I have been working on another post, one that has, sadly, taken me over a month to produce thanks to my family's desperate need for all of my attention, but then this. Twice in one week commentary about three public figures, public women and their looks, has made its way to the top stories when the world is going to shit. First, Venus and Serena Williams were called out and humiliated by a full time ass named Shamil Tarpischev, a "Russian Olympic Committee official." who called them "the Williams brothers" and "scary to look at." And then dear Renee Zellweger, and to me she is dear having starred in some movies that dotted the landscape of my coming of age, dear because she is my contemporary, dear because no matter what you think of the role, she puts herself all the way in it, has appeared on a red carpet looking "different," "refreshed," and my personal favorite, "unrecognizable." I recognized her. In fact, I thought this story tried to surface a few months back, at least in the British papers, and the buzz was about her incredibly changed face! Oh my God! What happened? She's unrecognizable!
Oh, yes she is recognizable. I saw who she was immediately because she is just like me. She's really any and all of us women of a certain age, of any background, no matter our status, our sexual preference, our position, or station. Whether we are beauties or average or emphasize our other qualities instead of just our physical selves. Whether we are kind or cruel or sympathetic or selfish. Whether we give a damn or don't. No matter who we are, no matter what we are manifesting (or not), we have or will have to face the question of our unrecognizable selves, how we look to the outside world and how the world feels it is within its rights to judge or comment on how we look.
Being a world-famous movie star does nothing for her privacy. The world feels entitled to her, to some part of her. And while I feel that the conversation that quickly turned petty and ugly and aggressive and rude escalated due to her being a public figure, I fear that the presumption that anyone is owed an explanation regarding the change in her appearance, whatever it is and whatever the reason, is one that women face daily. The relentless and occasionally merciless judgment of one's appearance and the maintenance of that appearance is not only a cottage industry, but has given everyone and anyone license to denigrate, assault, insult, and humiliate.
The expectation and assumption that Ms. Zellweger and really anyone we know or think we know will somehow stay the same, exactly they way we remember, exactly the way we want them to is ludicrous and frankly, childish. To expect that the effects of time don't affect us all is as ridiculous as the belief that there is somehow one ideal, one type that has the claim on true beauty. Ms. Zellweger, perhaps giving in to some pressure to remain a member of that elite group--white, blond, lithe, young--may have had some surgery or may not have. I don't really care and it's none of my business. What I am making my business is that the escalation of the Monday morning quarterbacking about how she looks and what she's done reached a fever pitch that sends a message to the world that considering people, analyzing them, tearing them apart based on their physical attributes is acceptable, even celebrated behavior. Folks got a lot of action on that thread.
My girls are extremely curious and talkative about the way people look. Our youngest is still in the phase where the closer a woman looks to the standard Disney princess, Barbie, beauty pageant contestant, Victoria Secret model the "prettier" she is. She can be "of color" surely, but she has already gotten the message loud and clear just which ones are culturally considered "the best." I, in turn, show them my interpretation of what is beautiful, my ideas about beauty, everywhere I can. They see women of all complexions, sizes, body types, with long hair, short hair, no hair, with smooth skin, wrinkles, blemishes, scars, with tattoos, piercings, make up or none and I will comment on how striking, composed, lovely, or beautiful I find her. And when they ask why I believe someone is beautiful I often start with the energy or spirit that comes from within and then answer the questions about their outside characteristics, reminding them that our feelings about the way someone looks are really our own opinions and frankly, bear no value or importance to that person.
I answer all of these questions and hope that in doing so they see the full range of women's bodies, recognize how we really look, make their own discoveries and realizations about what they think of as beautiful, strong, capable, able and then let them go. How we look cannot be our priority, not when there is so much more we'd like to accomplish and achieve. At the end of the day, I want them to consider how able and capable they can be, to know that while they are gorgeous (and they are) it just cannot be enough to sustain them day to day. That what they look like is truly a function of genetics and timing and luck and that everybody, every body has something to be celebrated.
