Five days ago I was on a cruise with my mom, which means I was wearing a bikini most of the time, and therefore obsessing over my body. I was standing in front of the mirror in our room holding back my love handles, sucking my stomach in, standing up as straight as I could, and imagining the results of a possible liposuction. The TV was on in the background and, as fate would have it, about two minutes later, the news reported the death of Lanusse Martins Barbosa, victim of a liposuction gone wrong. She was 27 years old.
It was a "medical error" that really shouldn't have happened, and the plastic surgeon is being tried for homicide. People are calling him a criminal, and because the victim was a public figure- she was a TV journalist- she is representing the hundreds of women who have died or suffered irreparable damage during plastic surgeries.
I am left with a mixture of reactions. I am wondering who the real criminals are, the doctors who are careless, or the culture we live in that values thinness so much that women (myself included) are willing to cut themselves open and suck out their "excess fat" in order to look like something we have been told (or brainwashed into believing) is not only beautiful, but normal.
Doctors and sponsors who deal with vanity are some of the wealthiest people in the world. Products and programs that promise thinness are part of a multi-billion dollar industry. Go to the Women's Interest section in a magazine stand and you will see another multi-billion dollar industry that is benefiting from telling women that what they look like can always improve, that there's always a new way to be thinner, that self-worth grows as the numbers on the scale decrease.
It's hard- if not impossible- not to be affected by it. I haven't managed yet. Even though I regularly read feminist magazines like Ms. and Bust and Bitch, that fight, among many of the ways society oppresses women, this dictatorship of thinness, and even though I know that butchering myself in the name of beauty is not only unnecessary and ridiculous, but dangerous, I am still caught in an often overwhelming desire to be extremely thin. The kind of thin that can wear low-cut jeans with a glued-to-my-skin shirt, that can wear the smallest bikini without an ounce of fat hanging out around my waist, that can make me feel invincible.
At the same time that I have these thoughts I am completely disgusted with myself for having them. I spend an inexplicable amount of energy convincing myself, every single day, that this is all absurd, that I'm too smart to buy into this manipulative crap, that I do not need to be any thinner, that real women have curves, that the men I'm interested in don't want to date anorexic models, and that I shouldn't feed this negative voice that is not my own and tells me I am not good enough. But, when I'm really really honest with myself, when I look really deep inside, it's all still there- I still want to be really really thin. I want it so much that even after Lanusse Martins Barbosa's death, I can't say I'll never want (or have) a liposuction.
How sad this all makes me. Why can't we all have different bodies? Why do we all want the same one? Why don't I love and respect the body I have, why am I always dissatisfied? It's exhausting, it really is, and it makes me feel weak. I do not want to be defeated by the dictatorship of thinness, I want to believe I can rise above it.
Maybe my mind is split into two armies. One of them is called You Are Not Good Enough, and the other one is called You Are Perfect. I think they fight each other constantly and sometimes one wins over the other. Unfortunately the former tends to win because it has powerful ammunition- most of society backing it up. But sometimes You Are Perfect wins, even if just for instants, and that's a start. I don't think that in this lifetime I will be able to completely abolish You Are Not Good Enough, so what I'm going to hope for is that it can learn to be quiet most of the time and have less power over me. Maybe they can both come to a peace-treaty one day and I can find some sort of peace with myself and my body image issues.
A far-off fantasy, perhaps. But I'm not willing to give up yet.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Inside Boobs
I am 7 and I wonder where our toe-nails come from.
How do we have enough toe nail to last all of our lives?
Sally wonders what's inside boobs.
She and I are the only ones who have to
wear a bra in the fourth grade,
so we talk about boobs
while everyone else wonders about toe nails for a few more years.
One day, Ms. Miller hears us talking about boobs
and we have to go to the principal.
She doesn't understand why we have to talk about boobs
since we taped and wrapped them after the
sixth grade boys tried to steal them.
In seventh grade the other girls get our fourth grade boobs
while we move on to wired bras.
High-school boys want to kiss us and we think we may be popular.
In ninth grade we are changing in the locker room
and a girl gasps, pointing at our breasts.
Everyone stares.
Sally and I look around at all the girls' stone pink breasts,
pointing straight at us.
We look down at our own;
stretch marks sinking into nipples
talking to knees,
our tummies nowhere to be found.
Sally and I swear never to take our bras off again.
But I know Sally has broken her promise
when David tells the whole school about her grandmother tits.
We turn 15 and we want small boobs.
My parents say okay because of my back pains.
Sally's parents don't agree, however.
She is too young.
They prefer she walk around
with bra cuts on her shoulders
and weep like a widow.
Sally cries when she sees my scars,
telling me over and over again that they are
so
so
beautiful.
And she asks me, very quietly,
what, after all,
was inside boobs.Monday, January 18, 2010
To Age or To Pretend Not To Age
I personally think that women like Meryl Streep and Helen Mirren, who let themselves age gracefully, are far more attractive, intriguing, and inspiring than women like Cher or Sophia Loren, who froze themselves in time and, to me, look completely artificial and downright scary.
But I know that aging is difficult for women- the world we live in, particularly the show business world, favors youth. I have nothing against delaying wrinkles and trying to look like the best version of ourselves at any age. I already use eye cream, for example, and I know I don't need it. I like to take care of myself and I certainly do not judge women for pursuing youth, but I do think some women go too far. When I see an older woman with a frozen forehead and mouth, excessively artificially tanned, and filled with scars behind her ears and on her scalp from countless face-lifts, it makes me sad. It makes me sad that women go to such measures to look like they have won the battle against time- and thus won the battle against society's prejudice against older women. It makes me sad to know they haven't- the world looks at them and, for the most part, thinks them ridiculous.
I read a book on beauty the other day (while in my dermatologist's waiting room- go figure), where the author interviewed hundreds of women on beauty. They all seemed to agree that what made a woman beautiful was confidence. And I have always agreed- what made Sophia Loren seem so sexy to me was her confidence. When I see her now- stretched out and orange, barely able to speak- I want to scream. Or cry. Where did the confidence go? Does it seep out of these women as aging takes its toll? Was it really confidence that made them beautiful, or was it beauty (the beauty of youth) that gave them confidence?
I know, even as I write this, that I understand very little about it. I haven't watched the face I'm used to seeing in the mirror change into one I don't want to recognize. I don't know what it's like to find fragile white hairs amidst my mane of thick black hair. I can still look at my hands without them accusing me of having lived more years than I care to remember. These are all things I can imagine, but I do not know them yet. And, like most young women, I think I'll be different- I'll handle aging with grace, I'll wear my white hair long, I'll sneer at botox, I'll find the beauty of every wrinkle. And I really do hope I will- but who knows? I think Meryl Streep is aging gracefully, but maybe she doesn't think so at all. Maybe she wishes she had taken the hormones Cher took, even if just to fool herself, for a little while.
