Tit talk

>> Breasts, the book

by JULIET WATERS

Since beginning work on her HBO documentary Breasts, Meema Spadola says she has "spoken to hundreds of women who tell me essentially the same thing: whether our story begins in childhood (perhaps as a fascination with our mother nursing a younger sibling), in puberty during development, because of a sexual experience (positive or negative), in pregnancy and motherhood, or because of a health problem, at some point, our breasts will shape how we look at the world, and how the world looks back at us... as women we'd never been given an opportunity to talk about our breasts, and now that we've started talking, we don't want to stop." Because, supposedly, we don't want to stop, Spadola has come out with Breasts, the book.

But while Breasts, the movie, provided a quirky context in which to discuss breasts--all women who were interviewed appeared topless--Breasts the book is all talk and no show. The charm of the documentary is that even when women were confessing to a negative relationship with their breasts, to expose them to a camera crew meant they had to have developed some degree of breast acceptance.

With few exceptions, the book presents just the neuroses, capped off with trite, meaningless assertions like: "Do our breasts empower us or make us vulnerable? When it comes to breasts there are no norms," or, "If we choose to define our own 'breast reality,' then making the move towards accepting and even loving our breasts--no matter what they look like--will be that much easier."

A man reading Breasts will get the impression that women fall exclusively into two groups. A big one that includes all the women who hate their breasts, and a smaller one who think their breasts are a little too fabulous. The tiny subset of women who have a healthy undistorted attitude towards their breasts have achieved this through tremendous soul searching, or successful plastic surgery. Nowhere is the voice of women who rarely think about their breasts.

Less than a year ago I might have included myself in this category. Despite Spadola's claim that there are no "norms" for breasts, I've always considered mine normal enough. That is until I became pregnant.

Pregnancy is like puberty compressed. First the painful tenderness. Then the fascination with development, in my case watching my breasts grow in a matter of weeks from an averagely voluptuous 36C to the averagely porn star size of 40DD. But once the narcissism has passed, the neurosis kicks in. Decades ago I might have been stressing out over whether or not my breasts would be acceptable to adolescent boys. Weeks ago I was stressing out over whether or not they'll be acceptable to my baby.

Should I succeed at breastfeeding, I will, according to current popular mythology, undergo a miraculous bonding process, nourish my child with magic immunizing potion and produce pounds of odourless baby poop. My humongous breasts will become the firm stuff of wet dreams, though I may lose all interest in men as my infant regularly brings me to blissful, virginal orgasm. Should I fail, the milk will dry up, my breasts will become floppy memories of their former grandeur, my baby's shit will reek of fabricated formula. Since no woman in two generations of my family has successfully breast fed, this may happen.

For all her trite philosophizing, Spadola has a point. The woman who is immune to all cultural baggage surrounding breasts is a rare creature. Still, I'm skeptical of her solution: "Most of us understand the importance of understanding our psychology, soul and mind, so why are our breasts any less important? Our breasts have something to tell us... all we have to do is listen." Had I consulted my breasts on this issue, I'm not sure they would have consoled me as well as the smart, experienced nurse who convinced me that most of the current breastfeeding craze is crap. Now I seem to be headed back on the path towards breast obliviousness, a path which I suspect I'm not alone on. :

Breasts by Meema Spadola, Wildcat Canyon Press, pb, 251pp, $18.95