“are you grateful for the hips that cracked?
the deep velvet of your mother
and her mother?
and her mother?
there is a curse that will be broken.”
warsan shire
my body always embarrasses me.
the way my hips & ass & thighs tug the denim of my jeans in multiple directions. leaving holes in the place where my thighs meet.
my mother patches these holes on the weekends. she says they happened because the fabric is cheap.
she looks right through my body, as if it was never there in the first place.
***
my mother says her body looks like a refrigerator box. she stops eating sugar, gluten, fat, carbs until i’m not sure what’s left.
she never gets that flat tummy she wants, the one all her magazines tell her she’ll have if she just sacrifices her taste buds. the glossy covers always show a smiling, size 2 blonde in yoga pants. she wants you to be like her, she wants you to eat salad without dressing & measure out your snacks & not to eat food after 7 p.m.
South Beach, sugar free, Vogue says ‘thinner is better.’
she works hard, she’ll never stop.
***
i look at my ass in the mirror and wish it could disappear.
my ass attracts the looks & hands of men & boys & friend’s boyfriends.
1 in 3 women will experience sexual harassment in their lives.
***
i tell my mom i don’t like my body & she smiles, finally finding something we can bond over.
she says she can help me.
she says it’s so so so hard to get the body.
the body that i want at least.
she signs me up for weight watchers.
i am 15.
7 in 10 girls believe that they are not good enough or don’t measure up in some way, including their looks, performance in school and relationships with friends and family members.
***
we were on weight watchers together for a few months, every night we would tally up our points on our home computer.
in the office she shared with my father, we calculated our breakfasts & snacks & lunches & dinners until every taste evaporated off my tongue.
my score was too high.
you need to spend more time on the treadmill sweetie.
***
You look nothing like your mother.
You look everything like your mother.
***
erin sees the way i add up calories in my head before i take a bite.
she tries to teach me about moderation.
about how food can taste so good & be healthy but also how food can taste so good & not be healthy.
& its okay, its all about balance.
i’m trying to believe her, but i’m also trying to remember the amount of calories in a BLT.
***
do you remember being born?
***
when my mother talks about my birth, she always talks about how my dad was snoring in the waiting room as i was being pushed into the world.
she says this smugly, her lips pursed tightly as she spits the word dad out with hatred.
***
How to wear your mother's lipstick. You go to the bathroom to apply your mother's lipstick. Somewhere no one can find you.
You must wear it like she wears disappointment on her face.
***
my father breaks her heart & i keep breaking it. she wants a bond that i’m not sure will ever be possible.
she forces her love on me & it sits on top of my shoulders like a thousand pounds. i try to love her like she wants me to, but i can’t fill that void.
elena calls me at 2 a.m. and tells me i’m a bitch. she thinks i treat our mother like shit & she isn’t entirely wrong.
i thought my mother was stronger than i was, but now i don’t think it’s true.
Your mother is a woman and women like her cannot be contained.
***
i’m older now, i appreciate the things my body can do. how my legs are able to carry me wherever i need to go, how my hips can hold my pants up without a belt, how my arms can reach for food at the top of the shelf. I don’t own a scale, i don’t count calories, i like running or walking outside but i don’t work to make my body fit into sizes it never will.
when i visit my mother she always wants to talk about my body. now that i’ve outgrown my baby fat, now that i don’t hate working out, now that my body looks like she thinks it should. she sees how thin my waist is, how flat my stomach is, how my thighs don’t rub together as bad as they used to.
she puts her hand on my body, as if she’ll get a 21-year old body by osmosis.
my ass is still fat but she doesn’t notice.
my thighs still destroy my jeans but she ignores the holes.
men still follow me on the streets, trying to grab me, shouting fucked up things at my body, trying to get my number. my ass is a bullseye, men can see it from a mile away. they stare at it like a piece of meat, their eyes follow it as i try to shrink inside myself. every comment makes my heart pound, my legs move faster faster faster. i need to go, i need to escape, i look for help, but i know no one notices.
catcalling is a fact of life for women and femmes right? i shouldn’t wear skinny jeans if i don’t want men to notice, right? i earned it for being a woman in public right? boys will be boys right? i am the problem, if i shrink my body until it’s small enough to fold up & tuck in a pocket then i’ll be able to move through the world unnoticed.
mami you thicker than a snicker,
damn baby you lookin’ good I think I’m in love,
bitch, you can’t take a compliment?
fuck you bitch, you ain’t as hot as you think.
i was asking for it, i should’ve dressed modestly, i should’ve worn pants in 80 degree heat. i should’ve covered my ass if i wanted respect.
didn’t i know that?
have my 21 years taught me nothing.
didn’t i know that my body is for public consumption.