But in the quiet of my own room, staring into my own mirror, I recall a time when I could not be lead to believe in that all inclusive beauty. I wanted to believe and surely discovered examples that went beyond the all-American look that was popular when I was coming of age but they were few and far between, still considered exotic, other, separate. I was one of a very small group of Black kids at a predominantly white school and one of three black girls at my dance studio. As I progressed as a young dancer, my Russian teacher, who encouraged and promoted me in so many ways, began to obsess about my physique, namely my big thighs, my butt, and my pretty muscular frame. Dancers then were still expected to be petite and slim, strong with rubber band limbs. Of course there was Ailey and the Dance Theatre of Harlem and modern troupes, but the understanding was that, for a ballerina, the tiny physique was meant to mask the power and strength required to move. Mine could not do that. Any bit of exercise or physical activity gave me mass and definition. My body could not meet the accepted standard.
And this is where the age old bullshit about black women's bodies comes at me and threatens to crush. Come on, dear Russian fool, with your inexperience and big ol' mouth and platform. This is nothing new and nothing not said before. Regarding the black female body with contempt for its strength and/or over-sexualizing it for its exotic, "mysterious" qualities is such old school racism that although a fine was laid down, no one wants to touch the subject except for blogs and publications aimed specifically at Black women. It's been said so many times about Venus and Serena that the story about the incredibly racist, sexist, insensitive comments hardly made waves. These two women are strong and powerful elite athletes and their bodies show it. To me, their musculature, their incredible form, definition, and power is pretty amazing. They are beautiful and exceptional both physically and personally.
These three women who have reached the pinnacle of their fields, who are celebrated for their skill, talent, and prowess are still fair game to anyone and everyone who has something to say about how they look. There is even pride in the assault, thrill at the attack. Other than to hurt, to derail, to offend, what could be the reason for the name calling and the shock and awe? Why are we so comfortable dissecting the form, the body with no consideration as to how these women, any woman, any person would feel being broken down like that?
I have felt the shadow of whatever age it is that I can no longer hide the years of life's experiences, joys and sorrows, sleepless nights, burst out giggles, sleeping on my face, drinking or eating too much, hormonal midlife pimples and wrinkles creep up on me. I still stare into the mirror, hearing my former dance teachers discontent at my big ol' booty, breaking it down about the "ruined line" my pumped up rump made. I have giggled at the lyrics of "All About That Bass," though I also find it a little divisive in its exaltation of the fuller form and attack on the thinner, I know how challenging and difficult breaking the habits and lessons taught and reinforced through the culture at large and in our day to day will be. But I want to give my two girls, one straight as a board like her father and the other curvier like me, self-awareness, confidence, and inner strength that will protect them from the paparazzi-like flashing light assaults, comments, and judgments that are used to humiliate, undermine, and divide the sisterhood. It's not all about that bass or that body or that face. We are much more than that and I want them to know it.
(c) Copyright 2014. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Showing posts with label body image. Show all posts
Showing posts with label body image. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Dance
In the first phase of my life, elementary school to high school, if you asked anyone about me in my school or neighborhood how to describe me or my interests, after reporting that I was one of a handful of black (now African-American) kids, they would tell you that I loved to dance. Danced all the time. Ballet, tap, jazz, Russian character, the hustle, the bump, whatever 70s and 80s style dances were available to watch on Soul Train, I was about it. I didn't just love it, I was good at it. Enough that my dance teacher asked my parents to come in and speak with her one afternoon to tell them that she could set up some appointments for me in the city with a couple of dance schools/companies, should I (they) be interested. They assured her (and me) that I (they) were not. I'd convinced myself that there could be no life for me in dance. That dancers could not make a living, that I was smart and should do something that smart people do like go to college and study and write papers and get a good job that paid good money which is what a contributor to society did. I always felt that I gave in too eagerly and too quickly. I'd given up something that I loved more than I'd loved anything because I was afraid. Because I was doubtful that I could ever be that good at anything.
The dance school was small time, but we lived big in our dreams. We watched endless ballets, studied choreography. Michael Jackson's Beat It, which finally had its chance on MTV, just blew my mind open. Seeing all those dancers, not just ballerinas, but dancers with all different body types, strong men and women, combining their training with improvised street styles moving in all kinds of way to different rhythms and using their bodies like instruments of sound and movement got me so wound up I often moved my body in my sleep. I danced all night in my dreams. I cannot say, really, with any certainty that I would have made a great professional dancer, but I did love it and before I found my voice, which happened in my late teens and early twenties, I felt that dance was one of the only ways for me to communicate in a way that was honest and real and true.
