I originally started this essay in my notes app one night without realizing it was Mother’s Day.
But I’m still baby…?
Maternity on my mind. Maybe it’s the general spring abundance blooming and birth vibe going around. I’d like to think that at least. The affect spring has in our cultural imagination is sweet: pink hues of cherry blossoms, cleaning and renewal, innocent masturbation to the pornography of nature (real literary icons only). Or, maybe it’s because I’m writing from Eugene, Oregon where the blossoms are indeed popping but the sun is playing hard to get and I feel desperate for the gloomy sky to bust open with her warmth. On trend with the season of growth & birth, I’ve been contemplating motherhood— specifically becoming a parent. I don't have any children, but I recently have decided I want to. After years of seeing pregnancy and parenting as necessarily selfless, the decision has, least to say, come with a train of meditations and anxieties. Imagining myself as an ambassador of The World to a blank innocent autonomous life? Insane conception.
Until writing this, l hadn’t seen the irony in having to get an abortion during the typically-fecund season of Spring. Makes Edna St Vincent Millay’s “Spring” really hit different…
For a time there was a gaping black hole in place of memory but well, I guess that’s how trauma functions at a basic level. I refused. Definitely. Not me. Too cool. I didn't get sloppy. I sipped whiskey. I wasn't naive. I had common sense. I handled my liquor. I was vigilant. I wasn't easy. I was stone-cold stomping on the heart of anyone who thought they could casually have sex with me. But despite this villain era high horse inventory, the fact was: I was pregnant. The month? Black hole. All I know: spring time. How? Gaping, painful black hole. All I know: before spring time.
After my abortion, I alienated in my room and binge-watched “Vampire Diaries” bleeding and numb while smiling, beautiful girls posted Spring Break boat trips on their ig's and aced their finals. I guess there’s a dark but amusing humor now thinking of myself anchored to a stiff twin-sized bed, my pregnant-then-not body curled around my laptop to check in on my fav undead characters after just killing my own unborn within me.
I didn’t feel guilty. I didn’t feel anything. I starved myself until I drank enough to allow myself a gourmet meal of chips and cold Frito’s bean dip. The only time I spent outside was to chain smoke. Missed calls from my parents accrued daily. I stopped reaching out to friends. I stopped getting dressed. I didn’t shower. I climbed walls and stayed put. I was empty and it had nothing to do with the (very sound) decision to vacuum a few cells out of my uterus. Had everything to do with the power someone had over my body: those black hole moments, sure, but the inevitable fall out was worse. The depleted body it left behind was impenetrable (do what you will with the double meaning) to those who mattered and chained to someone who didn’t. I was just a kid in need of nurturing and support but found scarce resources. It’s obvious hypothetical babies are the easiest to love; the rest of us with needs and demands are scoffed at or discarded. Leave that scribbled in the margins of Alito’s memo.
Eventually, I got out of bed. My true saving grace was living vicariously through punk artists. In a time where I felt completely severed from my body, I found a connection to spirit. There was palpable sanctuary in hearing Poly Styrene shout, “Oh Bondage! Up Yours!”. The channel had been re-opened. It jolted me to get back outside, avow my agency, and even rekindle my relationship to sexuality. To feel something like safety- whether illusory or real- all I had to do was put my headphones in and press play on “Penis Envy” or “Unknown Pleasures.” From language/lyrics that headbutted misogynist normativity to aesthetics with sexy but satirical sensibilities, punk introduced me to a bona fide embodiment that I had prior to been missing. It certainly wasn’t just musicians impacting me, either. A lot of feminist theorists and Black abolitionists are central to punk in practice and application.
Admittedly, punk is intrinsically difficult to define. It’s a genre of music, obviously. But it’s largely a subcultural movement; a style, an ideology, an influence, a praxis. Working class realities are amplified, rejection to conformity is esteemed, non-hierarchal thinking is essential. Punk is a direct response to the systemic failures we are all subject to, including the failed project of the nuclear family.
This expands beyond eurocentric idols, too. Cuba’s Los Frikis of the 80s, Peruvian subtes (short for subterraneo, a translation from what English speakers refer to as “underground” in culture/music), Mexican punks have been integral in anarchist, anti-globalization and Zapatista activism movements, the post-apartheid punk scene continues to be active in South Africa, and the list goes on.
