an essay on self image by me (rkm)
I have seen myself through many lenses in my life. I have seen myself as beautiful through the eyes of my loving parents, I have seen myself through the eyes of an awkward little girl who would rather avoid a mirror, I have seen myself with the lustful gaze of an older man, I have seen my joy and my confidence through the eyes of my friends, and I’ve seen the girl basking in the insincere adoration of the boys she thinks love her.
I am told to be ladylike, to smile at strangers and always to be polite. I do well with adults and am told I have a developed sense of humor. Before I am a teenager, my grandmother tells me through a mindless haze that I must be turning heads. As I become a young woman, I am curtly aware of my developed body. I wear what my classmates wear and am branded a slut; I wear my uniform at work and am told to cover up.
My boss, the head professional golfer at this elite, members-exclusive club, somehow, is proud that behind the scenes of serving the upper crust, his staff finds a way to engage in as much debauchery and hijinks as possible. At sixteen, I have never seen grownups act this way and have never had them speak to me so directly.
“We don’t ask you to do much more than to sit on your chair and look pretty,” one of the pros says to me one day, in response to my request for a lunch break. I decide to take the compliment and say nothing more. I worship the interns that I work with each summer. Always two boys, usually sophomores and juniors in college. Being a high school girl, I love getting to spend my summers with them, of course their attention makes me feel like one of the grownups myself. When I am just seventeen, they tell me,
“If you want to keep a man, you need to know how to do a split.” And every day they coach me. Further and further until there is no space between me and the ground. I beam with accomplishment the day I finally get it; I want them to be proud of me. They say to me, “Now you’re worthy.” I often hear my boss telling me things like,
“Smile pretty for the members,” or “You know there’s no harm in a little flirt or nod, it’ll make their day.” I am sixteen, I am impressionable, I do what he says. I cannot believe he thinks that I possess this kind of power in my looks.
There is a member, Mr. Smith; He is a funny man, and he always asks how my day is going. I am always extra friendly to him because I genuinely look forward to the members who treat me nicely. It happens so quickly one day when Mr. Smith comes into the shop, I look up from my folding and smile. His tall frame slinks into the women's section, where I am neatly adjusting a pink collared shirt. Before I can blink, his hand is on the front of my skirt, which has a belt tied into a bow, he pulls me until my body was flush with his, and he whispers into my ear,
“I like the seersucker on you, wear this more often.” I will never wear it again. I thank God when the phone rings and I hurry behind my desk, no member dare crosses the threshold between the shop and behind my space. I can feel my breath heavy and my heartbeat in my throat as I greet Mrs. Smith, who always trails behind her husband with two cocktails for their round.
“Don’t lie about stuff like that. The interns laugh as they scold me, somehow silencing me while joking around. I keep my mouth shut so as not to get into too much trouble.
I tell my friends when I get home at the end of the day and they laugh, so I laugh along. When I am alone, I feel conflicted. I feel like an ugly duckling, overlooked by boys my own age. It’s these older men at the club who seem to see me, I feel disgusted but wonder if I am meant to welcome these kinds of advances.
When I get to college, I experience unprecedented attention, I do not mind it that much; guys my age find me attractive, what could be wrong with that? I kiss a stranger in the bar or feel a guy's hand get a little too low on my back, but it’s never beyond my control. I sleep in a bed with boys I feel I trust where they call me names that I’d reserve for an enemy and lock strong hands around the neck that they kiss. They leave me gasping for air.
I have always been a flirt, so I second guess myself when I worry that I have led someone on. Could I have said the wrong thing? Smiled too much? Looked at him just the wrong way? As I grew up, I certainly became interested in boys. I always knew when I was interested how to flirt and have never felt much shame in my sexuality. It helps that a charming smile or a few kind words from a boy can make me feel like I am walking in the sun.
My phone has been full of photos of my body in leather, in lace, in nothing. I share them with the boys I think I love, who seem indifferent to me until the sun has gone down. Boys claim they need me, that they think about me all day long, that they wonder what my body feels like. To be desired is not to be loved but learning that has not come quickly. A photo sent and one in return feels like knowing I am wanted. I certainly am wanted, but only to touch, to grab, to taste, to see, but never to love, and never to stay. My eagerness, my insecurity, and my wanting to be loved are so easily misused in the wrong hands.
I am drunk, it’s my birthday, and I feel lips on mine, though I can’t really breathe. I am aware that I’m sitting on the concrete, but otherwise unsure where I am. The sound of a door bursting open and a familiar voice, the heavy body ripped away from me and the sound of screaming. Another man taking what is in front of him from the pretty girl who can’t say no. Every breath is tight, and my heart is cement.
At a party I talk to boys I call my friends. Dressed for the theme, my top is small and sequined, definitely leaving little to the imagination. Some of them flirt lightly, not something that I mind, and with the touch of an arm and a giggle, maybe I return the favor. I am snapped from this moment when a voice rings across the yard from the porch,
“Pull your tits out.” Unsure who he’s talking to, the chatter at the party dies down and most of us look around to see who is speaking, and more importantly, who he’s addressing. Initially, I laugh, I know him! He was probably talking to one of the guys, being stupid for the sake of it. Louder this time, he repeats himself, saying my name. My face is red-hot like the sun.
“If it makes you feel better, he just thinks you’re hot.” The crowd all turn to look at me. There is an anvil on my chest.
I flash back to being sixteen, kissed by a stranger, feeling I might be beautiful for the first time. Though I wasn’t sure what I wanted, I had never felt chosen by a boy before. I remember him, sixteen as well, just as lost as I was. I remember then being trapped beneath his body weight, sick to my stomach and unsure what to do. I did not feel beautiful anymore. I blink and I am twenty-one, in the same position, the man atop me is thirty-three. I hear the echoes of men telling me I am perfect. I beg him to stop, and he yells at me,
“Grow up.” He leaves my apartment, and I am sobbing, throwing his shoes down the hall. He texts me in the morning that I am beautiful and that he’d like to see me again. I spend the day in the bathtub.
One of them tells me I am every problem in his relationship, that he can’t help but let his mind wander back to me. I beg him to leave me alone, to stop with the false hope, to give her and I both the respect we deserve. He says he can’t shake me no matter what he does, that he thinks about all that he wants to do to me. He tells me he can’t forget my body and I want to remind him, through shaking cries, that he doesn’t know my soul.
The men I have known have been tender with me, showering me with gentle kisses, compliments, and small gestures I have longed for through my life. But they have also lied, cheated, and hit me with the same hand that tucks my hair behind my ear. Through slurred speech I have been told I am nothing but temptation, that I am the object of their desire. I am always the prize in a game I am not really playing. I try to laugh and try to connect with them, but nobody really wants to.
“You think you’re funny? You aren’t funny. I definitely don’t talk to you because you’re funny.”
You love enough parts of me to want to invite me down to see you, so that you can finally see what you’ve been missing. You love those parts enough to beg for photos, to tell me not to be so insecure. You don’t love the part of me that loves you, you don’t even have the consideration to tell me that I’m not the only one for you. You don’t bother telling me that there’s someone else who you really love all of. When the phone call ends, after you’ve talked me out of my clothes, my lungs are full of sand.
I have known on my own for a long time that I am beautiful, that there is no need for a man to tell me that. I feel the men who see only the beauty and the body, ignoring the soul in favor of violence and greed. I wonder if I will always feel pain at the hands of the men who say they love me, and I wonder if I will be seen as the woman to nurture instead of the one to conquer. I wonder if the weight in my chest will ever lighten, if I will ever breathe clearly again.
