Bikinis and Fear

The female body is always on display. We live in a culture where every manner of bodily embellishment is possible but what is not possible is closing down the display. There are women that try. They cover and camouflage with baggy clothing or they stand in clothing stores slipping garments over their own because they are too terrified to confront the mirror in the dressing women. I was in the bathing suit section of a department store the other day and I watched a woman do this. She put a bathing suit on over her pants and shirt and told her mother it was because she hates dressing rooms. I interpreted this to mean that she was content with what she imagined she looked like in the bathing suit, that the picture in her imagination would save her from the mirror. Why was she afraid of the mirror? She was afraid because the mirror oftentimes does not reflect reality but instead becomes a mechanism for the mind to re-process what’s actually there and reflect back what it thinks society sees. There is no mirror image that women are more terrified of than the reflection of themselves in a bikini.

Just ask anyone in the fitness business and they’ll tell you their busiest months are right before the summer. It is in those months leading up to endless sunshine that the women’s magazines are filled with endless pages that promise to help you pick out the perfect bathing suit. Pear-shaped? Wear black on the bottom. Too small in the chest area? Find a bikini top with embellishment. Let’s consider this for a moment. There are actually pages and pages of magazines trying to help you find less than a quarter of a yard of fabric that will help to camouflage the parts of your body that don’t conform to the proportional ideal. There is no escape from your flaws. In fact, even when you are wearing the least, you must make sure what you are wearing, even if it is miniscule, helps to hide you. Yet, we don’t question the sagacity of the advice promising to offer us body image salvation by hiding us. Yet there has never been a magazine that promises to help you find a bathing suit that makes you happy because you love purple or guarantees the silver beads on this particular bathing suit will make smile when the sun hits them. Bathing suits are meant to hide your flaws, not help you to enjoy swimming or sunning. And I am sick of being told to hide. I am a whole person and I am not looking to use a bathing suit or any other piece of clothing to hide parts of me you might not like. Who are YOU anyway? Does this judgmental YOU even exist? I suspect that YOU don’t exist. That in fact, YOU are a collective creation, a joint manifestation of insecurity that will only exist if we keep buying magazines that tell us how to hide bits and pieces of ourselves. So, for the first time in the history of my life, I took my pants off at the beach and I let someone photograph me in my bathing suit, head to toe, not just the flattering parts. Was it difficult? Absolutely. Have I resolved my fear of bathing suits? Probably not completely. But I’ll put on my bikini tomorrow and keep trying.



A body-perfect: alcoholism, bodies and control

In the scope of a person’s life, the 20′s seems to be a period much like a jigsaw puzzle, your pieces either fall apart for the first time or you are finally able put yourself back together. Putting the pieces back together often means learning to accept the little chunks of space and gaps that make the puzzle that is “you” sort of fragmented and even blurry.   A comfy childhood might mean your puzzle is about to fall apart; a crazy childhood, like my own, might mean you are finally inventorying the pieces and seeing where they fit for the first time.

My family is tragically mired in addiction and always has been. I struggle to find one blood-related male on either my mom or my father’s side of the family that has not suffered from either alcoholism or addiction.  For the women, the gene comes out in either a healthy dose of neuroticism or anxiety.

You would never be able to spot many of the children of alcoholics. They appear to be some of the most put-together, driven people in the world.  The literature says that children of alcoholics or addicts often turn out one of two ways:  They act out and become delinquent or they become overly adult.  I became an adult at a really young age; I became what the literature says the child of alcoholic can become: overly responsible, an adjuster and a placater. The child of an alcoholic wants to fix everything, control everything, both as a child and later as an adult.  I have told my story twice to two different psychologists and both have used the same descriptive term to label me: resilient child.  I am finally learning what that means.    Because I never knew what to expect at home, I came to want to control anything I could.

