People tell me things that shouldn't effect me, shouldn't effect me. I'm so disconnected, why does it matter and why am I upset and calm down!
But I can't. Because how dare I go through the motions of life, being unaffected by every joy, every tragedy, every commonplace thing that happens to everyone outside of me?
How dare I live, oblivious to the way a mother feels when she holds that cooing baby in her arms, the first time their fingers meet and the first time those wide eyes smile?
How dare I live, oblivious to the possibility that it could have been ME goddamit who got killed for no reason who got thrown into that river who got no explanations for why my brother is DEAD.
How dare I live, in any way other than to the fullest? How dare I assume I'll have time to do something great tomorrow? How dare I make myself feel better with these lies, make excuses for my faults, find ways out of doing the hardest thing but the only thing to do which is LIVE.
How dare I see these joys, these tragedies, over and over and over again and not once put myself in those shoes. Not once pretend it's happening to me. Not once think - shit, that can still be me.
No. Don't tell me it's distant. Don't tell me it's unlikely. Don't feed me the shit I already feed myself to feel less crazy because it's here. It's close and it's breathing down my neck. It's death whispering warnings in my ear - how dare I refuse to listen.
9.27.2012
9.18.2012
9.09.2012
Just Me & the Girls
People struggle with their body image everyday. Too fat, too thin, too this too that. But my sympathy goes out to ma people - the big boobed - and our specific struggle with this so-called "gift."
When I was younger, I was told to do weird arm exercises in attempts to reduce my bra size. Mind you, I am by no means enormous - but I remember my chest being compared to a curse that I'd be damned with for all of eternity, unless I got the Girls under control.
Obviously that never worked. And I was okay with this, because despite the ominous warning, at that blissful time in my life boobs were not all the rage for girls and guys alike. I'd wear tank tops and dresses and the only decision I had to make before buying a shirt was which shade of blue to buy it in. (My wardrobe was very diverse).
And then I grew up, and something changed. My body, the most consistent part of my life, had suddenly been redefined. Everything I wore was scandalous, promiscuous, indecent. If I bent over and my shirt shifted, I was yelled at. If a picture was taken and my cleavage was visible, I was teased. It was like an obsession over this one part of my body, and the unwanted attention was stifling. I became accustomed to slyly erasing any trace of sensuality - "for the sake" of everyone around me.
But you know what? I'm done feeling guilty, or dirty, or whatever else these comments are meant to make me feel. Fuck. All. Of Y'all. We teach girls to be comfortable with their bodies, and to love the skin they're in. We fight the shame that women shouldn't feel for showing their curves, because it is not their responsibility to control the urges of a leering man. We chant these apparently empty mottos, and I'm tired of the hollow sound. This is not the 1800's, people, it's time for a damned shift in perspective.
The hypocrisy echoes to the beaches - where it's acceptable to dress in the equivalent of a bra and panties. It echoes to the Indian weddings - where the norm is to show an entirely bare stomach. Hello, moral relativism, how do you do?
So please, if you are not going to be consistent, then kindly leave me and my body alone. And if you still don't understand, then I hope that one day you are blessed with a big-boobed daughter. And I hope that she fights just as hard as I do. And I hope that maybe, just maybe, she will get the privilege to walk down the street in a tank top and flip-fops, feeling like nothing but a regular pedestrian.
When I was younger, I was told to do weird arm exercises in attempts to reduce my bra size. Mind you, I am by no means enormous - but I remember my chest being compared to a curse that I'd be damned with for all of eternity, unless I got the Girls under control.
Obviously that never worked. And I was okay with this, because despite the ominous warning, at that blissful time in my life boobs were not all the rage for girls and guys alike. I'd wear tank tops and dresses and the only decision I had to make before buying a shirt was which shade of blue to buy it in. (My wardrobe was very diverse).
And then I grew up, and something changed. My body, the most consistent part of my life, had suddenly been redefined. Everything I wore was scandalous, promiscuous, indecent. If I bent over and my shirt shifted, I was yelled at. If a picture was taken and my cleavage was visible, I was teased. It was like an obsession over this one part of my body, and the unwanted attention was stifling. I became accustomed to slyly erasing any trace of sensuality - "for the sake" of everyone around me.
But you know what? I'm done feeling guilty, or dirty, or whatever else these comments are meant to make me feel. Fuck. All. Of Y'all. We teach girls to be comfortable with their bodies, and to love the skin they're in. We fight the shame that women shouldn't feel for showing their curves, because it is not their responsibility to control the urges of a leering man. We chant these apparently empty mottos, and I'm tired of the hollow sound. This is not the 1800's, people, it's time for a damned shift in perspective.
The hypocrisy echoes to the beaches - where it's acceptable to dress in the equivalent of a bra and panties. It echoes to the Indian weddings - where the norm is to show an entirely bare stomach. Hello, moral relativism, how do you do?
So please, if you are not going to be consistent, then kindly leave me and my body alone. And if you still don't understand, then I hope that one day you are blessed with a big-boobed daughter. And I hope that she fights just as hard as I do. And I hope that maybe, just maybe, she will get the privilege to walk down the street in a tank top and flip-fops, feeling like nothing but a regular pedestrian.
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