We can't know how each woman is really handling aging- it's such a personal thing. Even Gloria Steinem, mama of Feminism, shocked people when, on her 75th birthday, she was asked about aging and, instead of answering that she was above that, she said, "Now, I look in the mirror, I see all kinds of age changes, and I think, 'Well, I expected that, but not THAT!' Beginning at around 50, I started to realize that our bodies lose what they need to support someone else, and keep what they need to support us. How smart is that!? It’s interesting to watch my body do something that it knows how to do but I don’t. (...) When reporters started to ask at about 50 if I would have a facelift, I used to say maybe after 70. Well, here I am and I still wouldn’t. I’d like to say it’s because I can’t imagine Georgia O’Keeffe or Eleanor Roosevelt or Rosa Parks with a facelift, but the truth is I’m afraid I’d become like the guy with a bad toupee; when you’re talking to him, you can’t think of anything else." (http://www.wowowow.com/politics/gloria-steinem-75-feminists-pro-choice-268505?page=0%2C0)
So what do we do? I don't have advice yet. Check back in, say, 40 years?
But I know that aging is difficult for women- the world we live in, particularly the show business world, favors youth. I have nothing against delaying wrinkles and trying to look like the best version of ourselves at any age. I already use eye cream, for example, and I know I don't need it. I like to take care of myself and I certainly do not judge women for pursuing youth, but I do think some women go too far. When I see an older woman with a frozen forehead and mouth, excessively artificially tanned, and filled with scars behind her ears and on her scalp from countless face-lifts, it makes me sad. It makes me sad that women go to such measures to look like they have won the battle against time- and thus won the battle against society's prejudice against older women. It makes me sad to know they haven't- the world looks at them and, for the most part, thinks them ridiculous.
I read a book on beauty the other day (while in my dermatologist's waiting room- go figure), where the author interviewed hundreds of women on beauty. They all seemed to agree that what made a woman beautiful was confidence. And I have always agreed- what made Sophia Loren seem so sexy to me was her confidence. When I see her now- stretched out and orange, barely able to speak- I want to scream. Or cry. Where did the confidence go? Does it seep out of these women as aging takes its toll? Was it really confidence that made them beautiful, or was it beauty (the beauty of youth) that gave them confidence?
I know, even as I write this, that I understand very little about it. I haven't watched the face I'm used to seeing in the mirror change into one I don't want to recognize. I don't know what it's like to find fragile white hairs amidst my mane of thick black hair. I can still look at my hands without them accusing me of having lived more years than I care to remember. These are all things I can imagine, but I do not know them yet. And, like most young women, I think I'll be different- I'll handle aging with grace, I'll wear my white hair long, I'll sneer at botox, I'll find the beauty of every wrinkle. And I really do hope I will- but who knows? I think Meryl Streep is aging gracefully, but maybe she doesn't think so at all. Maybe she wishes she had taken the hormones Cher took, even if just to fool herself, for a little while.
We can't know how each woman is really handling aging- it's such a personal thing. Even Gloria Steinem, mama of Feminism, shocked people when, on her 75th birthday, she was asked about aging and, instead of answering that she was above that, she said, "Now, I look in the mirror, I see all kinds of age changes, and I think, 'Well, I expected that, but not THAT!' Beginning at around 50, I started to realize that our bodies lose what they need to support someone else, and keep what they need to support us. How smart is that!? It’s interesting to watch my body do something that it knows how to do but I don’t. (...) When reporters started to ask at about 50 if I would have a facelift, I used to say maybe after 70. Well, here I am and I still wouldn’t. I’d like to say it’s because I can’t imagine Georgia O’Keeffe or Eleanor Roosevelt or Rosa Parks with a facelift, but the truth is I’m afraid I’d become like the guy with a bad toupee; when you’re talking to him, you can’t think of anything else." (http://www.wowowow.com/politics/gloria-steinem-75-feminists-pro-choice-268505?page=0%2C0)
So what do we do? I don't have advice yet. Check back in, say, 40 years?
Saturday, January 16, 2010
The Doctrine of Vanity
Let's talk about superficial things.
I was twelve years old when a completely bizarre problem presented itself in my life. Louis Vuitton launched a $700 back-pack, which was totally revolutionary. $700 for a bag was a lot of money then, even for Louis Vuitton, which was never as expensive as brands like Prada or Chanel. No brand of its caliber created products for young girls to wear to school. Moreover, the bag was completely unpractical- too heavy, oddly shaped, difficult to open, and, well, too expensive for a teenager.
But in Sao Paulo it sold like water, and soon enough half the girls in my school had one. And that's when I started having a problem. I didn't know if I wanted one, but I knew that everyone else wanted one. I didn't know if I was a "patricinha" (the word attributed to the Brazilian gossip girls of the 90's), but I knew that if I wore that bag I would immediately be one. I couldn't buy one and not wear it if I didn't like the profile attached to it. You couldn't un-buy a Louis Vuitton bag. Even if you sold it or gave it away, once you bought a Louis Vuitton bag you were forever someone who had bought a Louis Vuitton bag. It would mean I was part of a group- and there was a certain power attached to being part of that group- a group that was rich and fashionable, and therefore untouchable. Appealing thought for a 12-year-old. But if I didn't buy one I was also part of a group- the group that rejected fashion and money. The latter was a bit risky, though- someone who rejected fashion and money might be really cool, but they might also be super losers. A huge risk for a 12-year-old to take.
I didn't know whether I wanted it or the profile attached to it, but I didn't know who I was otherwise either. I hadn't defined a "personality" yet (and what 12-year-old has??) and I was scared of what might come up if I didn't make something up soon. I still hid in my closet to play with my Barbies, and I kept waiting to "grow up" but had no idea how to do it. Where was my personality, I wondered?
I didn't want to be a loser-hippie who only had one friend. I didn't want to be a nerd- that would require knowing a lot about computers, which was simply never going to happen. I didn't want to be an athlete- I hated sports, I couldn't even have been a cheerleader. There weren't a lot of options.
I bought the bag.
The reactions were subtle, but it was done. I was someone who spent $700 on a bag that hundreds of other girls had. I was someone who spent $700 on a bag I didn't even know I wanted. People would look at me and think anything ranging from, money to futile to luxury. And I was okay with it. It started to feel kind of nice. I started to embrace the life-style. I kept on buying ridiculously expensive accessories and doing my best to "look the part".
I kept it up until I went to college, where I experimented with myself over and over again, trying to figure out what was my style, what I liked, who I was. For a while I wore long skirts and hand-made bags I bought from street vendors, for example.
