One thing I’ve always been shamed for is my body. How I use my body. How my body is displayed. How it looks to others. What it says about who I am and my worth.
As a woman of color, my body is always up for public consumption. I’m a walking exotic toy, frequently catcalled and harassed because of my body. If I reject them, I’m risking my safety. Violence against women for saying no is much to prevalent in my mind when I smile and say “no thank you”, or claim relationship status. I got catcalled for the first time when I was in the 5th grade. Then, during one summer, a group of boys cornered me and a friend in a hotel jacuzzi asking us how old we were and where our room was. When they walked past our room later that evening, we jumped out of the way of the window and hid until they were on a different floor.
I know that I’m not alone in that fear. Which seems only a woman’s fear. I know that every woman that I’ve known or passed by on the street has at least one story similar to mine. The ages and places may differ, but we’re still afraid.
Because of my size, I’ve constantly been made aware of my body, even though I was so aware of it already. In home life, there was such an emphasis on exercise and being healthy but nothing I ever tried made me skinny. In high school, a boy told me that I was obese and I didn’t eat for three months. I told friends and family that I wasn’t hungry and skipped meals. I chewed gum, a pack and a half a day, when I ever felt hungry. If it weren’t for my friends smoking weed with me (to give me munchies) to make me eat I don’t know what would’ve happened.
I’m not alone in this either. Some haven’t been as lucky as me. Some have destroyed their bodies for “beauty”.
As I got older, realizing sexuality and how I wanted to feel in my body brought another shame. I couldn’t be a sexual being. I couldn’t claim my own sexuality or claim my body in a sexual way because of how I looked but anyone (and everyone) could attach it to me. I got (and still get) messages from people that I don’t know or no longer talk to, 99% of the time it’s men, telling me what the want to do with my body. Or telling me what they like or don’t like about my body. 99.9% of the time it’s unprompted. But if I dared to reject them, or tell them that it wasn’t appropriate for them to say those things; I was a bitch, or a slut, or a tease, or I was easy or dirty or whatever else.
They gave me labels and titles and decided who I was based on what I was wearing or what I said.
But if I claimed any act or idea I was just as bad. I was a whore because I could say what I like without fear. Because I knew what I liked and wanted in the first place.
Why was it so bad if I did it myself? If I admit that I am a sexual being and there’s nothing wrong with exploring my sexuality and my body the way I felt comfortable. The bad thing is, that it never stopped at my clothes. It went to my actions, what I said, what I wrote, how I carried myself. Any label could be attached to my form if it didn’t come from me.
There are parts of me that don’t quite care enough anymore. I will claim my body in public and in private and I’ve gotten used to defending what I say against those who want to slut shame me. But the fear lingers every day. The side eyes for my clothes and my words and for what they think I’m doing behind closed doors, linger. But I’m always telling people to own their bodies in the same way they own their narratives. In the same way that they own their objects like phones, or shoes.
I learned not to take other people’s word on what I’m worth. And if I do nothing else, let my legacy be that I helped someone else learn that lesson too.
*all photos found on tumblr**
openmindedflame 