Purpose of the Body

Reminiscing on the comments about my body that have stuck with me starting from the time I was about 9 until now, including my more recent appreciation for my body and understanding of its purpose.

The Purpose of a Body

 

Weeds and wildflowers surround the path down to my college’s music building. I can hear crickets chirping and birds singing in the tangled bushes. They are communicating-- searching for mates, feeding their babies, and fluttering their wings. They sing unique melodies at different volumes and speeds, creating a chorus so sweet to my human ears; something I could never replicate if I tried. Birds do not criticize one another on the sharpness of their beaks or the softness of their feathers. No, they only sing. We could learn a lot from the birds. 

The thing is, we are not birds. We have things to say to each other. 

 

~

 

I stand by myself on the playground when two of my friends approach me. Happy to have company, I greet them. We talk about the new High School Musical movie for a few minutes. That’s all I remember before these words, which float in time without context. 

“You know being skinny is, like, bad for you. My mom told me. Some people die from being too skinny.” She raises her eyebrows to feign concern.

 Defiant girls. Insecure girls. 

I try to defend myself. Before this moment, I simply saw myself as a girl. I had proportional legs and arms, a regular child’s torso, and small yet capable hands and feet. But when I look down, for the first time, I see something fragile. 

 

Why do I have this body? 

 

~

 

In eighth grade, I decide to be a vampire for Halloween. This is my first scary costume ever, and I’ve gone all out. I am particularly proud of my red denim shorts over black fishnet stockings that one of my more edgy friends left in my sock drawer. My cousin, Nora, grabs my arm at lunch, brings me down a flight of stairs, and stops me in front of the bathroom. She says that she is going to tell me the truth because she is my friend. 

“People have been saying things about you…” 

“What are they saying?”

“Are you sure you want me to tell you?”

“Please tell me.”

“Okay. Some people think that you’re fake.” That’s nothing.

“Well, okay. Anything else?”

“Some of the girls think you have an eating disorder… like they think you’re throwing up your food or something.” 

I am already ever-aware of my skinny legs and the way my ribs show when I stretch. My dad has chicken legs, too--why did he give those to me? I want people to think that I am proportional and strong. I cry there, in front of the bathrooms, and Nora pats my back. From that point on, I will never not be aware of all the eyes on my body. Everyone is watching, judging. This is how they see me.

 

Why do I have a body? 

 

~

 

It is around Halloween-time once again, and I am at my first high school party. Holding hands with my new boyfriend, I creep around to a place where the bushes create a barrier between us and the beer and shouting, and we start kissing. I am in love with him. That, at 15, might be the only thing I know for sure. He laughs. 
“What?!” I giggle. 

“My friends all say you don’t have an a*s, but they’re wrong… Lucky for me.” 

I am strangely overwhelmed with gratitude. He thinks I’m pretty- even sexy! I am proud to have met his standards, but the thrill is stopped short by another thought. Is that the kind of thing people have to say about me? Still? As we continue kissing, he gropes me hard. It doesn’t feel good. The bonfire’s red light illuminates the surrounding branches and leaves. On the other side, people are still drinking and shouting. Watching, judging. 

 

            Why do I have a body? Not for it to be scrutinized. I am sure of that.

 

~         

 

My high school advisor, Mr. Barns, calls me into his office. He is a new English teacher and one of the few people who seem to understand me, as I am 15. I tell Mr. Barns that I feel silly complaining about my trivial problems. I’m lucky; many people are dealing with so much worse. Mr. Barns pushes up his glasses and hesitates for a moment in his usual manner. He is pensive, pressing his knuckles upon his mouth. 

Then he says, “you know, something that maybe people don’t figure out about you right away is that you’re really strong. You’re a really strong person.”

 I hold back tears because I don’t want to cry in front of a teacher. He doesn’t know it, but his words have affirmed my whole being. 

I remember myself feeling dizzy and sick but still walking around town with my friends on Halloween because I loved the day so much. A few days later, I was hospitalized with pneumonia. I was as dramatic as possible, of course, calling my friends and sobbing every half hour, and probably making my mom, who sat at my bedside, miserable. Disregarding the greatness of modern medicine when it comes to treating common lung infections, I started planning my funeral. But then I fell asleep, my tears dried, and I kept breathing. I could leave the hospital after three days, at which time I got dressed and went to school for just an hour so I could hug my friends. I broke up with my boyfriend a few months later. I had that classic post-breakup feeling of dread; the thought that maybe I would never find someone who loved me. It felt like my whole body was caving in. Then I picked up my head, relaxed my shaking hands, and walked to class. I returned that body back to the girl who had owned it all along. So many times before, she had rented it out to judgements, and she was not going to do that again. The renters were messy; clearly, they didn’t understand the body’s value. Moving and doing and overcoming.

 

This is why I have a body.