In the end, I found high-fashion again, but with a clearer mind, and without feeling trapped in it. Now I like Louis Vuitton because that back-pack is still in perfect condition, after 12 years, and I know it will remain so for at least 30 more years. Now I choose Prada shoes because, well, they have my size, and they are also immortal. I like Chanel hand bags because they're classic and elegant- and it so happens that I enjoy everything that's classic and elegant (although it took rejecting all of it to figure that out). And if I see a $5 bag that I love, I'll buy it and wear it as I would a $1200 Balenciaga bag. I love H&M and Old Navy and Zara as much as I love Dolce & Gabbana and Marc Jacobs. I'm clear now about what I like and what I don't like, and I see that elegance and style have very little to do with the material things themselves, but rather with the person wearing them. I like to know what different designers are defining as fashion, but I don't buy or drool over anything I don't like, or that doesn't feel like me. Next to my Ms. Magazine there's usually a Vogue, and next to my Converse sneakers there's usually a pair of Louboutin's. And the truth is that what "feels like me" changes all the time- it can even change several times on one day, and I just have to learn to respect that.
That might just be the key to style: self-respect.
I was twelve years old when a completely bizarre problem presented itself in my life. Louis Vuitton launched a $700 back-pack, which was totally revolutionary. $700 for a bag was a lot of money then, even for Louis Vuitton, which was never as expensive as brands like Prada or Chanel. No brand of its caliber created products for young girls to wear to school. Moreover, the bag was completely unpractical- too heavy, oddly shaped, difficult to open, and, well, too expensive for a teenager.
But in Sao Paulo it sold like water, and soon enough half the girls in my school had one. And that's when I started having a problem. I didn't know if I wanted one, but I knew that everyone else wanted one. I didn't know if I was a "patricinha" (the word attributed to the Brazilian gossip girls of the 90's), but I knew that if I wore that bag I would immediately be one. I couldn't buy one and not wear it if I didn't like the profile attached to it. You couldn't un-buy a Louis Vuitton bag. Even if you sold it or gave it away, once you bought a Louis Vuitton bag you were forever someone who had bought a Louis Vuitton bag. It would mean I was part of a group- and there was a certain power attached to being part of that group- a group that was rich and fashionable, and therefore untouchable. Appealing thought for a 12-year-old. But if I didn't buy one I was also part of a group- the group that rejected fashion and money. The latter was a bit risky, though- someone who rejected fashion and money might be really cool, but they might also be super losers. A huge risk for a 12-year-old to take.
I didn't know whether I wanted it or the profile attached to it, but I didn't know who I was otherwise either. I hadn't defined a "personality" yet (and what 12-year-old has??) and I was scared of what might come up if I didn't make something up soon. I still hid in my closet to play with my Barbies, and I kept waiting to "grow up" but had no idea how to do it. Where was my personality, I wondered?
I didn't want to be a loser-hippie who only had one friend. I didn't want to be a nerd- that would require knowing a lot about computers, which was simply never going to happen. I didn't want to be an athlete- I hated sports, I couldn't even have been a cheerleader. There weren't a lot of options.
I bought the bag.
The reactions were subtle, but it was done. I was someone who spent $700 on a bag that hundreds of other girls had. I was someone who spent $700 on a bag I didn't even know I wanted. People would look at me and think anything ranging from, money to futile to luxury. And I was okay with it. It started to feel kind of nice. I started to embrace the life-style. I kept on buying ridiculously expensive accessories and doing my best to "look the part".
I kept it up until I went to college, where I experimented with myself over and over again, trying to figure out what was my style, what I liked, who I was. For a while I wore long skirts and hand-made bags I bought from street vendors, for example.
In the end, I found high-fashion again, but with a clearer mind, and without feeling trapped in it. Now I like Louis Vuitton because that back-pack is still in perfect condition, after 12 years, and I know it will remain so for at least 30 more years. Now I choose Prada shoes because, well, they have my size, and they are also immortal. I like Chanel hand bags because they're classic and elegant- and it so happens that I enjoy everything that's classic and elegant (although it took rejecting all of it to figure that out). And if I see a $5 bag that I love, I'll buy it and wear it as I would a $1200 Balenciaga bag. I love H&M and Old Navy and Zara as much as I love Dolce & Gabbana and Marc Jacobs. I'm clear now about what I like and what I don't like, and I see that elegance and style have very little to do with the material things themselves, but rather with the person wearing them. I like to know what different designers are defining as fashion, but I don't buy or drool over anything I don't like, or that doesn't feel like me. Next to my Ms. Magazine there's usually a Vogue, and next to my Converse sneakers there's usually a pair of Louboutin's. And the truth is that what "feels like me" changes all the time- it can even change several times on one day, and I just have to learn to respect that.
That might just be the key to style: self-respect.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Sexuality of a Woman
Gandhi wisely said, "Be the change you wish to see in the world."
For someone who loves arguing as much as I do, it is not always so simple to follow his advice. Although I choose my battles as carefully as I can, there are some things that I can't just sit back and watch or listen to- I feel an immediate overpowering desire to fight it. One of those things is the repression of women's sexuality. As soon as I hear the words- usually coming from a man, but you'd be surprised how often they come from women- "There are two types of women in the world, the ones you marry, and the ones you fuck," or, "A woman who sleeps with a man too quickly is a slut who has no self-respect," I can feel the blood rush up to my head.
I'm in Brazil right now, where, in my opinion, this happens much more often- but maybe people just say it out loud more often, who knows, and last night I went out to dinner with some friends, among them an ex-boyfriend, and a huge discussion regarding this topic exploded. The aforementioned statements were presented as truths and, although the men at the table agreed that it was a cultural imposition of a sexist nature, they still believed in them. It did not end well, and I was very upset by it.
I wish the sex education I received in my life had told me that I would enjoy sex. That I would enjoy it a lot. That I SHOULD enjoy it, and that if I didn't, I should figure out what was missing, I should get to know myself sexually. Although sometimes in magazines I would read about how masturbating was healthy and sex (safe safe safe sex) was wonderful, that information paled in comparison to how rigorously I was taught that I needed to worry about pregnancy and STD's even before I took my clothes off with a guy, that I had to make absolute certain he was the right guy, the perfect guy, and that I shouldn't ever ever be too "easy". The equation was simple- if I turned into one of those girls who was "easy", I would never have a boyfriend again, I would not have many girlfriends, my parents would disown me, I would get pregnant and maybe even die.
So here's what happened. I turned 13 and started going to parties and kissing boys in dark corners, and it felt so good, I mean it felt so so good, that I found myself terribly, tragically confused. I was suddenly having thoughts like, "I hope he touches my boobs," and then when the boy tried I knew I had to slap his hands away and scold him otherwise I would be labeled a slut. I did my best, I did my very best, to be a good girl. To be the kind of girl guys want to marry. But it didn't make any sense, it felt like a complete lie, and I was secretly terrified they would find out how, in my head and when I was alone, I was not a good girl at all.
At 16, I met the guy I mentioned earlier (whom I had a huge discussion with last night- go figure), and he full-heartedly believed I was a good girl. He became my first serious boyfriend, and I figured he was the right guy to lose my virginity to. I played the part of the good girl to an exhausting extent- making sure to set limits in our sexual progression so that he wouldn't lose interest in me. At 17 I lost my virginity to this boyfriend who loved the good girl I had projected. The people I told seemed to approve. No one asked me if I was having orgasms, if I was enjoying the sex, if I was in love with him, if I felt good about it. They asked me if I was being safe and told me it was a good choice, he was the right guy to do it with.
