaks about nursing her infant daughter in public bathroom stalls after being shamed out of breast-feeding whenever she went out.
The video went viral. It also hit home personally for me as a breast-feeding mother who has received plenty of criticism for nursing in public. What has been more distressing than getting negative feedback from perfect strangers has been the judgment from my fellow Latinas.
I’m just half Puerto Rican, but my fellow Latinas always seem to be able to spot me as one of their own. It’s a cultural community that I’ve found to be made up of protective, generous women. I love how a group of Hispanic women, assembled around my children, will issue gentle coos of “Que lindo,” a chorus of affection and acceptance. More often than not it’s a Latina who offers me her seat on the subway or a hand up the steps when I have my family in tow.
Up until a few months ago, I lived with my family in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Lest you think Puerto Ricans in that famously bourgeoisie neighborhood are as rare as gluten-free pasteles, seven years ago my partner, Joe, and I moved into a rent-stabilized building in the South Slope next door to a Puerto Rican matriarch and her assorted children and grandchildren. The night we moved in, they presented us with a giant baked ziti that had our initials written on the top in tomato sauce. It seemed like the start of a harmonious relationship.
Then I had my two boys. I nursed my first born, C. C., until he was 20 months old — about 19 months too long, according to my neighbors. To their horror, I also nursed him in public, often while he was strapped to my chest in the Ergo carrier.
I heard a lot about how my sons were “too attached” to me because of breast-feeding, how my breasts were “out there” for everyone to see. And I heard enough for 20 lifetimes about how my neighbor’s formula-fed, similarly-aged grandchild was younger than C. C. and way, way chubbier (the Coca-Cola he was drinking at 18 months probably helped with that, too).
The disapproval from my community of Latinas extended past our apartment building. There was the stylist at the hair salon who asked me, “How old?” while I nursed. When I told her, there was a sharp intake of breath, as if I had answered “10 years” instead of “10 months.”
At the beginning of the summer, I visited a discount store on the fringe of Park Slope. C. C. and I looked at curtain rods while his younger brother nursed peacefully in the carrier … until all three of us were subjected to a barrage of abuse from a female security guard. I was told repeatedly and at top volume to cover myself. When I tried to calmly explain that the law was on my side, the guard retorted: “Don’t talk to me about the law. Next thing you gonna be taking off your clothes and walking around naked.”
The matronly Latina cashier usually had a warm smile for me; that day it was a smirk. The other cashiers — also Latina — refused to meet my gaze. I left shaken up, and feeling let down by my cultural compatriots.
It came as a surprise to me when I read that according to a 2010 report by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Latinas lead the pack when it comes to initially breast-feeding their babies. A little over 80 percent nurse their infants at birth. Where were these amigas when I needed them? The numbers drop to 24 percent when Hispanic women were asked if they breast-fed their babies at 12 months, but Latinas are still ahead of the game. More nurse their children at 12 months than any other ethnic group in the United States.
These are impressive numbers. I wish they were reflected in the everyday attitudes I encounter one on one with my fellow Latinas. Thankfully, it’s different when it comes to my own inner circle. I’m still breast-feeding my 1-year-old, with no plans to wean until it feels right for both of us. My partner and my family are on board, and I live in a part of Brooklyn where a bared breast and a happy, nursing baby are the norm at restaurants and playgrounds (discount stores apparently not withstanding).
What if I didn’t have that? What if, like many Latinas, all I had was the chat from a lactation consultant on the maternity ward and a poster of a smiling, breast-feeding mother and child at the gynecologist’s office? These abstract sentiments are no match for the whispers (or shouts) of family and community. The feelings of shame, and the perpetuation of beliefs — that a breast-fed baby is undernourished, or doomed to a life tied to his mother’s apron strings — will continue to create a divide between Latinas who breast-feed and those who don’t. Let’s bridge this divide; let’s be Latinas who nurse out in the open, who talk about it with one another. Let’s transcend the old-fashioned myths and mysteries about breast-feeding, and put some solid love and support behind those impressive statistics.