Then came college and a strict education in visual arts--drawing, painting, studio techniques, sculpture, ceramics, anatomy, printmaking--and a life of movement seemed worlds away. I have not been good at allowing myself the space to work in all media at once. Some call if focused, others obsessive, but I have a hard time switching from one area to the next, feeling that I am not committing enough to just one discipline. It was the same trying to learn Spanish after learning passable French. I just could not separate the two languages and ultimately had to give up one. I gave up French to learn Spanish and then when I met my French hubby, gave up Spanish to relearn French.
Once a dancer, always a dancer. I love to move. Watching dancers, I sit up high in my seat moving along with them, marking their movements and feeling the music inside of me as though I were actually moving. I love the freedom that movement gives my spirit and have found that in the greatest moments of depression, I hold myself rigidly so as not to let that freedom enter my heart. It's that overwhelming. I am that sure of it's power to release my hold and control on myself. As I have been finding my way back to myself, dancing has somehow found its way to me too. First, taking the girls to class has reminded me of my time as a student. Then, I took a Cardio Jams class which was a parent/child class that had bits of dance, yoga, exercise, and stretching that left me over the moon and talking non-stop. My husband was worn down by the constant chatter that had started as a flutter in my tummy and rose to my heart and then to the purest joy. I was dancing again!
Today, I took another class with Lily at a fundraiser for the school district. Because I am a crazy, paranoid freak, I was sure that we needed to arrive early to secure our place. We were there in time to see the adult class ending. I had my face pressed against the window which was wet with sweat drops dripping down from the windows as the dancers, moms and other women of my community, got their dance on. They were great, the choreography exciting, and the energy electric. I promised myself I would be in that class as soon as I could.
I was right about the Cardio Jams. The place was packed. Lily and I had a fantastic time together and when I danced in the middle of a circle, letting the music just course through me, Lily looked at me as though she'd never seen me before. She said, "Mommy, I didn't know you could do that!" And I told her,"Baby, I think Mommy had forgotten." I want to remember. I want to return to dance for my exercise, for my freedom, for my joy. Being in the class with the other parents and our children, I let go of my hang ups about my body. There were women who were taller, more slender, more fit, beautiful, clean, and glamorous. But I didn't care. I can dance. I dance. I love to dance. And I want it to be part of my life again. When I was young and did not speak, could not express myself, there it was and now, even though I can express myself, maybe even talk too much, the movement might sometimes be all I want to say.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
The dance school was small time, but we lived big in our dreams. We watched endless ballets, studied choreography. Michael Jackson's Beat It, which finally had its chance on MTV, just blew my mind open. Seeing all those dancers, not just ballerinas, but dancers with all different body types, strong men and women, combining their training with improvised street styles moving in all kinds of way to different rhythms and using their bodies like instruments of sound and movement got me so wound up I often moved my body in my sleep. I danced all night in my dreams. I cannot say, really, with any certainty that I would have made a great professional dancer, but I did love it and before I found my voice, which happened in my late teens and early twenties, I felt that dance was one of the only ways for me to communicate in a way that was honest and real and true.
Then came college and a strict education in visual arts--drawing, painting, studio techniques, sculpture, ceramics, anatomy, printmaking--and a life of movement seemed worlds away. I have not been good at allowing myself the space to work in all media at once. Some call if focused, others obsessive, but I have a hard time switching from one area to the next, feeling that I am not committing enough to just one discipline. It was the same trying to learn Spanish after learning passable French. I just could not separate the two languages and ultimately had to give up one. I gave up French to learn Spanish and then when I met my French hubby, gave up Spanish to relearn French.
Once a dancer, always a dancer. I love to move. Watching dancers, I sit up high in my seat moving along with them, marking their movements and feeling the music inside of me as though I were actually moving. I love the freedom that movement gives my spirit and have found that in the greatest moments of depression, I hold myself rigidly so as not to let that freedom enter my heart. It's that overwhelming. I am that sure of it's power to release my hold and control on myself. As I have been finding my way back to myself, dancing has somehow found its way to me too. First, taking the girls to class has reminded me of my time as a student. Then, I took a Cardio Jams class which was a parent/child class that had bits of dance, yoga, exercise, and stretching that left me over the moon and talking non-stop. My husband was worn down by the constant chatter that had started as a flutter in my tummy and rose to my heart and then to the purest joy. I was dancing again!