The next phase came in college, when I tried to reject the good girl mask as much as possible. I was living in the U.S. now and attending Sarah Lawrence, so it was easier- maybe, again, who knows. But something wasn't right. I didn't want to treat men like they were disposable and I didn't want to be treated like I was disposable. I wondered why a guy thought he didn't have to respect me because he was "just" having sex with me. I was still confused, but felt a little less repressed than I did as a teenager in Brazil.
Then I started a fling with a wonderful man who seemed to get it (he was raised by a feminist and went to Sarah Lawrence after all); there are not two types of women. Every woman wants to fuck and every woman wants to get married! It was a gift. Through his understanding of women and sexuality, I started to understand myself as a woman and my own sexuality. Although we were monogamous, we were causal. And although we were causal, we were respectful. I could explore my sexuality with him without him ever disrespecting me or for a moment thinking I was not "worthy of marriage". He came into my life at the right time, and when he left, I met another man and I fell in love. Things got confusing again, because although I was in love with him, he and I never made love, and although he was much older than the other guy, he was way inferior in bed.
But that's just part of life. I see now that what I had to learn from him had nothing to do with sex. I would, later on, experience making love with someone I was in love with, and would learn that people in love can also fuck like pornstars and still want to spend the rest of their lives together afterwards. I met several more men who "got it" and treated me with the respect I demanded and deserved, whether we were in a relationship or not, while allowing me to be as sexual and impulsive as I wanted to be. I am always grateful to the universe for sending me these men.
But there are still a lot of men, and women, who don't get it. Last night I couldn't help myself and I tried, in vain I think, to shift the consciousness I was dealing with. I know that it's not up to me to change people, though, and I can only hope that one day life will teach them that repressing a woman's sexuality serves no one. Women can not be categorized. Women may be complicated, but in this area I present you the simplest equation, the "... us" equation:
Love us, Free us, Hold us, Fuck us, Need us, Marry us, Make Love to us and, above all, Respect us.
For someone who loves arguing as much as I do, it is not always so simple to follow his advice. Although I choose my battles as carefully as I can, there are some things that I can't just sit back and watch or listen to- I feel an immediate overpowering desire to fight it. One of those things is the repression of women's sexuality. As soon as I hear the words- usually coming from a man, but you'd be surprised how often they come from women- "There are two types of women in the world, the ones you marry, and the ones you fuck," or, "A woman who sleeps with a man too quickly is a slut who has no self-respect," I can feel the blood rush up to my head.
I'm in Brazil right now, where, in my opinion, this happens much more often- but maybe people just say it out loud more often, who knows, and last night I went out to dinner with some friends, among them an ex-boyfriend, and a huge discussion regarding this topic exploded. The aforementioned statements were presented as truths and, although the men at the table agreed that it was a cultural imposition of a sexist nature, they still believed in them. It did not end well, and I was very upset by it.
I wish the sex education I received in my life had told me that I would enjoy sex. That I would enjoy it a lot. That I SHOULD enjoy it, and that if I didn't, I should figure out what was missing, I should get to know myself sexually. Although sometimes in magazines I would read about how masturbating was healthy and sex (safe safe safe sex) was wonderful, that information paled in comparison to how rigorously I was taught that I needed to worry about pregnancy and STD's even before I took my clothes off with a guy, that I had to make absolute certain he was the right guy, the perfect guy, and that I shouldn't ever ever be too "easy". The equation was simple- if I turned into one of those girls who was "easy", I would never have a boyfriend again, I would not have many girlfriends, my parents would disown me, I would get pregnant and maybe even die.
So here's what happened. I turned 13 and started going to parties and kissing boys in dark corners, and it felt so good, I mean it felt so so good, that I found myself terribly, tragically confused. I was suddenly having thoughts like, "I hope he touches my boobs," and then when the boy tried I knew I had to slap his hands away and scold him otherwise I would be labeled a slut. I did my best, I did my very best, to be a good girl. To be the kind of girl guys want to marry. But it didn't make any sense, it felt like a complete lie, and I was secretly terrified they would find out how, in my head and when I was alone, I was not a good girl at all.
At 16, I met the guy I mentioned earlier (whom I had a huge discussion with last night- go figure), and he full-heartedly believed I was a good girl. He became my first serious boyfriend, and I figured he was the right guy to lose my virginity to. I played the part of the good girl to an exhausting extent- making sure to set limits in our sexual progression so that he wouldn't lose interest in me. At 17 I lost my virginity to this boyfriend who loved the good girl I had projected. The people I told seemed to approve. No one asked me if I was having orgasms, if I was enjoying the sex, if I was in love with him, if I felt good about it. They asked me if I was being safe and told me it was a good choice, he was the right guy to do it with.
The next phase came in college, when I tried to reject the good girl mask as much as possible. I was living in the U.S. now and attending Sarah Lawrence, so it was easier- maybe, again, who knows. But something wasn't right. I didn't want to treat men like they were disposable and I didn't want to be treated like I was disposable. I wondered why a guy thought he didn't have to respect me because he was "just" having sex with me. I was still confused, but felt a little less repressed than I did as a teenager in Brazil.
Then I started a fling with a wonderful man who seemed to get it (he was raised by a feminist and went to Sarah Lawrence after all); there are not two types of women. Every woman wants to fuck and every woman wants to get married! It was a gift. Through his understanding of women and sexuality, I started to understand myself as a woman and my own sexuality. Although we were monogamous, we were causal. And although we were causal, we were respectful. I could explore my sexuality with him without him ever disrespecting me or for a moment thinking I was not "worthy of marriage". He came into my life at the right time, and when he left, I met another man and I fell in love. Things got confusing again, because although I was in love with him, he and I never made love, and although he was much older than the other guy, he was way inferior in bed.
But that's just part of life. I see now that what I had to learn from him had nothing to do with sex. I would, later on, experience making love with someone I was in love with, and would learn that people in love can also fuck like pornstars and still want to spend the rest of their lives together afterwards. I met several more men who "got it" and treated me with the respect I demanded and deserved, whether we were in a relationship or not, while allowing me to be as sexual and impulsive as I wanted to be. I am always grateful to the universe for sending me these men.
But there are still a lot of men, and women, who don't get it. Last night I couldn't help myself and I tried, in vain I think, to shift the consciousness I was dealing with. I know that it's not up to me to change people, though, and I can only hope that one day life will teach them that repressing a woman's sexuality serves no one. Women can not be categorized. Women may be complicated, but in this area I present you the simplest equation, the "... us" equation:
Love us, Free us, Hold us, Fuck us, Need us, Marry us, Make Love to us and, above all, Respect us.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Fairy Tale Lessons
I wrote this poem years ago and have edited it recently. Reading my cousin's blog today inspired me to post it.