I got lucky. One of the first things I learned to control was my education. I knew college was my ticket out of my home and my poisonous environment.  I knew this in elementary school.  I would fight to be the student who read the most books in class and had the most stickers on the reading chart. In the second grade when the boy next to me was drawing a perfect palm tree, I immediately felt inadequate, went home and began drawing palm trees and anything else until I was so good everyone thought I had a “natural” artistic talent. I didn’t stop there.

I mimic this behavior with everything. If you know me, you know I appear to be good at many things. I simply don’t try things I will fail at.  If I fail, it is my fault and my fault entirely.  When I fail, it is like a mammoth blow, like I am back home with the alcoholism, the addiction, 5 or 6 years old plugging my ears in my room, door shut.  This constant need to be good at everything, to prove I can control my achievements so that I can “escape” an environment I no longer need to escape, has to led to an overwhelming amount of degrees and skills, a perfectionism that becomes an extreme anxiety and self-brutality when allowed to erode even the least little bit.

I have started to take inventory of my past, to put the pieces together so-to-speak, so that I understand and care for myself better. At a recent Al-Anon meeting I attended, I actually learned to thank myself for my flaws to some extent. After all, many of these flaws were developed to help me survive my childhood. Before I inventory them and try to push them away, I have to accept them and even appreciate them for the function they served.

This is where my body comes into play.  I am and have been such a mean person towards my body and have been since I was very little.  Women’s bodies often form loci of control for the souls within them.  What can you control if you cannot control yourself?  Anorexics and bulemics often use their intake of food as a metaphor for control or the lack of control they have in their life. These diseases aren’t always about faulty body image.  For me, I detested my body because I couldn’t control it.  It was the one thing in my life that I couldn’t be overly responsible about, couldn’t adjust or placate.  It was there and it drew attention I didn’t want, both positive and negative. The parts that drew attention wouldn’t shrink or hide.  I didn’t want to deal with it, in addition to everything else.  I wanted it to be less obvious, but it refused. So I learned to hate it, to become anxious about it, to hide it as best I could.  But, just like I am learning to understand why I want to tear myself apart over getting a B in a class, I have to learn to understand why I was so mean to my body.  The first step is accepting it. Second, I have to thank it.  This is what I am doing. I am saying thank you to my body for helping me to survive a tough childhood. Finally, I have to thank this body for housing a brain that, despite its quirkiness, has helped me to excel beyond anyone else in my family, has helped me become a resilient child and now a resilient adult and also has constantly carried (even if sometimes latently) the sense of pride I feel in knowing I am a survivor.

White Girls Are Not Supposed To Have Big Asses

I was about 10 years old when Sir Mix-A-lot won a Grammy for his song “Baby Got Back.”  This was around the age when I full-on hit puberty and I started to get my own substantial amount of “back” and lots of “front,” for that matter.  It was also the time I learned that body types have “race” attached to them in ways I never realized.  Mr. Mix-A-Lot summarized it perfectly in his song:

I’m tired of magazines
Sayin’ flat butts are the thing
Take the average black man and ask him that
She gotta pack much back

..Even white boys got to shout
Baby got back!

Curves were not ok for me, as blond and alabaster as I was.  But there the sinews were, sucking in my middle, puffing out my top and rounding out my bottom.  I remember a black girl in middle school said to me,”Whoa. Where’d you get that ass from? White girls aren’t supposed to have big asses.” They aren’t, I thought.  One of my mom’s friends said the most horrible thing around this same time.  She said that maybe I had some slave blood in my family and that’s where my ass came from. There was so much “race” in that comment that I still don’t know what to make of it.

I tried everything to escape my curves.  I played competitive soccer, I ran, I dieted.  I considered throwing up my food.  Friends all around me had their own methods. One stopped eating altogether. One was downing laxatives while running track.