Punk inspires a rich ethos for parenting to me, specifically, because of its diametric opposition to ideals of glamour and warped notions of self. Perhaps, this is because I was a very critical child (which was often mistaken for precociousness). Still, I had a deep love for goofiness, dumb puns and armpit farts, for belly laughs, for messiness, for dirt, and bugs. The latter are interests that are not valued in girl children the same way they are in boy children. I honestly have no idea if I was truly a precocious child, but I did quickly catch on to the undesirables of adults and absolutely played into such. I wanted to impress. I wanted to be equated with goodness. If I was smart, it was only because I recognized that was a role I could play after an unquantifiable amount of positive and negative feedback for respective traits. I want my child to embrace their individuality and celebrate their differences in community. It's community after all that "sustain life—not nuclear families, or the “couple,” and certainly not the rugged individualist.”1 I want my child to feel as if their energetic channel is open, not stifled by arbitrary rules of what ‘good in-line behavior’ looks like; what ‘pretty’ looks like; what ‘messy’ or ‘needy’ means. I want my child to feel unbothered by others judgements—within reason, of course. I think it’s unhealthy for children to prioritize people-pleasing to the degree of turning into fawning, untrue version of themselves. These are very real and very common limitations people run in to being raised/socialized as femme. If there has been a site where such gendered expectations are tossed out and reworked, it’s within punk music and literature.
Oftentimes, kids lash out because they quite literally have not learned how to regulate their emotions yet. Why do we punish children for having big feelings? Early development shouldn’t teach kids to “just sit still” or stifle what is happening in their nervous system. Forcing kids to comply with socially established rules and standards has been proven to be harmful to their mental health. In comparison, children who are introduced to more abstract modes of expression (ie creative outlets, self-determined play) are said to be better with self-confidence and emotional acuity. That’s not to say I think children should be raised with anarchy; it’s dangerous and quite frankly, ignorant, to assume children don’t need structure, routine, or stability.
I’ll also say that thinking about pregnancy within the confines of mainstream waspy, fatphobic parameters terrifies me. I want to be able to confront the ugliness and reality of pregnancy. It’s a sick joke that people who carry children to term should be glowy, thin, goddesses. Postpartum effects a staggering 50-75% of pregnant folks. MORE THAN HALF. I’m sorry but how many more avenues of gendered life are we expected to not only do well but do beautifully?
I’m not dull or audacious enough to claim there is one right way to parent. Punk scenes are certainly not without their own problems. There’s no perfect formula (in fact there’s like hardly any formula at all) to create the perfect child. But what I believe is useful about punk principles is eradicating our typical obsession with perfection. Children and teens will undoubtedly always find reasons to rebel. I just want my child to know their voice and perspective is heard and valued; that rebellion is a natural and instinctive response to a world rife with oppression. Are we not all concerned about what our collective future generation will be like? And does that not begin with our modes of parenting? Seemingly, this anxiety has been bubbling for quite some time; millennials have infamously been accused of birthing less children and buying less houses. And why wouldn’t we raise questions about how ethical it is (or isn’t) to bring children into a world that continues teeming with climate issues and global increases of extreme right-wing behavior? It seems clear from trends of “gentle parenting” or “positive parenting” on TikTok and IG that we are questioning how kids are being raised. Whether it’s looking to feminist theories, abolitionist practices, punk, or gentle parenting one thing seems to be held in common: conscious parenting that addresses themes of shame, identity, punitive attitudes, and hyper-individuality are also addressing the larger systems they thrive in.
This was truthfully incredibly hard to write. Imagining pregnancy and parenting unexpectedly brought up new-found mourning for my experience with abortion. I wouldn’t have changed a thing, but I certainly feel tender- for the first time- about being so young and pregnant. Almost ten years have passed and it’s strange to see all I’ve gained. I nursed myself back to an autonomous, happy person and the preamble to my own empowerment began with so many influences that were central and peripheral to this essay. Maybe soon, those influences will be passed on to someone who (hopefully) won’t have to go through the pangs of assault to come this far. As The Gay Science says, time is a flat circle.
Now, it only makes sense:
thank you for reading! building a significant readership is crucial to my craft right now so i cannot overstate how deeply i appreciate your support and engagement. will you spread the WRONG WORD? 💘
bell hooks, “All About Love: New Visions”
Honest and beautiful. Thank you ❤️