Fairy Tale Lessons
there's only one woman who can be the fairest of them all. silly queen; she was already old.
fairy godmothers sometimes forget to tell you to leave something behind for the fella. so when in doubt, leave something that could only fit you. like a shoe.
if you never leave your tower, the love of your life will still find you.
dragons are easy to kill.
if you're kinda chubby you can be a fairy.
mothers are not necessary. in fact, it's best if they die at child-birth.
careers are also not necessary. in fact, it's best not to mention them.
when you're passive and unconscious you look really attractive.
hairy, violent, large men should be tolerated and appreciated. listen to your furniture.
homosexuality does not exist.
the less you talk, the more action you get.
love happens only once and it is instantaneous.
the circle of life means females have babies. it's painful, but hey, hakuna matata.
to be a princess you must be shorter than the prince.
old people don't fall in love.
"do you trust me" is always a trick question.
conclusion:
poor humble gorgeous girls get rich handsome princes to rescue them.
the reason they're so skinny is so the prince can carry them and look strong.
if you're one of those girls, don't try having girlfriends. they get jealous. and jealous women are vicious.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Luck
He was cute. I was tipsy. It was noisy. We started making out. It became a thing. We'd meet at parties and make out. Then we'd meet between classes and make out. I was young. I was sure it was just a matter of time before he introduced me to his friends as his girlfriend. I started drawing hearts in my notebooks. I started writing his last name after my first name, secretly, in my diary. I started staring out into space and smiling. I thought I was in love.
And then one day I baked him cookies and went to deliver them to him where he worked. He would undoubtedly fall in love with me after eating my cookies. He would say You're the best baby, let's go out to dinner tonight.
He was on a break, they told me, Outside somewhere. I went outside looking for him. But there was a strange feeling in my gut.
It's funny how we get a feeling before something happens- like we know we're about to see something that's going to scar us for life. Maybe that feeling comes from our heart and it's meant to protect us. Why don't we ever listen to it? I don't know.
There he was, with a busty blonde he worked with, their hips glued together, kissing as though they were long lost lovers. Every cliche I'd ever read suddenly made sense. My heart broke. My brain stopped. The ground beneath my feet disappeared. All of that.
He saw me and smiled, as though he were just playing chess with this girl and I had nothing to worry about. He called me over and introduced us, as if I were his friend and nothing more. Her name was Heather.
It's equally funny how we react in the most painful and traumatizing moments of our lives. I shook her hand. I froze my face into a smile. I knew if I stopped smiling the tears would gush down. I smiled as hard as I have ever smiled in my life. I said See ya later.
I walked away with my box of cookies. I walked until I was alone. I ate all the cookies I had baked for him to fall in love with me. Was I hungry? No, not at all. I was trying to get rid of the bitter taste in my mouth. I was chewing as hard as I could, because I couldn't smile anymore and I wasn't ready to cry yet.
I went home, crawled under my covers, and stayed in bed for two days. I didn't cry- I never cried- but I lay there, paralyzed.
I decided to confront him. I found him and asked him why he did that to me. He seemed calm. He said You didn't think we were exclusive did you? The words went from his mouth and straight into whatever it is in us that registers the great pains of our lives- the ones that even ten years later hurt us still. I said nothing. I walked away as fast as I could because I thought that maybe I could leave that moment there, maybe it wouldn't stay with me, maybe if I walked really really fast that pain wouldn't be able to follow me.
But it was too late. It had already happened. I would never trust a man so purely and innocently again. I decided right then and there that I had no luck whatsoever when it came to love.
The pain never left me, although the bitterness subsided. He even became a friend after a while. Several years later, in a drunken night, he apologized for treating me the way he did. It surprised me. I didn't know he knew he had hurt me. But he knew. I said Nonsense, we were kids, someone had to teach me that fairy tales aren't real. I laughed. But he didn't laugh with me. He said, Please, don't dismiss it, I know I hurt you, let yourself get upset. At that, I started to cry. The tears I had never let go of were still there, waiting right behind my cheeks, and they suddenly burst out of my eyes in relief. Hours went by, I thanked him for apologizing and for letting me cry on his shoulder about the wound he had caused himself. He thanked me for not hating him.
And then we lost touch completely. As though that was all we were meant to live through together. Our paths had crossed for just those reasons, so that we could each learn certain lessons, and then we each went our own way.
I never forgot him. Even as I write about him now, my heart feels both the pain he once caused me and the relief he later gave me. He lives there in the depths of my heart, and with him also lives the girl I used to be- the one who believed in Happily Ever After. And I like to see her every once in a while. She softens the guarded cynical woman I have a tendency to turn into.
She reminds me that I am capable of loving.
Lucky me.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Divine
I'm not a fan of diary-entry posts, but the past 24 hours have been so delicious, I want to write of nothing else.
It started last night, when I couldn't sleep. I didn't fall asleep until 7am this morning, in fact. For those of you who know me- that doesn't happen all that often. For many, insomnia is torture, and I understand that, but every once in a while, I think it's a gift. I think there are places our brains and hearts go to at night that they won't go in daylight, and every once in a while, it's vital that we visit those areas. As soon as I realized my mind wanted a night to itself, I didn't resist it- I gave it the whole night. I tossed and turned when my mind went over everything it's angry about, I cried when my sadness surfaced, I smiled when my fantasies played out in my head like movies, I hugged my pillow and hid under the sheets when my fears took over, I chased a mosquito around when I was too agitated to lie down, and I sat up in bed and stared at the shadows in the dark when my mind was empty.
I fell asleep around 7 and woke up at noon, feeling completely refreshed. After my mind had spent the whole night thinking everything it wanted to think about, it was free of its clutter and noise. It was quiet, and my heart was peacefully open.
I danced downstairs to the kitchen and started cooking- one of my absolute favorite things to do. I don't know why chopping vegetables fills me with such joy, but it does. I made soup for my family and went out to meet my friend Marina.
A word about Marina: She and I have been friends since we were four. Marina knows I love to tell people about how she is my oldest friend, about how we've known each other for 20 years. She is a friend I hold dearly in my heart and soul, and, being a fellow artist, she was the perfect person to spend this day with.
We went to MASP, a small museum in Sao Paulo. I love small museums more than anything. The beautiful MASP had three exquisite exhibits. One was of photographs by Walker Evans- which I found to be completely delicate and sensitive in their portrayal of America in the 1930's. Another was of Greek Mythological art- which I'm obsessed with so, needless to say, I loved it. And the last was of the history of 'the Portrait', which was fascinating in showing how the portrayal of a face has evolved from being photo-perfect to being a complete dismantling of realism.
How rare to go to a museum and love everything you see- I felt truly privileged.
