Tell me the last time you went an entire day without grimacing at yourself in some way? Not in a week? Last year? Since conception? Sounds about right.
It's sadly a part of human nature that we all have to endure; the thirst of acceptance and the struggle with our self image. Dosomething.org, 91% of women are unhappy with their physique compared to their "ideal" body shape. Sounds like an inflated percentage? I dare you; walk down a city street and randomly poll women - no matter their age - and ask them if they're okay with their figure and I bet you, they'll say no. Telling a woman to stop obsessing over their body is like trying to put out a house fire with a leaky faucet. Media and it's ideals they're slapping across tabloids and web zines and pop up advertisements are relentless about weight loss and make up tips and how to please your man in bed.. it's more of "how to change yourself to be 'pleasing'" rather than loving the body you were given.
I'm 5'8" with mocha skin. I wear size 11 shoes. My knees knock; I'm bow legged. I have broad shoulders and a strong jawline and high cheekbones. My hips came in at full force after 7th grade. I have random moles that range from black to white. I have matching birthmarks on my left side of my back and behind my right calf (and once a birthmark that's almost completely faded in the corner of my right eye that was the shape of New Jersey). I haven't fit into a size 6 since seventh grade. I peaked in my last two years of high school. I haven't had abs since then. No one really "wanted me" til junior year of high school (hence, the "I peaked in high school" statement). My hair went from being down my back to, now, an grown out undercut with it longer on the top.
Growing up was weird. From the moment of birth til about 10, my mom dictated how I dressed and presented myself to others. Being in a town that's predominantly Caucasian -and being one of the few African American/mixed families - made for interesting conversation. At this point in my life, my father was the bread winner of the household and my mom took on being a stay at home mom. She'd take special attention to me as to what I was wearing and the upkeep of my crazy hair at all times.
I was a true 90's kid. From turtlenecks to matching sweatsuits, to vests, studded belts, itchy floral dresses, overalls, colored leather pants, faux fur trim jackets, lo-rise flared jeans, to my absolute favorite pair of Tiffany hi-top dunks. Any inconceivable combination of prints and styles you could dig up from the 90's, I was either all about it or was forced to wear it. It was in third grade that my mom got me started on the skill of thrifting and the process of making your own clothing patterns and sewing . It allowed me to be more creative with new fabrics and up cycling what I found at Goodwill to match up to my creative side.
Being a girl of color, that gives you a pass to do just about anything and everything in regards to hair. One day I'd have twists, the next tiny braids with beads corresponding to my outfit that day, and the next completely out and in all it's curly greatness. Now, with awesome hair comes the not-so-awesome responsibility. For instance, since my hair was so long, I'd have to watch for fans, car doors, and whatever foreign object someone would stick into it.
It wasn't really til seventh grade that I started truly started listening to the negative feedback about myself from other classmates. These are only a few of the comments that I'd overhear in passing: "Why is she so tall? It's freakish." "She has so many scars, she's like a walking game of connect the dots." "Her parents are poor, so she can't shop at Hollister or Limited Too."
For the record, I'm the shortest member of my family.
Anyways, I'd hear this on the daily, only rephrased in different forms. I mean, yes, I was abnormally tall for a 12 year old and I towered over the boys, so what? At that point in my life I've done a range of dance classes and karate, so I was muscular and,well, bruised. I had scars from skateboarding, falling, chicken pox, cuts from climbing trees, mosquito bites I've itched to the point of permanent remembrance. I was doing what I wanted and I've always been a tomboy, so I treated the scars as lessons learned. It didn't phase me much. Everyone has scars from something, right?
No one really treated that as such, and they made their opinion on the matter more and more vocal.
It got to the point that I exclusively wore sweatpants for gym class, no matter how hot. I'd wear jeans or leggings everyday of the year, and when my mom would force me to wear a dress, I'd always wear opaque stockings with them so no one would have to see my legs. Long shirts so no one would see my arms. I went from thinking they were a simple fact of life to one of the most horrific sights to behold. Year in, and year out, I'd bury myself in unnecessary layers of fabric, regardless of the season. Fall and winter was awesome because everyone would bundle up anyways, but the tail end of spring into summer was grueling. Anyone would tell you that wearing jeans in 80+ weather is borderline suicide.
It wasn't just my classmates making my scars a "big deal", for also my family was a huge percentage of my grief. Normally, family is supposed to be your core, but that wasn't the case more days than not. My cousins would tease me, calling me "damaged goods." My aunt who worked as a professional model would make absurd comments about my overall appearance, stating that I've officially ruined my availability to become a model (even though I never had a desire to become one anyways). Even my own father said that my arms and legs were ugly and unappealing and that I can never be looked at as dainty, only butch. As much as I'd convince myself otherwise that opinions are just opinions and to never take them to heart.. it just wasn't the best feeling that even your own family ostracized you. In fact, it just made it worse.
I rarely owned shorts, and the only time they got any use was only when I was in the house. I turned down sleepovers and beach trips with my friends' families. People started to speculate my form of dress to "a religious conflict" (which I now look at as laughable). I distinctively recall an afternoon in the early start of summer when my mom received a call from the school nurse about how I passed out on the soccer field in the middle of gym from heat exhaustion. She came to school and found me sprawled in a chair in the corner of her office with a heavy sweatshirt and leggings sobbing. After being collected, we went home and sat me down and asked me what was wrong with me, why was I not wearing anything breathable on a day that was easily 90 degrees without factoring in humidity. I couldn't answer her, but she already knew the answer. Truth was, I was ashamed. If I wasn't at practice or anything that didn't require me to be outside, I spent my time inside in solitude devouring books or exuding words onto pages, since that was always the fail-safe option.
