The Tears We Cry

A poem reflecting body image issues, and the pain that society brings with its beauty standards.

“You will never be beautiful” I tell her.
You are not graceful, slender, elegant. You are not curvy, empowered; you do not have an hourglass figure.
You do not look like Marilyn Monroe or Ancient Greek goddesses. You do not look like a Victoria’s Secret model.
She cries, knowing she will never be whom she desires, whom she sees and admires.
And I cry with her as I stare at her in my bathroom.
“We are built this way.” I tell her.
We are built broad shouldered.
They used to tell you that you looked like a linebacker, and had the posture of a military commander.
Our shoulders reflect those of our ancestors. The farm workers, the craftsmen, the ones who slaved away hoping for a better life, not caring about how it would affect us.
We are not built to dance, we are built to build, create, work hard and then work harder.
And she cries for every time she tried on clothes and couldn’t fit her arms through the sleeves because “you need a bigger size, those are for skinnier girls” and “that style doesn’t suit you because it makes your shoulders look wider”.
“We are born this way” I tell her.
We are not curvy for having wide hips, and when she cries for not finding pants the right size, I cry the same tears.
We have the hips of women that came before. The hips that birthed generations of our family, that carried laundry, and food, wares, and children.
We carried the family on our hips, and on our shoulders.
And yet she cries because as a child she was thin, she wore jeans that none others could fit into.
“We’re fat” she cries.
We had simply been young, not grown into what was ultimately going to be our figure. And now jeans don’t fit, skirts too tight, dresses can’t cling like they used to.
And we cry for every time mother got disapproving looks in stores for trying on clothes you guys thought were cute, for every time she would cry on the way home and at night about how she was fat.
And we ignored that one day we might feel the same.
“We were made for a different purpose” I remind her.
She cries in pain, as joints ache and creak at such a young age. As muscles tighten from stress and misuse. As bones become brittle.
We have hands passed down from many, from artists, craftsmen, workmen, and mothers.
And you are stuck doing a job nature didn’t prepare you for, because technology has not given you opportunities that we once had.
You ache because you’re indoors, at a desk, stuck in one position, using delicate fingers, artists hands, for a monkeys job.
“My skin isn’t clear, my nose is too big, I’ll never be beautiful”
“You always were, just in different eyes” I chastise.
You’re beautiful in the eyes of those that love you for who you are, your personality bringing beauty even on days when you don’t look your best.
And those who have cared for you have thought you beautiful since birth, through the times when you were growing awkwardly or gathering scars in odd places.
Every time you critique yourself, you slander our history with hurtful words. You insult generations upon generations of women and men who worked hard to give you this life that you seemingly hate living, all because you don’t think you’re beautiful.
And by what standards?
A man whom you’ve never met?
A woman who has never had the opportunity to disprove the hateful words you say about yourself?
Does my opinion, locked deep down, not matter to you?
And what about your mothers opinion? Your fathers? Your grandparents?
You insult us by saying our opinions don’t matter, and you call us liars because you can not appreciate what was gifted to you.
Because you choose to listen to those who only know hate that stems from within themselves.
“You will never be beautiful” I tell her.
And I look her in the eyes, my own reflecting back at me in this mirror, and see the tears we have cried.
“You will never be beautiful. But you’ll always be you”