Then we went to FNAC, a huge book and media store. I love huge crowded bookstores about as much as I love small empty museums. I'm strange like that. We sat at the cafe, I had two cappuccinos, then we wandered around, I bought two books and felt like I'd won a trophy. Books have that effect on me.
My day ended with a glass of red wine while watching a movie with my dad. Perfection never tasted so good.
As you can see, the past 24 hours have been a real gift- the first half dedicated to clearing my mind, and the second half to filling it with things I love. My brain is yet again filled with excitement about life, my soul is soaring, and I am smiling, which is, forgive me for boasting, absolutely divine.
It started last night, when I couldn't sleep. I didn't fall asleep until 7am this morning, in fact. For those of you who know me- that doesn't happen all that often. For many, insomnia is torture, and I understand that, but every once in a while, I think it's a gift. I think there are places our brains and hearts go to at night that they won't go in daylight, and every once in a while, it's vital that we visit those areas. As soon as I realized my mind wanted a night to itself, I didn't resist it- I gave it the whole night. I tossed and turned when my mind went over everything it's angry about, I cried when my sadness surfaced, I smiled when my fantasies played out in my head like movies, I hugged my pillow and hid under the sheets when my fears took over, I chased a mosquito around when I was too agitated to lie down, and I sat up in bed and stared at the shadows in the dark when my mind was empty.
I fell asleep around 7 and woke up at noon, feeling completely refreshed. After my mind had spent the whole night thinking everything it wanted to think about, it was free of its clutter and noise. It was quiet, and my heart was peacefully open.
I danced downstairs to the kitchen and started cooking- one of my absolute favorite things to do. I don't know why chopping vegetables fills me with such joy, but it does. I made soup for my family and went out to meet my friend Marina.
A word about Marina: She and I have been friends since we were four. Marina knows I love to tell people about how she is my oldest friend, about how we've known each other for 20 years. She is a friend I hold dearly in my heart and soul, and, being a fellow artist, she was the perfect person to spend this day with.
We went to MASP, a small museum in Sao Paulo. I love small museums more than anything. The beautiful MASP had three exquisite exhibits. One was of photographs by Walker Evans- which I found to be completely delicate and sensitive in their portrayal of America in the 1930's. Another was of Greek Mythological art- which I'm obsessed with so, needless to say, I loved it. And the last was of the history of 'the Portrait', which was fascinating in showing how the portrayal of a face has evolved from being photo-perfect to being a complete dismantling of realism.
How rare to go to a museum and love everything you see- I felt truly privileged.
Then we went to FNAC, a huge book and media store. I love huge crowded bookstores about as much as I love small empty museums. I'm strange like that. We sat at the cafe, I had two cappuccinos, then we wandered around, I bought two books and felt like I'd won a trophy. Books have that effect on me.
My day ended with a glass of red wine while watching a movie with my dad. Perfection never tasted so good.
As you can see, the past 24 hours have been a real gift- the first half dedicated to clearing my mind, and the second half to filling it with things I love. My brain is yet again filled with excitement about life, my soul is soaring, and I am smiling, which is, forgive me for boasting, absolutely divine.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
My "F" Word
I was at a bar a few months ago talking to a guy whom I was not interested in at all- which means we were constantly searching for topics of conversation in anything that presented itself. So when a bachelorette party invaded the bar, we were relieved to have something to stare at and talk about. At one point he asked me what I thought of the bride-to-be being covered with plastic mini-penises.
I started to reply, "well, I'm a feminist, so..."
And he interrupted me, saying, "Ooooo, the F word!"
My face must have registered confusion, because he then said, "Feminist. A Dirrrrty Word." And laughed.
I felt my insides split in two- one half was very deservedly understandably furious and wanted to yell and storm away from the ignorant little fart, and the other half wanted to be desperately charming and flirt away the bad energy so as to not give him another reason to hate feminism and, consequently, women.
I took a deep breath, smiled, and said. "Now there, hold on a second, feminism isn't really a dirty word."
He didn't seem to notice that I took the road less traveled and was trying to be polite. He very rudely said, "Oh shit- you're not gonna lecture me on that crap are you?"
I could have said half a million things at that moment, but I didn't. I walked away and, as I left the bar and walked home, my eyes filled with tears and my chest started to hurt.
I have been thinking about that night a lot, and why there's so much prejudice against the word feminism and feminists. I may be wrong, but it seems to me that the same people who fight racism and homophobia take a step back when it comes to fighting sexism.
I hear people saying feminism is dated, it's no longer relevant. I hear women saying they're not feminists because they don't hate men. I hear all sorts of people say feminism is for ugly fat lesbians who were rejected by society. I hear people say they don't know what feminism really is, let alone what it's for.
I understand the apprehension and the fear, I was not always a fan of the word- or the cause- myself. But as soon as I started educating myself about what feminism really is, I felt so closely connected to it that I suddenly felt extreme pride in calling myself a feminist and embracing feminism as one of my missions in this life. As Gloria Steinem once described it, when we start to read feminist literature and talk to women about women's issues, it's like a thin veil is lifted from our eyes. We start to wonder, Why am I repressing my needs so that my boyfriend doesn't think I'm clingy? Why do I see other women as rivals? Why am I expected to get married and raise kids but not enjoy sex with as many men or people as I wish to? Why didn't my mother have a life other than being a wife and mother? Why do I try to say things that make men think I'm cool with their behavior, even when I'm not? Why am I spending more time trying to be attractive to men than say, learning French, or reading all the books I want to read, or traveling, or doing things for me? etc.
And once that veil is lifted, we can't unknow what we know.
When I did "The Vagina Monologues" in college one of the women in the cast said, "Every woman is feminist, whether she knows it or not," - a phrase I deeply believe in now. I had a dream once about a tree that lived in my heart, and when I analyzed that tree, I found it was a beautiful metaphor for Feminism, capital F. A huge tree, with lots of branches, each one holding a different aspect of Feminism- Wisdom, Strength, Love, Courage, Equality, Sisterhood, Opportunity, Motherhood, Creative Force, Energy, Faith, and Ability to Grow.
I find that a lot of women choose a few to embrace but don't want to acknowledge the whole tree they have within them. But that tree is life, and every branch is a vein in our bodies, giving our heart what it needs to stay strong.
I love my tree, I love my "F" word. It is my stability and my power. I proudly hold it in my heart. I hope you do too.
"And she gathered all before her
And she made for them a sign to see
And lo they saw a vision
From this day forth
Like to like in all things
And then all that divided them merged
And then everywhere was
Eden once again."
-From a banner at The Elizabeth A. Sackler Center for Feminist Art
I started to reply, "well, I'm a feminist, so..."
And he interrupted me, saying, "Ooooo, the F word!"
My face must have registered confusion, because he then said, "Feminist. A Dirrrrty Word." And laughed.
I felt my insides split in two- one half was very deservedly understandably furious and wanted to yell and storm away from the ignorant little fart, and the other half wanted to be desperately charming and flirt away the bad energy so as to not give him another reason to hate feminism and, consequently, women.
