I have never had to consider my breasts as much as I do now that I live in New York. Never before did I have to stop and reconsider the socio - political implications of my breasts and their presence. This is something I was not prepared for, after all this is the land from whence such bosomic (bosomal?) range covers burning the bra and the Victoria's Secret fashion show. How would I ever come to expect that these breastal celebrations were approached with a double standard, primarily protected by women who call themselves feminists.

It seems America has a problem with my breasts, and I take great offense at this. We'll have you know, we are quite a formidable team. My breasts and I have forged into hostile boardrooms of anglo expat males in Asia who needed ME to convince THEM that I was the expert on Asian women's motivations in the beauty business and not them. My breasts and I have dealt with female health issues which most likely impede my ability to bear children or nurse my own offspring. Flanked by fellow women warriors and their breasts, my breasts and I have ousted a dictator to install a female president. We have conquered male dominated corporate scenarios, have built a successful career that traverses three continents, and have made it in the mythical city where, if you make it there chances are you will make it anywhere.

I am not alone, either. America has a problem with your breasts, too. Yes, you with your tetas, pecho, your suso, du sein, matiti. What else would explain the way women in America scoff at the sight of another woman breastfeeding in public? Or America's antagonistic relationship with your nipples, when they have the gall to show through your clothes? Or their condescending attitude towards cleavage, as if its mere presence ruins all chances that people would take seriously any woman in proud possession of such.

Well, my bosom and I will no longer take this nonsense. We will no longer silently bear your judgment or coddle you through your bosom hang-ups. We will stand proud and strong, all supple and fleshy as the female design. With confident swagger and sensuality, we celebrate fellow warrior women and remember those lost to diseases that attack our woman parts. With eloquent grace, we will speak with authority and will be taken seriously even by those we make uncomfortable.

Breasts of America and the women who bear them, we come in peace. We love our breasts and love yours too. One day we will shimmy together in unity. But until then, we will have to agree to disagree.

Just because you have issues with your breasts doesn't mean I am going to start developing issues with mine.

* This post originally appeared in my other blog during one iteration of the so-called 'War on Women' in December 2010. Unfortunately for me, my breasts and yours, the war goes on and the sentiment remains relevant three years later.

On a perfect NYC summer day, skies are blue and skirts are swinging.

A couple of summers ago, my girl MJ and I were walking to brunch when we were met with the greeting of an elderly: "Good morning! Don't you ladies look lovely today?" To which I replied, "Thank you, sir." She looked at me, rathe puzzled, and I simply said: "Sometimes it actually is a compliment."

A week later, we were having dinner and she told me that she had since taken a similar approach of acknowledging when men give her compliments. She also told me that she noticed two shifts: One in her perception of the situation and another in how she held her body in these circumstances. By meeting the person where he was, she was able to neutralize any anxiety she might have otherwise experienced.

More recently, the song of the summer was 'Blurred Lines' and conversations about personal responsibility have been in the ether. All this prompts questions on when a compliment stopped being just a compliment and it when the day-after reality checks that stem from the previous night's new experiences become someone else's doing.

When I turned 40 I got inked in a two-part tattoo, right through my heart. The front part of the tattoo sits in the cleavage region and I can control when I show by it what I wear. It is beautiful body art. When the front part is in plain sight it almost always comes up in conversation, and I am always happy to tell the story behind the art I wear through my heart. How I took the Spanish word "Si" and wrote it through my heart, constant reminder to say 'yes.' How the verbal in Spanish dances with the visual in Filipino, just like the ethnicities of my bloodline.

Inked: The word 'Si' rendered in the style of traditional Filipino tribal body art.

I am proud of this body that has held me. I try my best to hold myself with feminine grace and dignity. I recognize that I am able to make choices about my body because of women and allies who fought the good fight before me. I am also aware that the easy confidence with which I hold my body is sometimes misunderstood as it doesn't quite translate in other cultures or contexts.

Sure, I cannot control how people see me and my body, or the impressions they form about either. However, I do take full responsibility for how I hold myself, the choices I make with my body and the aftermath that sometimes results when said choices are of the questionable kind. A killer hang-over from that one-for-the-road that was one too many? That's on me. A sore knee resulting from the combo of five-inch heels and all-night dance party? Yep, also on me.

Choices relating to sexual activity aren't excluded from this notion of personal responsibility. I am hearing stories of one person's shame or regret about a previous night's exploits getting projected as another person's responsibility. This blurring of narratives creates a dangerously gray area in discussions of personal responsibility and consent. This troubles me. A lot. There is nothing retroactive about consent. Permission given cannot be taken back after the fact. Doing this undermines the importance of consent in its entirety.

As I thought about this more, I came to suspect that what is really happening is less about consent and more about shame. It is less about what women truly want for ourselves and more about how stifled we feel in the confines that the culture imposes upon us. Society continues trying to shame women for our bodies and our sexuality. Conservatives are steadfast in their campaign to control our bodies and limit the choices we can make regarding our bodies.

If there is an enemy, it is that constriction. It is that imposition. If there is a place to point the finger, it's towards the insidious way the patriarchy turns us against ourselves. That is the fight right there. Let's fight that fight. The one in which society shames women for how we experience and learn our own bodies. The one in which conservatives guilt us into regretting how we hold our bodies. The one in which the establishment pretends to celebrate our choices then moralizes us into regretting what we chose. Let's unblur those lines.

I don't recall ever consenting to any of that, do you?