It's fun to visualize all of the ways I could change the face of birth, humanity, and my community- if I just had some money. Midwifery schools, Women's health centers, farms, eco homesteads, and an outdoor area for us to have a fire and temezcal for ceremonies, all haunt my daydreams.
Enjoy your little snacks while Daddy's around!
These past few births have reminded me of all of the sacrifices I make to attend women in their birthing and postpartum ceremony. It's takes practice staying present after leaving my family in our cozy bed at 2am, waking my poor little sleeping baby from his nursing slumber, and knowing that my three year old is having a pizza-fries-movie marathon with Papa. So it's time to get with the program, set prices, and limit the amount of donation births I attend per year.
It breaks my heart to turn women down, but I have to survive, too. I have to feed my children, buy gas, clean my home, pay bills, dodge creditors, etc. My hours of research, countless lectures, programs, and workshops I paid for, all should be sustained by my practice as a birth professional. Although many of my clients have a difficult time paying for anything out of pocket, I swear, that from here on out, I'm only working with families who are conscious consumers of childbirth services, and appreciate the sacrifice it takes one mother to support another. So here you are, my justification for laying down the law on innocent fetuses and round-bellied women.
Itzix and I, relaxing after a consultation in our home. Thanks, kids, for being patient!
Many couples separate during the tribulations of new parenthood, the majority occurring in the first year postpartum. Dads and other Co-parents, here are some helpful tips that will help you get along. This is my first attempt at making my blog male-friendly.
If mom complains about breastfeeding, don't respond "Well at least you don't have to pay the bills!" or, "Just let me give him a bottle".
Instead: Ask mom how you can make it easier. If she doesn't know, make her tea, bring her water, help her latch and position baby or simply sit next to or look into her and baby's eyes while they nurse. Demonstrate appreciation. She is, after all, providing the ultimate sustenance to your child.
Don't ask for sex, let her initiate the sex talk.
Instead: Find creative ways to be intimate. Reduce her stress, help her regulate it, and she'll be interested in sex sooner.
If she makes a mess, don't complain about how messy she is, or how she has a problem with cleanliness.
Instead: Tell her she must be having difficulty caring for herself and the baby and you will do your part by cleaning so they can have a comfortable environment. Trust that she will do more as she adjusts.
If baby is having a crying spell, and mom is stressed out, it's up to you to be the calm one. Refrain from comments like "I told you those greens were going to give the baby gas", or my mom did it alone and she survived".
Instead: Allow the baby to cry and release stress, in your calm embrace, away from mom's earshot.
If she asks you not to touch her, don't comment on hormones or postpartum depression.
Instead: Understand that having a baby latched to you 24/7 can be draining. A new mom might feel her identity has been taken away overnight. All she needs is some time with herself. Offer to take the baby for a walk around the block.
If your mother comes over and makes comments on parenting, STAY MUTUAL.
Give her a massage and backrub when she looks tense. Try not to make a move, though.
If she asks you to cook a meal because she needs a break, cheerfully do so. Don't tell her you're too tired to clean up the mess and bring back fast food.
If at any point, she loses it, stay calm. If she needs professional assistance, bring it up with love and compassion. Remind her you love her unconditionally, and that you will support her during this time of growth.
As an artist, organizer, and activist, it has been difficult to make all of those years of work worth something in the realm of motherhood. As a new mother, I was cursed with inhibitions and biases of appropriate parenting, behavior as a mother, and even what to wear. Finally, I'm okay with cursing now and then, staying out late as a family, dressing like a "MILF", and doing things that make me happy. I have found the delicate balance of sacrificing without losing myself.
So, taking eight month old Itzix to a big Hip-Hop concert, more than anything, was a test. "Will they allow him in with me?", "Will they even notice him?", "Will he be happy?", "I hope I can nurse in the green room!".
My husband, checking bass levels at sound check.
After sound check, Sherm and I walked down the street for pizza. Upon returning, we were rejected at the door. I listened to my husband's performance through the dense walls of the Key Club while I sat in our truck with Itzix. My cue came, and a friend came out to watch the baby, allowing me to perform our song together.
Waiting for pizza.