I took a deep breath, smiled, and said. "Now there, hold on a second, feminism isn't really a dirty word."
He didn't seem to notice that I took the road less traveled and was trying to be polite. He very rudely said, "Oh shit- you're not gonna lecture me on that crap are you?"
I could have said half a million things at that moment, but I didn't. I walked away and, as I left the bar and walked home, my eyes filled with tears and my chest started to hurt.
I have been thinking about that night a lot, and why there's so much prejudice against the word feminism and feminists. I may be wrong, but it seems to me that the same people who fight racism and homophobia take a step back when it comes to fighting sexism.
I hear people saying feminism is dated, it's no longer relevant. I hear women saying they're not feminists because they don't hate men. I hear all sorts of people say feminism is for ugly fat lesbians who were rejected by society. I hear people say they don't know what feminism really is, let alone what it's for.
I understand the apprehension and the fear, I was not always a fan of the word- or the cause- myself. But as soon as I started educating myself about what feminism really is, I felt so closely connected to it that I suddenly felt extreme pride in calling myself a feminist and embracing feminism as one of my missions in this life. As Gloria Steinem once described it, when we start to read feminist literature and talk to women about women's issues, it's like a thin veil is lifted from our eyes. We start to wonder, Why am I repressing my needs so that my boyfriend doesn't think I'm clingy? Why do I see other women as rivals? Why am I expected to get married and raise kids but not enjoy sex with as many men or people as I wish to? Why didn't my mother have a life other than being a wife and mother? Why do I try to say things that make men think I'm cool with their behavior, even when I'm not? Why am I spending more time trying to be attractive to men than say, learning French, or reading all the books I want to read, or traveling, or doing things for me? etc.
And once that veil is lifted, we can't unknow what we know.
When I did "The Vagina Monologues" in college one of the women in the cast said, "Every woman is feminist, whether she knows it or not," - a phrase I deeply believe in now. I had a dream once about a tree that lived in my heart, and when I analyzed that tree, I found it was a beautiful metaphor for Feminism, capital F. A huge tree, with lots of branches, each one holding a different aspect of Feminism- Wisdom, Strength, Love, Courage, Equality, Sisterhood, Opportunity, Motherhood, Creative Force, Energy, Faith, and Ability to Grow.
I find that a lot of women choose a few to embrace but don't want to acknowledge the whole tree they have within them. But that tree is life, and every branch is a vein in our bodies, giving our heart what it needs to stay strong.
I love my tree, I love my "F" word. It is my stability and my power. I proudly hold it in my heart. I hope you do too.
"And she gathered all before her
And she made for them a sign to see
And lo they saw a vision
From this day forth
Like to like in all things
And then all that divided them merged
And then everywhere was
Eden once again."
-From a banner at The Elizabeth A. Sackler Center for Feminist Art
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Real Beauty
I was caught quite off-guard when, a few years ago, a friend told me I had an advantage in life because I was attractive. In fact, I laughed, thinking she was joking. But she wasn't. To this friend of mine, I was beautiful and, as far as she was concerned, I was born that way, and my life was easier because of it. In my mind, however, she was as far from the truth as possible.
As a child I thought beauty was Barbie, which meant I was very, very ugly. No one ever said so- but no one really ever said I was beautiful either. I had big chubby cheeks and I was cute, maybe, but people did not refer to me as a "beautiful child." And cute didn't last very long either, because I grew very tall, and tall children are not considered cute. In the first grade my teacher had us line up according to height once and I was the tallest kid in my class, taller even than the boys, so I knew at that moment that I was never going to be a princess. A devastating fact to learn at the age of 6.
Adolescence was not kind to me either. My hair was suddenly frizzy, I got pimples, and my boobs were huge. In a bra and behind a shirt, my boobs actually worked in my favor, but they were heavy and sagged- meaning I could never wear a shirt without a bra, not even a built-in bra, and going to the beach was a horror show. My nose was too wide for my face, I had to wear braces on my teeth, I had facial hair, and one of my ears stuck out (just one- which is worse than both sticking out).
But all was not lost. I lived in Brazil, after all. There were magazines telling me that Real Beauty was attainable, even for ugly plain girls like me, and there were dermatologists and plastic surgeons at every corner ready to help me get there.
And so it started. From the age of 12-17 I had 72 very painful facials, at 15 I had 3 very painful plastic surgeries, at 16 I underwent 10 very painful (and expensive) laser procedures for hair-removal that felt like I was electrocuting my face, from 14-17 I had my hair straightened twice a week, and for the past 12 years I have spent thousands (perhaps millions) of dollars on face creams, hair creams, and body creams. Oh- let me not forget the three years of physical therapy to fix my posture (which had been ruined by the weight of my breasts and my extremely low self-esteem), and the endless pursuit of thinness that haunts me still.
And so since the age of about 18 I have been able to look in the mirror and see my perfect nose, my well-behaved skin and hair, my straight teeth, my small breasts, etc. and yes, I guess I see something closer to Real Beauty than I'd known before.
Except nothing about it feels real.
At 18, a truly beautiful man, the most beautiful man I've ever been involved with to date, took an interest in me. He thought I was beautiful, and said so, many times. I had dated other boys, but no one as purely good looking as this guy. I didn't believe him, though, and our romance quickly ended as a result. That would not be the first time my insecurities got in the way of my dating life. When I meet a man who thinks I'm beautiful, I cringe. Deep inside, although I rarely reveal this, I am waiting for him to "discover" that I'm not beautiful at all. I know he'll see it- not exactly that I'm not beautiful- because the job was well done, I admit, I can fool anyone now- but that I was not born beautiful, I don't possess Real Beauty, and, above all, I still have an ugly plain girl within.
When that friend saw me as someone who belonged in the category of the few who not only possess, but take for granted, Real Beauty, I was surprised, yes, but I was also scared. Scared of my own facade, of its power and its sudden realness in my life. I explained to my friend what my reality was, and as she listened I saw her thinking of her own history with beauty/ugliness. She was one of those women who considered herself plain and ugly, and she was caught quite off-guard herself when I explained that the real difference between us was that I had the money and the cultural incentive to change what I looked like.
Do I think it's right for a young girl to have gone through everything I went through in order to fit into the mold of conventional beauty? No, I don't. I don't think teenagers should have plastic surgery, I don't think children should be aware of beauty, I don't think women should ever ever think they're fat.
But would I take away the image I see in the mirror now? Would I put back the wide nose, would I go back to the heavy sagging breasts, would I be okay with post-adolescence blemished skin, would I stop dieting? No, I wouldn't. It pains me to say so, but I know it's true. I rather be attractive, cost what it may have cost me (emotionally and financially), even if it never feels real.