Then I left for college to the University of Florida. All the universities in the north part of the state might as well be considered part of the deep south. Whole neighborhoods are lined with gigantic plantation-sized white-washed sorority and fraternity mansions filled with young and bouncy southern girls, drawl and all.  They flutter around campus in shorts with words like sexy written on the ass, tiny tank tops and flip flops. Multiple times I remember walking behind girls ascending stairs and seeing their ass cheeks flaunting a neon thong because their mini jean skirt couldn’t struggle enough to keep them under wraps.  There was no way I was going to fit in there.  Flip flops were as far as I could go.

art by Robert Crumb www.crumbproducts.com

Then I moved to New York city, the home of human variety. I was still as body conscious as ever but I had a revelation almost as big as the book in the bible: there were people who found my body attractive.  As much as I despise trying to look for validation outside of oneself, I found an extreme comfort in being around a variety of men I never knew existed.  There was a whole world of men who (gasp!) fetishized the ass as much or more as Sir Mix-A-lot.  And they told me so, everywhere I went.  I was recently describing this experience to a friend when she asked me “don’t you think there are men like that everywhere, even in Florida?”  Of course there are, I thought.  But there is something about this magical place known as NYC where inhibitions are constantly eroded away and people are just more comfortable being who they are.  Men and women are more at peace with their true likes and dislikes. Of course, there is more than a little irony making this claim about the Fashion Capital of the world, thus also the anorexic-size-zero-model-gym on every corner-calories next to every food-capital of the universe.  But it’s true. New York is the home of the freaks which also makes it one of the most normal places on Earth.

Of course, most of the time now, I find most of these men, the ones I encounter on the streets making comments about my body, utterly vile.  The feminist in me is quite aware that their comments represent a hyper- masculine Alpha-male showing of their dominance.  Their comments also serve to reinforce the “public” nature of women’s bodies. Women’s bodies are there to be scrutinized, judged and oftentimes violated.  It’s a tenuous tight rope I walk, between my feminist self and the uncomfortable gratitude I feel for these comments.  I wish I could have learned to find the beauty in my body some way else, perhaps by looking more inward, taking the more difficult path.  But for now, I have to find the good in the bad and openly admit my gratitude for learning that everyone is beautiful to someone, even if I learned this in the not-so-ideal way.

The Choice

If you had known me in high school, you might remember that I always had a sweatshirt or sweater tied around my waist.  I was terribly embarrassed about the size and roundness of my butt.  I convinced myself sometime in late middle school that my ass would be less obvious if I just kept it constantly covered.  That sweatshirt was really just the relative of a long line of clothing defenses I have used since puberty.  In middle school, this weird sexualized schoolgirl trend took hold in teenage clothing. This was  about the time Britney Spears showed up in a music video dancing down a school hall in pigtails and a porno-style catholic schoolgirl uniform (I could write a whole other post about this).  Needless to say, I, like many other girls, took up this trend enthusiastically.  However, my enthusiasm wasn’t for the trend itself.  I was convinced that the knee socks made my upper thighs look slimmer because they plumped the look of my calves creating a more balanced appearance (I would tell myself anything to make myself feel more comfortable in public).  Thus I wore them incessantly for that reason and that reason alone.  When that trend passed I think I kept on wearing them because they had become more than knee socks; they had become my first use of clothing to extra-ordinarily camouflage parts of my body I believed had become too obvious, offensive, even.

I soon decided that I should just cover my legs and focus more on covering my ass, since, no matter what I wore or how much exercise I did, it refused to hide.  So I resorted to the sweaters.  While at first the sweater seemed innocuous enough, I eventually developed minor panic if I had to leave my house without it on.  I distinctly remember sitting in my French class at 15 years old and feeling nauseous and dizzy when one of my fellow classmates asked if she could wear the sweater because she was cold and I only had it uselessly sitting around my waist. Once I gave it to her, I became even more terrified that she wouldn’t give it back before I had to stand up and switch classes. For the next hour of class, there was no french in my mind, only fear. Before long, the sweatshirt became a more and more indisputable part of my image and my self. It was a protective appendage.

