Will a fertile woman's body ever be considered hers and hers alone?

Alicia Silverstone's breast milk sharing programme is intriguing, if slightly alienating for those who don't meet her "lifestyle" standards. While donating milk or being a surrogate is an incredibly kind thing to do it is too often regarded with paternali

Alicia Silverstone is launching her own breast milk sharing programme to enable parents to find donor milk without worrying about “what kind of lifestyle choices the donors [have] made”. Yes, Kind Mama Milk Share is for those who want their babies to have breast milk but not, one presumes, the sort that spurts from the likes of meat-eating, Mars bar-chomping, caffeine-swilling me. I have to say, I’m hurt. Half an hour with a whiny, RSI-inducing breast pump and you’d turn my produce down?

Then again, why shouldn’t those who want donor milk be fussy about the type they use? Is it fair to get all “beggars can’t be choosers” about this? After all, adoptive parents or those who can’t physically breastfeed have a right to form preferences regarding the welfare of their child. If you want to be picky about milk and you’ve got the donors to meet your requirements, is it anyone else’s business?

Apparently it is, although I suspect most of the current reporting is less in response to Silverstone’s exacting breast milk standards and more in a “ooh, milk sharing, weird!” way. Because we do find it weird when people with uteruses and breasts decide to loan out some of their reproductive functions to others. We shouldn’t, but we do.

I was aware of milk donation when I was breastfeeding and volunteering as a peer supporter. I considered it but never took the plunge, partly because I was finding it hard to keep my weight up while feeding one baby, but mainly because I suspected my milk would be rejected anyhow due to long-term medication I was taking. The pills were unlikely to have any impact on my son’s health but sufficient to make my milk fall below the standards required by the milk bank, which seems fair enough (although it does make me wonder whether Kind Mama milk goes through the same checks rather than just being certified vegan). I knew a couple of women who donated milk and I admired them for it. Expressing milk isn’t the most exciting activity on earth and sterilising all the pump components afterwards is just fiddly and annoying. It’s time- and energy-consuming (and potentially expensive due to all those extra calories you need to scoff). But it’s a great thing to do if it means breast milk is made available to babies in need.  

It’s odd that such a generous act is so rarely discussed, let alone celebrated. Then again, whenever a person undertake this type of labour for another - donating eggs, loaning wombs, nursing infants - we always seem to stop short of recognising it for the compassionate act it is. Surrogacy is still viewed with suspicion, the use of breast milk for anything other than feeding one’s own, self-produced baby is considered at best hippyish and at worst disgusting. Yet to do any of these things on behalf of another family can be incredibly kind.

Perhaps part of our mistrust comes down to fears of coercion or financial exploitation. I agree these things are a risk. All the same, it seems odd that we still do not permit women to end their pregnancies at will yet get terribly concerned about those who genuinely wish to donate eggs or give birth on behalf of others. Producing a new life may be a powerful act but the paternalistic way in which it is regulated smacks of fear and more than a little misogyny. We venerate the sacrifice but we don’t appreciate it.

To those who want children but are infertile or have miscarried or suffered stillbirths, the idealisation of pregnant women and new mothers truly hurts. And yet to those who are pregnant or have recently given birth, the lack of respect for the blood-and-guts reality of such a life-changing physical experience can be galling. We call it the miracle of life but we take it for granted. Yes, we all know how utterly amazing you are, but spare us the details. Who do you think you are, the first woman on Earth to give birth? Reproductive freedom  should include the right to share and the right to decide on the sacrifices one is prepared to make. Instead, perceptions of sacrifice shift according to how palatable a woman’s decision is in relation to social norms. An unwanted pregnancy is a mere inconvenience. A wanted pregnancy is a gift of love. A surrogate pregnancy is exploitation. Feeding one’s own baby is natural while giving milk to others is disruptive.

Of course, the fuss about Kind Mama Milk Share may be only partly about breast milk itself. There’s the broader association of Alicia Silverstone and breasts. As one People commenter puts it “I'd like to share Alicia's breast milk, but I want it direct from the source”. Sigh. No wonder it’s hard to be generous. Perhaps one day a fertile woman’s body will be considered hers, and hers alone, to give. 

Alicia Silverstone, who has launched a breast milk sharing programme. Photograph: Getty Images

Glosswitch is a feminist mother of three who works in publishing.

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How “cli-fi” novels humanise the science of climate change

The paradox is that the harder climate-fiction novels try, the less effective they are.