On the way back to my baby, every other person stopped me, congratulating us, saluting our performance, and thanking me. I haven't done this in too long, I thought to myself. The high was so familiar, but instead of sticking around, networking, I hurried back to my baby, who was in the car with Gabby.
Hip Hop Son Jarocho at the Key Club.
Sherman followed soon behind, and took over babysitting. I headed back into the club to get a piece of the action. More action than I wanted. In passing, some nasty drunk dude thrusted his pelvis into my ass. I turned around to dog him and he shrugged. I gave another dirty look, looked at his friends, and everyone pretended not to notice. My bandmates waved me over and I explained what happened.
"Should we kick his ass?", I didn't know how else to handle it. I resisted my first instinct to beat him, but why?
"HELL yeah, let's GO! Let's kick his ass! Fuck him! Let's fuck him up, dude!", Pavis shouted underneath KRS.
Sounded like a fail-proof plan. Before leading the way, the music stopped, and while all was quiet, I accidentally shouted
"-And then I'll break his glasses!".
People turned, stared, and searched for the nearest guy with glasses.
Pavis and Juan pretended not to know me, and gave me the 'abort mission' face.
The Hip Hop legend began to talk about Martin Luther King, Jr, and I wondered whether this was a sign that I should practice nonviolence.
"But I wasn't RAISED to turn the other cheek". I told myself. I have to do something for all of the times I've done nothing, for the women who are silent, and for this pervert's future victims.
I can't start a fight with my baby waiting for me in the car to nurse, I tell myself.
I decided to leave- pissed as hell. On my way out, I instinctively stopped, turned around at the security guard, and said:
"Excuse me, I would like to report a sexual battery".
He referred me to the head of security, a 7-foot meatie baldie, chatting it up with some older women. He made me wait until he finished his meaningless conversation. His lady friends paused, looked me up and down, with faces of utter disgust, when I told him:
"I was sexually assaulted in your club and need you to escort out, the man who did it".
I didn't file a police report on his white perv-ass, because I didn't want to deal with cops, you know the old saying, "con el diablo, no se habla".
Itzix and I, playing in the car, enjoying the show.
Sherman and I watched the cops get there, laughed and pointed at them from our car window. We kind-heartedly mocked KRS-1, and when he'd scream, "STOP!", to his DJ, we'd almost cry laughing. "Uh-oh, the Booty Bandit got KRS", we joked. "It's not a concert without the Booty Bandit", we fooled. Not the most gentle words after a sexual battery (or "booty bandit attack"), but sometimes, laughter is the best medicine.
At this point, all of my notions of romance crumbled. Here we were, in our family vehicle- VIP parking, basking in the breezy moonlight- live revolutionary Hip-Hop, windows down, car doors open, and our happy little Itzix enjoying having us to himself. I didn't care that other moms have babysitters, or baby bottles. I didn't care about the way the club rejected me and my baby, or about the Booty Bandit, and I didn't care what people thought about me bringing my baby to a Hip Hop concert. The three of us were safe, together, and happy.
Our Performance at the Key Club, opening for KRS-1.
One of my earliest memories of Echo Park is throwing up a gang sign to a guy turning the corner in his car. My proud Father thought it was hilarious, but asked me to stop. Yelling, my mom warned me that we could all be shot and killed if the wrong person had seen that. I was a little scared, but knowing folks with fun nicknames like Cricket, Cowboy, and Caveman made gang-life seem imaginary and harmless to four year old Panquetzani. People get shot, abused, pregnant, imprisoned, stuck on drugs, and I lost friends. The juvenile, romantic view of gang life fades away and reality sets in.
I love my community, but I am working toward a different lifestyle. Despite this, the effects of growing up in an urban, post-colonial setting haunt the core of who I am, making 'hood tendencies my friendly charm but also my enemy.
My 'Hood moment yesterday showed me just how much harder I need to work at deconstructing and decolonizing myself in order to have healthy communication with the family I love so much. The victim: my 21 year old, annoying brother, who likes to spend weekends free loading at my house, verbally and emotionally abusing my kids, expecting me to cater to him like he's in a 5-star hotel. He accuses me of slavery when I ask him to contribute- but that's not all.
Scenario: We're at my mom's house. I'm making sandwiches for everyone, while my baby cries. My brother finally picks him up (after I asked him several times), holding him in front of the television. Iztix is perched on his leg, being supported by one hand, because the remote control is in the other.