Little events like the one in my french class started to pile up and my mom started to notice. That was when she made an appointment to see the plastic surgeon.  I had a malignant beauty mark on my face that I possibly needed removed and the dermatologist recommended a plastic surgeon for the job because it was my face and not somewhere where the scarring wouldn’t be visible.  The plastic surgeon’s office was called The Fountain of Youth.  As was fitting, the office had a large fountain in front spewing bright turquoise hyper-chlorinated water into the sky.  The fountain was where the facade of youth and perfection started, as the water was colored to look younger than it was.  I was shown into an office and plopped myself down onto the examining table (sweatshirt around my waist, of course).  The beauty mark was examined and discussed and then the surprise came. My mom casually (but not so casually) asked the plastic surgeon about my ass.  I looked at her briefly in shock but then quickly focused my eyes to the ground in utter humiliation as I listened to her explain to the doctor that I always wear a sweatshirt around my waist, that I won’t leave the house without it and that she worries about my declining self-esteem. Finally she asked how much it would cost to have liposuction so that I could be more comfortable with my body.  I remember fighting the tears back at this point and staring at a tile on the ground as intensely as possible to maintain what composure I could. I even had to take the sweatshirt off so the doctor could examine the liposuction possibilities.  The doctor suggested, rather than turn to surgery right away, I try to work with the the nutritionist in the office next store.  Never mind the fact that I played competitive soccer at this point. I was as healthy as could be.

When we left the office I sat in the passenger’s seat of my mom’s car in total silence.  Mist from the fountain had clouded the car windows making the plastic surgeon’s office look distant and the experience I just had dreamlike. I didn’t realize how obvious my insecurity had become.

My mom was quiet too, sensing my heart thumping virtually outside of my chest. She turned to me eventually and told me that, only if I wanted to, I could have the liposuction surgery in place of the used car she and my dad had planned on buying me when I turned 16.  The scary thing is how much consideration I gave this proposal, this choice to alter my body, not only just in that moment but for the entire year ahead of me until I had to make a final decision.  Thank heavens, in the end, I chose the car.

I tell this story for the same reason I tell any other stories on this blog.  It is hard for people to understand the intimacies of body image, how it is never something you create entirely by yourself; it is partially force fed to you by distinct, serial experiences.  And when I write the word “people” I truly mean people, not just men.  Women all have different experiences with their bodies because all of our bodies are obviously different and these stories are rarely shared for myriad reasons. For me, I find power and strength in telling my stories. When they are released into the “public” they can no longer stay inside me and feed off my insecurities.  Feminist groups often hold special consciousness-raising meetings where people simply sit and share experiences and stories relating directly to gender structures. The idea is that after you leave the meeting, your consciousness and awareness has been expanded by the stories of others. You have a developing skill set that makes you more available to interpret rather than simply inhale anything negative that threatens your positive  self-awareness.

I encourage people to ask the women and girls in their lives about their body image and how it was shaped. Really listen to what they have to say. I promise you’ll be surprised.

The Tiniest Pink Bikini

Much of our body image is learned from our mothers (see articles below).  They are often both our worst critics and most fervent supporters. Mothers know our bodies more intimately than anyone else on the planet.  They are the first hands to dress us, smooth our skin with lotion and touch places later only felt by our own fingers, a doctor or the intimate hands of a lover.

I was once asked to speak on a panel about body image at Barnard College because I study gender and politics. When the issue of mothers came up, I had a simple story to tell about the tiniest pink bikini….and a photo of my mom wearing it.  You know the type of bikini I am talking about: 1970′s style, stringy and low on the hips, perhaps even a bit of butt crack peaking out the back.  In that bikini was my mom’s body, about 20 years old, with a Crisco induced tan and  stick straight hippie brown hair. The photo was taken in Fort Lauderdale; she’s hugging a palm tree with her back-arched and butt out, with coconuts hanging precariously over her head.

