Janet Jackson's Breast: The Irony of Righteous Indignation

OK, I just have to rant and rave here a little: Who do these TV people think they are? Do they really believe that their righteous indignation over the ACCIDENTAL baring of Janet Jackson's breast is believeable? Are we to believe that they did not KNOW that Janet Jackson makes lewd, hyper-sexual, almost pornographic music videos? Were they just Oh-So-Shocked to find that she was not Marie Osmond? And what about the Grammys?? They fired Janet Jackson, but gave the mega-spotlight to Justin Timberlake? Just who was it that bared Janet's breast? Was it Janet? NO!! It was the innocent MAN in their little S&M routine run amok! Then, THEN, after they've banned Janet from the ceremonies for baring hers, we got to see a parade of OTHER half-naked women come to the podium! One of them even said, "Gee, I hope what happened to Janet doesn't happen to me..." To what was she referring, I wonder? Did she hope her boob didn't fall out of her costume (not likely, since she was holding on to them for dear life the whole time), or did she mean she hoped she wouldn't be ostracized for doing, at the wrong moment, what everyone else in the pop music industry has been doing for over a decade, at other moments that are somehow OK?

For some reason, it makes me flash back to an incident that occurred when my third baby was four months old, and I was nursing him under the table, under my shirt, in a restaurant. Now, I always sort of wished I would get accosted for breastfeeding in public, so that I could be the Teminator-Mama of the breastfeeding world. I imagined things like, a waitress tells me to feed the baby in the bathroom, and I indignantly climb up and stand on the table, calling the attention of everyone in my vicinity, waving my chubby-cheeked baby like a banner of granola-mom-hood, and say, "Would YOU like to eat YOUR lunch in the bathroom?!?" Well, interestingly enough, when it actually happened to me, I was mortified, and wanted to crawl under the table, not stand on it--I just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. It didn't feel political, it felt PERSONAL, and extremely embarrassing. My husband, bless his heart, had been sufficiently indoctrinated by yours truly, that HE got to his feet and demanded in a loud voice to see the manager, proclaiming for all to hear that "this is the MOST beautiful thing a woman can do, and this is what breasts are FOR, and what could be more natural that feeding a baby at lunch?" I just pleaded with him, "please, honey, please just get the car and let's get out of here." In other words, I totally wimped out. This is the final irony, though: As I stood on the sidewalk waiting for him to bring the car around, a Metrobus drove by, bearing on its side a BUS-LENGTH picture of a woman wearing a G-String, her beautiful round breasts wearing nothing but specks of exhaust from the traffic.

It also reminds me of something else, which became a very funny family story and was passed around for years: When my family went to visit my marvelous folksinging family of aunt, uncle, and cousins in Chicago one year around Christmas, when I was about 14 years old, we went to see this family in a production of St. George and the Dragon. We loved visiting these cousins, because we were wakened every morning by bagpipes, and every night there was a singing party with more instruments than I even knew existed, and so many harmonies, oh, it was just grand. Also, their whole attic was filled with trunks and boxes overflowing with costumes of every imaginable period, so that we spent endless hours dressing up and putting on plays. So, it was in some of these very costumes that they were telling the ageless tale of St. George (who I always figured was named after my Uncle George) and the Dragon. As we were watching this fun play, my 15-year-old cousin stepped forward in a green satin dress with hoop skirt, cinched waist and push-up bodice, to deliver a pithy monolog with many dramatic gesticulations, ending in a deep curtsy. As she bent forward, one of her rosy pink breasts flopped out the top of the bodice. Gasp! It popped out as she bent over, and just as quickly, as she stood up, she popped it right back in. There was the briefest of murmurs through the audience, and then the moment passed and the play proceeded. And it wasn't even on Entertainment Tonight that night! I guess that means the audience at that Family-Centered production of St. George and the Dragon at New Trier High School in Wilmette Illinois was more sensible and mature than the millions of people who gasped, swooned, and said, "ooooohhh....I SAW YOUR BOOBY!!!"

So here is what I say to Janet Jackson: Don't let the hypocrites get you down, girl. You have beautiful breasts (are they real?), and as far as I'm concerned, you can flap them around anywhere you want. I'd rather have my children see your breasts naked and beautiful in all their glory, than surrounded by the sleaze of a red lace brassiere.

Let's hear it for BOOBS--on the count of three, let's flash 'em, girls!! (except for that one in the White House--let's leave him covered up!)

So this is me, Mairi Moon, woman with wings, sitting bare-chested at my computer, feeling the evening breeze on my areolae, which exist so that my babies could eat the food intended for them by Mother Nature Herself.