Being a woman is a series of experiences that make up an identity you eventually make for yourself. Sometimes that identity can get lost, or misinterpreted by yourself and by others. From a young age, I remember feeling as if I was not beautiful. There were not representations in the media I consumed that showed girls who looked like me. I specifically remember having a yellow blanket, I would place on my head, as a child, and wore this as a blonde wig. I remember pretending to be someone else in order to believe I was beautiful. My skin was/is dark and this seemed to elicit a response from those around me. A response, that did not go unnoticed. Often people would say, " Oh, do you know so and so, you know he's like your color?" The look on their face is one hard to describe but something similar to disgust and discomfort. I remember not responding to that look on people's faces, but obviously it effected me as I see that face vividly in my memory. In Kindergarten I remember, learning about the civil rights movement and Martin Luther King Jr., I recall thinking that he was my hero, and honestly he still is. Anyway, I came home and told my father and he responded by saying "He should not be your hero, all he did was start trouble". I must of been 5 at the time, and I was so confused. How could fighting for the rights of all people be starting trouble? I truly did not understand. I felt from that young age that people treated me differently because of my skin, and I knew it was wrong. My father's words did not, and have not ever effected my own beliefs on anything, much less equality. On top of other people's view of my skin, I was not ever a skinny girl. Like Ever. I played with the boys, because I wasn't really interested in what the girls were doing and I was pretty much as big as them, at the time. I was teased, relentlessly. One kid started calling me Medusa. My hair was big and frizzy, and my mom insisted on brushing my naturally curly hair, which fellow curly headed girls know you just can't do. I wore my mother's hand-me downs because not much fit me, and we were very poor. To be honest, I didn't even know we wore poor. My mom did her best to provide for us, I truly never felt like I went without, I just thought I was wearing those clothes because they were all that fit.
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| Little Brown Girl |
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| Wearing Hand-Me Downs... |
Eventually puberty hit, and new struggles with my body came to surface. I developed young, breasts, periods the whole thing. In fact, the first year I got my period I had it for an entire year. Needless to say, I was anemic and held shame and embarrassment from it. With development of a young girls body, comes a lot of unwarranted attention from men and women. I can still feel the uneasiness from having a grown man ogle my body from as young as 9, then the shame I felt from women looking at me in judgement for wearing shorts that were maybe "too short" for their comfort, that must of forced their disgusting husbands to stare at a 9 year child. There's a lot that's fucked up with that scenario. In middle school, I have this distinct memory of wearing a black v-neck shirt and bending down to put something away in my backpack, and the assistant principal ( female) happened to be in the classroom. She came up to me and said she should write me up, I looked at her terrified,because I had never been written up before, and asked her why? She responded by saying "You know why, you shouldn't be wearing things like that". I felt so shameful and wanted to run and hide. I don't think I ever wore that top again. She wanted me to feel ashamed for having breasts, how dare I wear something that could be distracting to someone. This was an experience I would continue to have into adulthood. People eventually make up their own conclusions about you based on having a curvy body. Somehow, this means that you're easy, slutty, or like attention. Eventually I made an effort to hide that. From adolescence, covering my body in torn jeans and band t-shirts, to now dressing conservatively, and thoughtfully polished. I never wanted someone to look at me and peg me for whatever version they had for me.
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| My Grunge Phase |
There's one big thing I've left out as well, a big, painful experience that shaped a deep wound in my human story. As a child, I was molested. Molested for years by family member(s). A difficult secret I kept to myself for years. I buried those secrets in the caves of my memory. Until, I started to feel that others, specifically other children could be effected by keeping this secret, did I reveal what happened to me. I was 19 when it finally came to light. Again, a familiar feeling of shame for other's 'ownership' of my body. Then I became angry, I was angry at the people who did this to me but also at those who created their own opinions of what happened to me. Finally, angry at all of those other people who I gave the power to shape how I viewed my own beauty and body. Physically, emotionally and mentally.
Cut to now, here I am again, not truly in control of an outside source inflicting pain on my body. Bartholin's Cysts. It's puzzling why I'm here now, but here I am. As I write this with a word catheter in, one I've had for 4 weeks now. Uncomfortable, but you now what, no longer really ashamed. If you're reading this and thinking negative thoughts of everything I just shared, I really don't care. Your opinion probably doesn't really matter all that much to me anyway. I've gotten to a space in my life where I've accepted I will never be a size two, I will never not be "curvy" and probably will still receive opinions from others about how I should look. And to them, I will just laugh, knowing I'm fighting bigger battles than what they think, and whatever problem they have from looking at me. My skin is brown, my breasts are voluptuous and I am going through physical pain, that I can't really put into words. There it is, all on the table. Most days, I feel beautiful, especially when I take care of me. I feel beautiful when my niece runs to me and hugs onto me like she never wants to let go. I feel beautiful when I do selfless acts of kindness for others. Those are the things important to me at this point in my life. I want my niece to grow up, never having to feel shameful for looking her natural self. I can only wish that one day, we can speak of my painful experiences and how I did not let them define me. They are simply words in my story, but not the summary and definitely not the end. I am bigger than those who try to bring me down. All I wish to be, is a role model for my niece and nephew, and anyone who ever felt un-beautiful. You are, you truly are.
Thanks for reading...
