{"id":2195,"date":"2017-08-14T19:42:53","date_gmt":"2017-08-14T19:42:53","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/floridareview.cah.ucf.edu\/article\/i-called-mine-beautiful\/"},"modified":"2017-08-14T19:42:53","modified_gmt":"2017-08-14T19:42:53","slug":"i-called-mine-beautiful","status":"publish","type":"article","link":"https:\/\/cah.ucf.edu\/floridareview\/article\/i-called-mine-beautiful\/","title":{"rendered":"I Called Mine Beautiful"},"content":{"rendered":"

2016 Editors’ Award in Creative Nonfiction\u2014Winner<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Maybe it would be useful to know that when I was a five-year-old girl, lying alone in the dark, I invented ways to twist my pink Care Bear nighty into a sexy outfit. I knew what \u201csexy\u201d looked like because I\u2019d seen Jessica Rabbit and the way her matching sultry eyes and mountain-breasts made the room stop and drool. I\u2019d also spent many secret hours in the basement watching my grandmother\u2019s taped \u201cprograms\u201d (read: countless episodes of As the World Turns<\/em> on stacks of VHS tapes) full of muscly men fervently whispering into the diamond-lobed ears of women in silky blouses. I understood sexy. In these late hours, alone on my small mattress, I would yank one elastic ruffled sleeve down my shoulder and rub my cheek on the smooth skin. Even as this tiny person who didn\u2019t have a clue what sex was, I wanted to be<\/em> sexy\u2014seen as a beautiful object\u2014worth keeping around just to look at. It had not yet occurred to me that my paralyzed legs might have an effect on that dream.<\/p>\n

It might also be useful to tell you about the Saturday afternoon in the late summer when I decided I needed to wear something dazzling to the library. I put on my blue-and-white floral dress-up gown\u2014the one overwhelmed by ruffles and lace, of course. It was made for a body much larger than mine, so the sleeves sagged around my child-arms and the hem landed well below my feet resting limply on the footrest of my hot pink wheelchair. As my dad pushed me over the bumpy sidewalks, cracked with the growing roots of old trees, I felt regal. I was a princess riding an elephant, tilting my chin up with a graceful smile. I was beautiful.<\/p>\n

Before we saw the boys, we heard their wild-boy sounds, joking back and forth on their front porch. I prepared myself to be admired. They would certainly catch their breaths at the sight of my splendor. As my dad pushed me past, I could not bring myself to look at their smitten expressions; I only heard their chatter disappear. I imagined their eyes transformed into throbbing red hearts as we glided past.<\/p>\n

I glowed for the rest of the afternoon, soaring in the revelation that I was powerfully beautiful. As soon as we got home, I flew to my mom, anxious to relive the experience with her.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey couldn\u2019t even speak<\/em> as I walked by, Mom. All of them just stared and stared at me.\u201d I was bursting. I remember my mom\u2019s silence. She looked at me, and I saw sadness in her face. In a rush, like a full balloon gushing icy water over my head, I knew. They were not staring at my loveliness. They were staring at my wheelchair.<\/p>\n

Or maybe they weren\u2019t. Maybe they all went silent as my dad pushed my chair past their porch because one of them had just whipped out a dirty magazine, and they were hovered over the pages glossed with forbidden curves. And maybe my mom failed to match my excitement because she was an exhausted mother of six. Maybe she hadn\u2019t even heard what I said. Certainly she would have felt the need to protect me from misinterpreting the world as a place that celebrated the visual appeal of girls in wheelchairs. The only thing I can confidently tell you about that afternoon walk to the library in my stunning ball gown is the consuming thought that sutured its greedy, gaping mouth to each cell in my body. Boys do not think you are beautiful. The only reason they gaze at you is to gawk at your difference<\/em>. I felt ashamed for believing otherwise.<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/strong><\/p>\n

When my sister Sarah and I were fresh teenagers, we constantly begged our parents to take us shopping. We spent roughly half of our youth in thrift stores, filing through rows of graphic tees and puffy vests, swishy dresses and lacy tank tops. But this was important work\u2014the chance to pick and choose the costumes that would assert to the world what kinds of girls we were. Sarah would fill her arms and I\u2019d stack my lap with every possible style, and we\u2019d try on all the outfits. Hours and hours of fashion shows and what I remember the most was my parents\u2019 constant concern for Sarah\u2019s modesty. The ritual took on a predictable pattern.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s a lovely slip,\u201d my dad would say to Sarah.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not a slip! It\u2019s a dress,\u201d she\u2019d say, rolling her eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh no, I don\u2019t think so. Dresses aren\u2019t that small,\u201d he\u2019d reply, feigning confusion.<\/p>\n

\u201cDaa-ad, come on! It\u2019s not that short.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t know how boys look at girls, Sarah.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s just a dress!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou wear that dress, and none of the boys in the room will be able to think straight.\u201d<\/p>\n

I noticed that neither of my parents ever said this to me. In their silence, I heard: When men look at you, they are able to think perfectly straight<\/em>.<\/p>\n