Today, I took another class with Lily at a fundraiser for the school district. Because I am a crazy, paranoid freak, I was sure that we needed to arrive early to secure our place. We were there in time to see the adult class ending. I had my face pressed against the window which was wet with sweat drops dripping down from the windows as the dancers, moms and other women of my community, got their dance on. They were great, the choreography exciting, and the energy electric. I promised myself I would be in that class as soon as I could.
I was right about the Cardio Jams. The place was packed. Lily and I had a fantastic time together and when I danced in the middle of a circle, letting the music just course through me, Lily looked at me as though she'd never seen me before. She said, "Mommy, I didn't know you could do that!" And I told her,"Baby, I think Mommy had forgotten." I want to remember. I want to return to dance for my exercise, for my freedom, for my joy. Being in the class with the other parents and our children, I let go of my hang ups about my body. There were women who were taller, more slender, more fit, beautiful, clean, and glamorous. But I didn't care. I can dance. I dance. I love to dance. And I want it to be part of my life again. When I was young and did not speak, could not express myself, there it was and now, even though I can express myself, maybe even talk too much, the movement might sometimes be all I want to say.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Ageless beauty
I almost never get to lounge around in my pajamas, pimple cream, anti-aging, anti-wrinkle cream slathered on my face, and watch TV. Certainly during the week when I am the first to get up to pack lunches, start breakfast, coffee and green tea, lining up shoes and coats, watching even a little would be out of the question. We have the morning routine timed to the last second and if anyone needs to so much as blow his nose, we could get off schedule. But some Sunday mornings when absolutely nothing is scheduled, I allow myself a Super Soul Sunday on OWN, videos on Vh1 Classic or if I really want to feel old, check out current videos and marvel at how little I know about what is happening in popular music, or maybe some entertainment news, BBC documentary, or Sex and the City reruns.
Inevitably, I stumble upon some infomercial that will guarantee with the loss of some blood, sweat, and tears AND huge bucks, gorgeous, youthful skin, a gorgeous, youthful, tight, no-signs-of-having-children or a peppermint-bark-problem body, or luxurious, youthful, tangle-free hair that looks like I get it done at the salon every day. Ageless beauty, it says, and I am mesmerized. I study the lines and wrinkles of Valerie Bertinelli and the increasingly, so easily gorgeous Cindy Crawford and I think, "That's it! That's the product for me." Or better," I will definitely work out for forty minutes a day, every day, sweating my face off and then go make dinner". Or," yeah sure, my hair is short but wouldn't it be nice to have that silky feeling even on my wee strands?"
Though I am getting older, watching my body change and let go of the lifetime of hours of tedious working out, afternoon facials, and cute haircuts, inside, I still feel like I graduated from college just moments ago. I catch glimpses of myself in the mirror while standing with the girls as they brush their teeth before bed or in the reflection of the car window as I pile everyone in or out and cannot believe that it's possible that that woman is representing me to the world. I am a softer, less angular, less stylish vision than the one I imagine of myself. I am not mad at it. Have come to accept it on some levels. But wouldn't mind a little help with the tweaking sometimes.
I have a cousin who is a plastic surgeon in Santa Barbara and have asked him and his wife countless questions involving terrifying procedures that will lift what were once hot boobies and turned into Mama mammaries, remove a bit of the junk bouncing out of the trunk, and lighten the load of the bags I am carrying under my eyes. I am a little too much of a wimp to handle these surgeries, as is my pocketbook, so I have gone a new direction. IT WORKS body wraps came to me from a friend on Facebook. She was selling them and posting pictures of all kinds of bodies on a wall of extreme transformation. I thought, "who knows if this really works, but I sure as heck want to find out!" As I mentioned, my pocketbook is a bit of a wimp and I did not want to commit to the fee for a possibly maybe. So I entered a contest on her website and if you can stand it, I won! Day two of the aforementioned experiment begins tomorrow.