"Tots, hold him right, please. That's not the way you hold a baby", I tell him. He's good at blocking people out, and poor Itzix continues crying.
Exacerbated, I snatch Itzix and verbally attack his half-ass attempt to contribute. He tells me to shut the fuck up, and I ask him to tell me why he's angry. "You're a spoiled little bitch!", he mouths. In disbelief and disappointment, I silently pack some food, my stuff, my baby, and head to my car. Stubbornly, he picks at me, and I lose it. I get tunnel vision and see myself choking him out- I stop myself, yelling at his face instead. "Look at how you're acting, Oh my god!", he holds up his phone and I snatch it from his hands. Breaking it in half, I throw one half outside the house, the other above my head as I walk away. He keeps following me, mouthing sarcastic remarks like "Oh, where's your non-violent parenting class, now, huh?". In some order, I screamed back "You're an asshole! Get the fuck away from my car" and "Don't come to Long Beach!".
I can't remember the last time I went this crazy! I cried afterward, giggled a little, called my husband, and felt better. I plan on writing a letter to my brother, who was on his all too familiar un-medicated bipolar low. Violence is everywhere, but it shouldn't be used where non-violent communication can be productive. I want to have a healthy relationship with all of my family members, and provide the healthy model for my children that I lacked. Echo Parque, you were good to me...but DANG...I have to be good to me now.
1990, Echo Park. Playing with our pit-bull puppies in matching LA Raiders outfits.
My father was the parent who nurtured me with stories, baths, brushing my hair, outings and jokes. Naturally, in adolescence, I gravitated toward male friends, who often talked about sexual encounters with women whom they didn't care for. Although I never wanted to be in a story like theirs, during High School, I attempted to fit in with the "girly girls". After realizing that they were mostly a group of hurt, spiteful, and insecure women, I rejected the ideal of the traditional female. Cloaking my wiry body in layers of over-sized clothing and headwraps was my way of disconnecting myself from that mainstream woman. I didn't comb my hair, shave, or wear make-up. I cussed, drank, smoked weed, wrestled boys, and openly mocked girls who were "feminine". I was a female machista, believing "they" (females) couldn't be trusted, only cared about material objects, appearances and impressing men. I was as wounded as the females I despised.
My long-time circle of female friends, fellow musicians I met in 2005, have stuck by me during my lengthy transformation through womanhood and into motherhood. Although I had "cleaned up" a bit by the time we met, I often insulted, ignored, or neglected them. I was distant, emotionally unavailable and lacked empathy. As all wounds heal, motherhood has helped me realize that stable, enduring, and healthy relationships must be maintained. Although a few of us quit our band and got jobs some years ago, we developed a series of meetings to stay in one another's lives.
Since men aren't allowed, we coined them, Vag Dinners. The location is always rotated, usually someone's house, or occasionally, a restaurant. It can be potluck-style, or the host will provide the main dish. In Indigenous tradition, we always come with something in our hands to offer. After I had my first son, we had a vag dinner at my house- everything brought to me, and my house was left cleaner than when they had arrived. Yes, only women can be so meticulous! If you don't have female friends, find some! Today, I live for women, and have depended on female support during the most difficult times in my life.
Despite it's bad reputation, chismeando can be healing. We laugh a whole lot, eat all evening, and somehow, one starts the chain effect of crying. Every vag dinner is a personal triumph and group bonding experience. As Indigenous women, we have lived collectively, in group settings for nearly all of our history. Today, with individualism, industrialization, and other affects of colonization, we are isolated from one another. Our human needs for touch, socializing, and bonding are limited to our daily jobs, the little time we spend with family, and the internet (keep reading my blog, though!). Vag dinners, and our relationships with one another, have helped some of us heal from loneliness, depression, abusive relationships, past traumas, and low self-worth.
I look forward to tomorrow, when I get to drop off my son, rebozo my baby, and refill my plate to my heart's content. I am fortunate to have such intelligent, enduring, and caring women in my life. Thanks, ladies, for being sisters in struggle, and accepting me for who I am, every step of the way.
Intelligent, sweet and beautiful. Vag dinner 2009.