I was beginning to piece it together. My sister\u2019s body and my body meant different things to the people who looked at them. Hers inspired, tantalized, and mine? Mine\u2014didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/strong><\/p>\n

I am a nearly thirty-year-old woman. I know that objectification of women is a bad thing. I know also that having a body that gets a pass on cat-calling is a bonus, a shield, a super-power of sorts. I also feel compelled to tell you\u2014and why, I really don\u2019t know\u2014I should keep this to myself\u2014except, maybe it\u2019s an important piece\u2014but I was wildly jealous of my sister\u2019s ability to put on a little dress and make the room stop and drool, Jessica Rabbit\u2013style.<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/strong><\/p>\n

Once, when moving down the main drag of my small college town with a group of friends, a man shouted at me on the street, \u201cYou\u2019re the hottest girl in a wheelchair I\u2019ve ever seen!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd you\u2019re the sharpest bowl of mashed potatoes I\u2019ve<\/em> ever seen!\u201d I shouted back.<\/p>\n

No, I didn\u2019t say that. Next time, though. Instead I rolled my eyes, kept moving, and laughed every time I retold the story for the next one hundred years. The man hollering at me on the street was rude and spoke with the thoughtlessness of a drunk man, but he did not make me feel as small or powerless as the man who, unprovoked, approached me from behind, grabbed the handlebars on my chair, and pushed me up a long ramp in front of the library. \u201cThere you go!\u201d he said cheerily, when we reached the top, convinced, I\u2019m sure, he\u2019d met his good-deed quota for the month.<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/strong><\/p>\n

I suppose I do understand objectification. It\u2019s just, instead of being read as an object for sexual gratification, I\u2019m read differently\u2014a signifier of brokenness, helplessness, always in need of some friendly assistance. I wonder, though\u2014it\u2019s scandalous, I know, but sometimes I do<\/em>\u2014I wonder what it would have done for my developing self-perception\u2014my understanding of myself as a woman among women\u2014had my body been included in the objectification most non-disabled women experience. For good or bad, would it have changed my relationships with other women? The course of my career? Would it have affected the outcome of my romantic relationships? (Which, historically, have been a bit of a wreck, in case you were wondering.) Would it have been easier to imagine myself as somebody\u2019s wife? Somebody\u2019s mother? Am I a feminist because or despite the fact that bodies like mine are consistently represented as asexual? While I can see that I\u2019ve gained, I wonder, is there something I have lost?<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/strong><\/p>\n

My sister Sarah started nudging me to create an online dating profile about three years before I actually did. She\u2019d take a picture of me\u2014always something flattering, by the way, like hiking my leg up to jump into my truck or stuffing my face with a plate full of pancakes\u2014then show it back to me with a cheesy smile: \u201cNew online dating profile pic!\u201d When I looked at these images of myself, the first thing my brain did was picture the faces of the men who would see this photo. There they would be on their sleek Macbooks, scrolling through the profile pictures of all these bouncy yoga marathon runners, and I could see them pausing at my photo\u2014the smiling girl in the wheelchair\u2014and cringing. Or worse, stifling a laugh.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll never do it!\u201d I would scream dramatically at my sister. \u201cIt\u2019s too much like an SNL<\/em> skit. The pathetic girl in a wheelchair, looking for love? It\u2019s too awful!\u201d You see what I did there\u2014I made fun of myself before anyone else could. I made sure to start laughing first.<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you think about this part of me?\u201d I asked Jared on our first date. He wore Hollister jeans with bejeweled back pockets. \u201cI mean, what do you think about my wheelchair?\u201d What do you see when you see me?<\/em> I wanted to ask.<\/p>\n

Jared didn\u2019t miss a beat. \u201cIt doesn\u2019t matter to me. It\u2019s not like it defines<\/em> you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Ding, ding, ding!<\/em> I could hear the crowds cheering from the audience. What a well-packaged answer, wrapped in glossy-gold paper. Why did I feel like pushing him out of his chair?<\/p>\n

Maybe it\u2019s because I wondered what it meant if my impaired body did<\/em> define me. Would this be tragic? Could Jared claim that his body did not define him? Is he not somehow defined by the fact that he was born with a penis? That his skin is light? That he towers above most people at six feet and three inches? That he started balding at age twenty-two? Surely all of these characteristics of his body played some part in shaping him into the personality that sat in front of me, but Jared believed that my personality had to be shaped apart from this body that sat in front of him. As if associating me (my personhood) with my body (my crippled legs) would be an insult. A body ignored, discarded, erased.<\/p>\n

After Todd and I had exchanged a few messages online, I asked him whether he had any questions about my disability. He said no. His mom is a physical therapist, he said, so he knows all about that kind of stuff.<\/p>\n

Was I aware, though, of the role diet plays in paralysis? No? My doctors probably hadn\u2019t told me, but Todd knew how a nutrient-rich diet actually had the power to cure me of my ailments. We might have to add a few stretches, too, but Todd was willing to draw me sketches of these exercises. He was hopeful of the results!<\/p>\n