When the Paris UN Climate Change Conference begins at the end of November, the world’s leaders will review the climate framework agreed in Rio in 1992. For well over 20 years, the world has not just been thinking and talking about climate change, it has also been writing and reading about it, in blogs, newspapers, magazines – and in novels.

Climate change fiction is now a recognisable literary phenomenon replete with its own nickname: “cli-fi”. The term was coined in 2007 by Taiwan-based blogger Dan Bloom. Since then, its use has spread: it was even tweeted by Margaret Atwood in 2013:

It is not a genre in the accepted scholarly sense, since it lacks the plot formulas or stylistic conventions that tend to define genres (such as science fiction or the western). However, it does name a remarkable recent literary and publishing trend.

A 21st-century phenomenon?

Putting a number to this phenomenon depends, partly, on how one defines cli-fi. How much of a novel has to be devoted to climate change before it is considered cli-fi? Should we restrict the term to novels about man-made global warming? (If we don’t, we should remember that narratives about global climatic change are as old as The Epic of Gilgamesh and the Biblical story of the flood.) If we define cli-fi as fictional treatments of climate change caused by human activity in terms of setting, theme or plot – and accept there will be grey areas in the extent of this treatment – a conservative estimate would put the all-time number of cli-fi novels at 150 and growing. This is the figure put forward by Adam Trexler, who has worked with me to survey the development of cli-fi.

This definition also gives us a start date for cli-fi’s history. While planetary climatic change occurs in much 20th-century science fiction, it is only after growing scientific awareness of specifically man-made, carbon-induced climate change in the 1960s and 1970s that novels on this subject emerged. The first is Arthur Herzog’s Heat in 1976, followed by George Turner’s The Sun and the Summer (published in the US as Drowning Towers) in 1987.

At the turn of this century, Maggie Gee and TC Boyle were among the first mainstream authors to publish climate change novels. In this century, we can count Atwood, Michael Crichton, Barbara Kingsolver, Ian McEwan, Kim Stanley Robinson, Ilija Trojanow and Jeanette Winterson as major authors who have written about climate change. The past five years have given us notable examples of cli-fi by emerging authors, such as Steven Amsterdam, Edan Lepucki, Jane Rawson, Nathaniel Rich and Antti Tuomainen.

Creative challenges

Cli-fi is all the more noteworthy considering the creative challenge posed by climate change. First, there is the problem of scale – spatial and temporal. Climate change affects the entire planet and all its species – and concerns the end of this planet as we know it. Novels, by contrast, conventionally concern the actions of individual protagonists and/or, sometimes, small communities.

Added to this is the networked nature of climate change: in physical terms, the climate is a large, complex system whose effects are difficult to model. In socio-cultural terms, solutions require intergovernmental agreement – just what COP21 intends – and various top-down and bottom-up transformations. Finally, there exists the difficulty of translating scientific information, with all its predictive uncertainty, into something both accurate and interesting to the average reader.

Still, cli-fi writers have adopted a range of strategies to engage their readers. Many cli-fi novels could be classified as dystopian, post-apocalyptic or, indeed, both – depicting nightmarish societies triggered by sometimes catastrophic climate events. A future world is one effective way of narrating the planetary condition of climate change.

Some novelists are also careful to underpin their scenarios with rigorous climatic predictions and, in this way, translate science fact into a fictional setting. Kingsolver, who trained as an ecologist, is the best example of this – and Atwood and Robinson are also known for their attempts at making their speculations scientifically plausible. Also, cli-fi novels, particularly those set in the present day or very near future rather than in a dystopian future, tend to show the political or psychological dimensions of living with climate change. Readers can identify with protagonists. To some extent, the global community is represented in fictional everymen or everywomen. Or, often, it is through such characters that science is humanised and its role in combating climate change better understood.

Can cli-fi lead to change?

Could cli-fi affect how we think and act on climate change? The paradox is that the harder cli-fi tries, the less effective it is. Many writers want to inspire change, not insist on it: the line between literature and propaganda is one that most novelists respect. Literature invites us to inhabit other worlds and live other lives. Cli-fi at its best lets us travel to climate-changed worlds, to strive there alongside others and then to return armed with that experience.

In Paris, the UN will seek a global agreement on climate action for the first time in more than 20 years. There is plenty of climate change fiction out there to help provide the mental and psychological space to consider that action.

The Conversation

Adeline Johns-Putra, Reader in English Literature, University of Surrey

This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.