I'd like to say that this stopped after a year or so, but it continued into the first year of high school. As if the self-shaming couldn't get any worse, now I had to deal with another 200 or so opinionated individuals on a daily basis. Now, the majority of the summer of my freshman year was spent away from home, which served for one of the best growing experiences I could ever have. I was less drawn into myself and allowed to me to open up and start to accept the weird looks in cafes and on the beach with my scars. I started to care less.
I'm pretty sure that first year of anything comes with its own set standard of awkward happenings and emotions, and mine was of no exception. After a few months of having to conveying my stock responses to why I'm scarred, people did this magical concept of accepting and understanding it and moving on. That was a gift in itself. As cliche as it may sound, classmates and passerbys started to focus on my talents rather than my appearance. I joined clubs. I started going on runs. My sub conscience was at ease and I was able to relax (and also when I finally discovered a flat iron rather than slaving in the kitchen and straightening my hair with a hot comb, which is another story for another day. Regardless, I still rejoice in it.. even though I straightened my hair to death.)
It wasn't until my junior year that I truly went from being on the back burner to the forefront of the male's perspective. Truly. *Side thought - It was honestly about fucking time. Not like I was overly showy or anywhere near a slut - still not- but it was nice to be appreciated. There's a difference between being narcissistic and being confident. At this point in my life, the disregard to negative commentary had subsided and I was, in my own way, shameless. Sports is the culprit. My doubles team was interchangeable for the varsity slot in tennis, and I was varsity in both track & field. Practices were a sweaty showcase of long legs, sculpted arms and flat abs. I was there to do what I had to do, whether it was shaving seconds off the 200 or getting extra inches in shot put or javelin.. but then it was also weird. One of the most awkward experiences is getting catcalled. It's emotionally intrusive and frankly? It's downright annoying/degrading/gross/unappealing/etc. There are those select few who appreciate it, but I don't. Regardless, I'd get catcalled from the guys during practice and I'd fuel my animosity towards it in training harder. Little did they know that redirecting my hatred for that helped me get into Sectionals. Sweet revenge, if I do say so myself.
By senior year, after surgeries I wasn't part of the "sports world" all that much anymore, but I was okay with that. I started truly getting songwriting. I was juggling three AP classes. I was inducted into the National Honors Society. I broke curfew a lot. I went from dating a strange hairless mole rat of a boy a year younger than myself to a man with a glorious beard with five years on me.
I know. How scandalous.
I felt okay. I finally developed a healthier mindset of myself. I embraced my "impurities". Everyone was on the same page as to how strange I was, and enjoyed it. I had a boyfriend who loved me for everything I am and actually likes my scars and said that they're a part of my character rather than an eyesore. I felt comfortable naked. I learned to enjoy the freedom of dresses and shorts and give not even the slightest afterthought to how I looked. This is only one of the few times in which not caring is okay.
Graduation occurs. Post high school social rigamortis has settled in. I start to work. I gather more of a hedonistic outlook on life. I took a semester off from freshman year of college for two reasons: 1) I knew that I wasn't going away for college and, 2) I needed to build up an income so I can function as a human being with needs.
So that's what I did. I worked 40 hours a week as a barista, and on time away from work I'd hang out with boyfriend or hang with family or friends. Life was swell..
A year later, I become emotionally shaken for a multitude of reasons. My health was becoming a bit sketchy since my anemia started to rear it's unappealing head as well as my mom having her own trials. On top of that, working was morose and I began to regret my choice for staying in Jersey. I hated that I'd go to work and come home and do nothing. My creativity was shot, my energy was shot, which leaves me listless in the worst way. The turnover from being alright where I was in life to being bored to tears wasn't the greatest. The usual "everything happens for a reason" mantra has had a home within me for quite sometime now, but it morphed into a mockery.
Nitpicking at yourself on a downswing that tears open wounds that took years to sew shut sucks. I began to hate myself, yet again. the way I'd talk to people. The way I dressed. My hair. My physique. My ethics. My morals. I ate too much and did too little until, now, I have a bit more chub than I was satisfied with. it wasn't about just my appearance, but also about myself as a whole. There were classmates of mine that have gotten further in life than I and that bothered me. I wasn't where I felt that I should be. I didn't look how I wanted to.
In other words, shallow, petty bullshit.
I'm more than my GPA. I'm greater than my failures because, more than anything else, I've learned from them and - hopefully - I'll have enough common sense to never repeat history. I don't care if I'm not a size 9; it just gives more of me for someone to hold. I'm a poetry junkie and a Lego enthusiast. I take afternoon naps and stay up til four in the morning. I officially own more dresses now than I have in the past ten years. I speak properly out of habit and I'm never ashamed of correcting anyone's grammar. I'm not ashamed to curl up in the crook of my boyfriend's arm and endlessly tell him that he's wonderful, because he is and I want him to believe it. I enjoy having the house to myself wearing nothing but red lipstick and dancing with myself to Etta James.
I'm a daughter, a sister, niece, grand daughter, great great grand daughter, college student, artist, poet, best friend, girlfriend, worst enemy, someone's competition. Those are my hats in life, and I intend to keep all of those hats up to spec as long as I possibly can. I'm not saying that I'm 100% in love with myself (because I'm not), but I'm very close. Naturally, you have to leave some percentage purely for error or change, whatever occurs first.
In the words of Retta, "treat yo' self." You know what? I shall.
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