I loved telling people about Todd\u2019s plan for my rehabilitation. \u201cI mean, who would have guessed that all this time it just came down to kale<\/em>?\u201d I would screech.<\/p>\n

Todd\u2019s plan seemed so ridiculously misinformed and unaware that I couldn\u2019t talk about it without giggling. Underneath its hilarious surface, though, there was a darker, rougher thought that I only took out when I was alone, running my fingers along its sharp edges. Todd assumed, without any prompting from me, that I wanted someone to fix me. When Todd saw the photos of my paralyzed legs posted to my profile, he fixated on a problem to be solved. He wanted to talk about the mechanics of my limbs, the emaciated shape of my legs, and devise a way to normalize them. Surely I wanted to be able to walk! Surely I didn\u2019t want to be what I was. Right? A body reduced to an object\u2014a piece of broken machinery.<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/strong><\/p>\n

So, objectification that rushes to help, gawks at difference, erases, pities, belittles, but never sexualizes. And do I want to be sexually objectified? Not right this minute\u2014not while I\u2019m working this through with you. But do I want to be consistently, comprehensively, and automatically asexualized? Well, no, because this invites another twisted form of damage. Let me try this from another angle. Before I had seen how others saw me\u2014before I started constructing an identity for myself based on the gawking gaze of others\u2014I enjoyed my body for what it was. Did you do this, too? I called mine beautiful\u2014worthy of celebration. Did you call yours strong? I proudly wore ball gowns to the library. I smiled coyly, confidently for school photos. I propped myself against the couch and conducted dance classes for my imaginary pupils with a steady, poised hand. It was only after I spent more time in a world that consistently read me as undesirable, helpless, pitiable, that I began to see myself as something other than beautiful. To live in a world that operates on a tight grid, categorizing bodies into tiny slots\u2014\u201cIf you look this way, you fit here, if you move that way, you belong there\u201d\u2014suffocates nearly all of us. What would it mean if we were able to pick our own slots? What happens if we break open the grid?<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cYou mention in your profile that you\u2019ve used a walker and a chair since you were young,\u201d Micah messaged me after a few online exchanges. \u201cHow has that shaped your life? Maybe it\u2019s a ridiculous request, asking you to fit such a large matter into a typed message, and maybe there\u2019s a more polite way to be curious about such a situation, but curious I am, and so I ask.\u201d This made me pause. It felt different. It wasn\u2019t rushing to assist my body. It wasn\u2019t anything like the blind assertion that my body meant nothing. It didn\u2019t assume I was anxious to fix my body. It was curiosity about a body that held stories\u2014stories that he wanted my help to read.<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/strong><\/p>\n

We are more than our bodies. We also have these miraculous bodies. I want to live in a world that does not objectify bodies. I also want to live in a world that allows all bodies to be beautiful objects. I don\u2019t want bodies to be erased, but I also don\u2019t want them to be read without the voice of the owner dictating the narrative. I don\u2019t know how this fits together, but I do wonder what it would feel like if we looked at bodies as records of stories. Try this on with me: bodies as evidence of the nights you stayed up grading papers or writing your thesis or talking to that boy until you could hear the morning birds singing, the millions of times your sister made you laugh until you cried, the grief that ripped through your gut and out all your pores when your grandmother died, the hundreds of greasy pizzas you consumed with the friends who reminded you how to enjoy life. The cancer you beat, the habits you kicked, the wars you survived, the fires that did not consume you, the losses that bent your spine but didn\u2019t break it. Our bodies display resilience as they record and carry, sag and stretch, bloat and shrivel, shine and crack, under the weight of our stories. Bodies as beautiful objects\u2014worth displaying, not because they align with a very narrow standard in contour and shade, but because they have lived<\/em>. What would that feel like? What would that change?<\/p>\n

\u2014<\/strong><\/p>\n

My niece found a lump in her breast last year. The doctor sliced deeply into her young, unmarred body to cut it out, and she grieved the big scar that now scrawled across her body. When she expressed her sense of loss, I understood, and I reeled. If I had feathers, they would have plumed across the span of my body with primal fury at a world that taught her a big scar was lamentable. When I was young, I remember hearing a lot about my \u201cinner beauty,\u201d my \u201cbeautiful heart\u201d\u2014the consolation prizes for ugly girls. I won\u2019t tell my niece that it doesn\u2019t matter what she looks like on the outside. How can it not? At the same time, I don\u2019t think her scar mars her. You are beautiful, will always be beautiful, can be nothing but beautiful as long as you live, and I want you to keep living as bravely and loudly as you can stand, even if it means wounds and stretch marks and ten thousand wrinkles<\/em>, I wanted to shout. Instead, I said, \u201cI think that scar is evidence that your body has survived some pretty horrific stuff, and that’s beautiful.\u201d I wonder if she believed me for even one second.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

2016 Editors’ Award in Creative Nonfiction\u2014Winner   Maybe it would be useful to know that when I was a five-year-old girl, lying alone in the dark, I invented ways to twist my pink Care Bear nighty into a sexy outfit. 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