I can't tell. I really can't tell if I see any difference after the first wrap which consisted of an herb-soaked, body part shaped napkin or cheesecloth that I squished and wrapped around my legs, then Saran wrapped for better travel and waited. I drank about 2 gallons of water and ate like a bunny. The next wrap will be done tomorrow, a full 72 hours after the first as is required. It smells great and I feel like my jeans might have fit a little less snugly in the thigh area. Pictures will be taken tomorrow before and after and we'll see. As I walked to my car, legs wrapped and Saran wrap swish-swish-swishing, I had to laugh out loud to myself.
What I never really realized, somehow missed all throughout my youth, was that when I was young, it came easy to me, easier than I believed. And I'm not alone. Look at a picture of yourself from back in the day. You are cute. You are hot. Your skin is smooth. Even after a night of partying, you look vibrant and fresh. I am surprisingly okay with this. I wish I looked a little better, sure. But a wiggly belly, tickled in bed by my six and three and 1/2 year old feels kind of jolly. I can work out some day. I can eat a little better, take in fewer brownies and more green things. I will. I will. I will. And I am sure twenty years from now, I will look at the pictures of me, wiggly belly and all and say, "Beautiful."
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Inevitably, I stumble upon some infomercial that will guarantee with the loss of some blood, sweat, and tears AND huge bucks, gorgeous, youthful skin, a gorgeous, youthful, tight, no-signs-of-having-children or a peppermint-bark-problem body, or luxurious, youthful, tangle-free hair that looks like I get it done at the salon every day. Ageless beauty, it says, and I am mesmerized. I study the lines and wrinkles of Valerie Bertinelli and the increasingly, so easily gorgeous Cindy Crawford and I think, "That's it! That's the product for me." Or better," I will definitely work out for forty minutes a day, every day, sweating my face off and then go make dinner". Or," yeah sure, my hair is short but wouldn't it be nice to have that silky feeling even on my wee strands?"
Though I am getting older, watching my body change and let go of the lifetime of hours of tedious working out, afternoon facials, and cute haircuts, inside, I still feel like I graduated from college just moments ago. I catch glimpses of myself in the mirror while standing with the girls as they brush their teeth before bed or in the reflection of the car window as I pile everyone in or out and cannot believe that it's possible that that woman is representing me to the world. I am a softer, less angular, less stylish vision than the one I imagine of myself. I am not mad at it. Have come to accept it on some levels. But wouldn't mind a little help with the tweaking sometimes.
I have a cousin who is a plastic surgeon in Santa Barbara and have asked him and his wife countless questions involving terrifying procedures that will lift what were once hot boobies and turned into Mama mammaries, remove a bit of the junk bouncing out of the trunk, and lighten the load of the bags I am carrying under my eyes. I am a little too much of a wimp to handle these surgeries, as is my pocketbook, so I have gone a new direction. IT WORKS body wraps came to me from a friend on Facebook. She was selling them and posting pictures of all kinds of bodies on a wall of extreme transformation. I thought, "who knows if this really works, but I sure as heck want to find out!" As I mentioned, my pocketbook is a bit of a wimp and I did not want to commit to the fee for a possibly maybe. So I entered a contest on her website and if you can stand it, I won! Day two of the aforementioned experiment begins tomorrow.
I can't tell. I really can't tell if I see any difference after the first wrap which consisted of an herb-soaked, body part shaped napkin or cheesecloth that I squished and wrapped around my legs, then Saran wrapped for better travel and waited. I drank about 2 gallons of water and ate like a bunny. The next wrap will be done tomorrow, a full 72 hours after the first as is required. It smells great and I feel like my jeans might have fit a little less snugly in the thigh area. Pictures will be taken tomorrow before and after and we'll see. As I walked to my car, legs wrapped and Saran wrap swish-swish-swishing, I had to laugh out loud to myself.
What I never really realized, somehow missed all throughout my youth, was that when I was young, it came easy to me, easier than I believed. And I'm not alone. Look at a picture of yourself from back in the day. You are cute. You are hot. Your skin is smooth. Even after a night of partying, you look vibrant and fresh. I am surprisingly okay with this. I wish I looked a little better, sure. But a wiggly belly, tickled in bed by my six and three and 1/2 year old feels kind of jolly. I can work out some day. I can eat a little better, take in fewer brownies and more green things. I will. I will. I will. And I am sure twenty years from now, I will look at the pictures of me, wiggly belly and all and say, "Beautiful."
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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