I like to joke that the only time that I was a size two was when I was born. My mom was most definitely a size two in this bikini.  I was only about 10 years old when I hit puberty and when my mom first showed me this picture; my breasts and ass had sort of exploded out of my body like pissed off volcanoes whose eruptions threw everyone by surprise.   I don’t remember how or why she showed it to me but I remember seeing that picture and instinctively knowing there was something wrong with my body. It wasn’t like hers and I could never imagine it being like hers.  Since that first time I saw it, that picture has always been a sort of metaphor for me for the relationship between mothers and daughters when it comes to body image.

A girl’s  mother is always there helping to critique her body, to help her expertly adorn it in order to hide its flaws.  I have seen this mother-daughter dynamic at work in every department store I’ve ever visited, whether it be mothers helping daughters shop for prom dresses or just a new bathing suit for beach season. Recently, at a sample sale with no dressing rooms, there were naked women everywhere trying on clothes, some with their moms. I watched one girl try on a skin tight cocktail dress. She looked pretty fabulous and confident until her mother announced that it would look perfect if she wore a girdle underneath to flatten her stomach and lift her rear. The girl quickly turned to the side to see her belly’s profile in the mirror and instantly sucked it in and nodded.

This is what mothers do in and around dressing rooms all over the world and it has always seemed particularly cruel to me until I really thought more about it at the panel.  As I was recounting the story of the pink bikini I stumbled upon a revelation that had been brewing in my mind: the intention of my mother when showing me the photo of the pink bikini was not meant to make me feel horrible about myself, (even if that was a predictable side-effect); rather, it was meant to protect me.  My mom wanted to show me what I was going to be up against in this body-perfecting world I was entering, boobs, ass and all.  That bikini represented the one time in her life when she was the ideal: 21, young and tight and firm….billboard-fashion-magazine worthy, really.  I was entering a world where my boobs and ass would work against me, were not the type to be flaunted in sunscreen ads.  I was not tiny and petite and my pubescent body both attracted sex and judgment at the same time. It continues to do so.  I live in a world where a woman’s body is constantly publicized, is sincerely a body-politic.

When mothers stand outside of their daughter’s dressing rooms telling them what to suck in and what to stick out, they are teaching them to survive in a world that will judge them more harshly than a mother ever would.  The mothers’ mothers did the same for them.  Mothers everywhere are trying to tell their daughters : “honey, this is an unfair world. Shape your image so that you’ll fit in more and suffer less.”

While I will never deny the malicious side-effects of the various ways my mother judged my body and the various ways that other mothers do the same to their daughters everyday, I have a deeper and more compassionate understanding of where my mother is coming from.

Recently when I visited home, I noticed the pink bikini picture  hanging on the bulletin board over my mom’s computer. There it is, in a spot that forces her to see it every day when she checks her email.  I don’t know why it’s there and I don’t want to know.  I only want to pretend that when she looks at it and compares it to her body now, rather than see age and accumulating imperfections, she sees a vessel that has carried her through a joyous life and has the smile lines to prove it.

Information on mothers and body image:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/14448565/

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/30457264/

http://www.springerlink.com/content/t3153l1457r44171/

http://www3.interscience.wiley.com/journal/55001997/abstract?CRETRY=1&SRETRY=0

My Soul-Vessel: Yellow Hair and a Rotund Bottom

I am a woman with lemon yellow (and I mean yellow), mermaid blond hair.  It has been this color all of my life.  It sometimes hides during snowy New York winters, dormant behind some brunette streaks, but introduce it to the sun and a love affair ensues.  Many times it has cascaded down my back and tickled the top of my very rotund bottom.   It is the crown of this body I live in, a body replete with interest:  full lips, blue eyes, round belly, sloping hips. This body: the armor given to me to survive being female in a very female-unfriendly world. This body is my soul-vessel.  And there are stories abounding about this vessel and its myriad battles fought against a world that sees it much differently than it wants to be seen.   What has it meant to be me, growing up yellow-haired and big-bottomed in this world ,where beauty is often an asset or a curse, depending upon circumstance?   I have drawn so much attention that I have not wanted and so much that I have.  This body has meant so many things, met so many exeperiences that it is finally time to tell the story of the girl with the yellow hair.