I do wonder what my life would be like if I (and the society I was raised in) just accepted me as I was. Not only accepted, but recognized it as beautiful in its own non-conventional way. I have wondered many times; what if magazines were covered with models who had normal bodies, frizzy hair, a pimple or two? What if there was no air-brushing, what if naturally "beautiful" people were not valued more than "normal-looking" people? What would I look like now? How would I feel about myself? How many boyfriends would I have had? How many leading roles would I have been cast in? How many clothes would I have never bought? How many places would I have been ignored in?
Asking all these questions is futile, really, no answer can really be known. I share my story and my thoughts on beauty in hopes that one day, if I ever have a daughter, she will find her beauty without battling her own Self and wounding her soul. In hopes that one day, when someone tells me I'm beautiful, the compliment won't come with the reminder of my enslavement to it, and, more than anything, that I may be able to believe that what that person is seeing is the Real Me.
As a child I thought beauty was Barbie, which meant I was very, very ugly. No one ever said so- but no one really ever said I was beautiful either. I had big chubby cheeks and I was cute, maybe, but people did not refer to me as a "beautiful child." And cute didn't last very long either, because I grew very tall, and tall children are not considered cute. In the first grade my teacher had us line up according to height once and I was the tallest kid in my class, taller even than the boys, so I knew at that moment that I was never going to be a princess. A devastating fact to learn at the age of 6.
Adolescence was not kind to me either. My hair was suddenly frizzy, I got pimples, and my boobs were huge. In a bra and behind a shirt, my boobs actually worked in my favor, but they were heavy and sagged- meaning I could never wear a shirt without a bra, not even a built-in bra, and going to the beach was a horror show. My nose was too wide for my face, I had to wear braces on my teeth, I had facial hair, and one of my ears stuck out (just one- which is worse than both sticking out).
But all was not lost. I lived in Brazil, after all. There were magazines telling me that Real Beauty was attainable, even for ugly plain girls like me, and there were dermatologists and plastic surgeons at every corner ready to help me get there.
And so it started. From the age of 12-17 I had 72 very painful facials, at 15 I had 3 very painful plastic surgeries, at 16 I underwent 10 very painful (and expensive) laser procedures for hair-removal that felt like I was electrocuting my face, from 14-17 I had my hair straightened twice a week, and for the past 12 years I have spent thousands (perhaps millions) of dollars on face creams, hair creams, and body creams. Oh- let me not forget the three years of physical therapy to fix my posture (which had been ruined by the weight of my breasts and my extremely low self-esteem), and the endless pursuit of thinness that haunts me still.
And so since the age of about 18 I have been able to look in the mirror and see my perfect nose, my well-behaved skin and hair, my straight teeth, my small breasts, etc. and yes, I guess I see something closer to Real Beauty than I'd known before.
Except nothing about it feels real.
At 18, a truly beautiful man, the most beautiful man I've ever been involved with to date, took an interest in me. He thought I was beautiful, and said so, many times. I had dated other boys, but no one as purely good looking as this guy. I didn't believe him, though, and our romance quickly ended as a result. That would not be the first time my insecurities got in the way of my dating life. When I meet a man who thinks I'm beautiful, I cringe. Deep inside, although I rarely reveal this, I am waiting for him to "discover" that I'm not beautiful at all. I know he'll see it- not exactly that I'm not beautiful- because the job was well done, I admit, I can fool anyone now- but that I was not born beautiful, I don't possess Real Beauty, and, above all, I still have an ugly plain girl within.
When that friend saw me as someone who belonged in the category of the few who not only possess, but take for granted, Real Beauty, I was surprised, yes, but I was also scared. Scared of my own facade, of its power and its sudden realness in my life. I explained to my friend what my reality was, and as she listened I saw her thinking of her own history with beauty/ugliness. She was one of those women who considered herself plain and ugly, and she was caught quite off-guard herself when I explained that the real difference between us was that I had the money and the cultural incentive to change what I looked like.
Do I think it's right for a young girl to have gone through everything I went through in order to fit into the mold of conventional beauty? No, I don't. I don't think teenagers should have plastic surgery, I don't think children should be aware of beauty, I don't think women should ever ever think they're fat.
But would I take away the image I see in the mirror now? Would I put back the wide nose, would I go back to the heavy sagging breasts, would I be okay with post-adolescence blemished skin, would I stop dieting? No, I wouldn't. It pains me to say so, but I know it's true. I rather be attractive, cost what it may have cost me (emotionally and financially), even if it never feels real.
I do wonder what my life would be like if I (and the society I was raised in) just accepted me as I was. Not only accepted, but recognized it as beautiful in its own non-conventional way. I have wondered many times; what if magazines were covered with models who had normal bodies, frizzy hair, a pimple or two? What if there was no air-brushing, what if naturally "beautiful" people were not valued more than "normal-looking" people? What would I look like now? How would I feel about myself? How many boyfriends would I have had? How many leading roles would I have been cast in? How many clothes would I have never bought? How many places would I have been ignored in?
Asking all these questions is futile, really, no answer can really be known. I share my story and my thoughts on beauty in hopes that one day, if I ever have a daughter, she will find her beauty without battling her own Self and wounding her soul. In hopes that one day, when someone tells me I'm beautiful, the compliment won't come with the reminder of my enslavement to it, and, more than anything, that I may be able to believe that what that person is seeing is the Real Me.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Nostalgia
A 24-year-old feeling nostalgic is, at best, pretentious. But it can't be helped when one goes back to a childhood place- in my case my mother's hometown, a small town built around a church in the countryside, deep in the state of Sao Paulo, a five hour drive from the city- a place where I spent all my holidays growing up. I just got back from spending five days there and, as expected, memories sat waiting for me to find them at every corner.
The first memory greeted me at the front steps into the house my grandfather lived and died in- the house we now stay in when we go back there.
A delicious memory: I'm ten or eleven years old, sitting on those steps with my little cousin, eating my favorite fruit: a peach, so ripe its juices stream down my arm, its insides matching the sunset that surrounds us. Children don't usually appreciate sunsets- in fact that time of day is associated with the end of fun and the nearing of a dreaded time: bedtime. But on this day I am happy to see the sun go down because it is unusually hot. And as we sit there doing nothing but eating our fruits and waiting for the air to cool down, I say something that I couldn't possibly have understood at the time, I either heard it on television or- and this is my preferred explanation- my older self interfered with my childhood and spoke these wise old words simply because they were absolutely true: "This is the happiest day of my life."
I recall nothing before this moment on that day or after- I don't know what we did earlier or what we ate for dinner- my memory has kept only these few minutes in which I experienced the perfection of life without knowing it.
Re-living this memory now, it is still a mystery to me how I, at such a young age, was able to appreciate the simplicity of a childhood summer in the country, and I still question if I had any idea what I was talking about. But the memory sat there on those steps waiting for me all these years, knowing I would find it when I needed it. And I did need it, I need it always- that child's wisdom and the perfect sweetness of a time that so often feels like a lifetime ago, but is actually always available to me, with its lessons and its truth, whenever I need it.
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