I have no memory of being born in a bikini. I have no memory of laying in the maternity ward at Booth Memorial, freshly waxed, manicured, in a swimsuit, ready for a selfie. I don’t remember anyone exclaiming, “You need to hit the gym!” upon delivery from my mother’s womb. I do remember feeling most free while butt naked, giggling and happy. I remember being at home by the sea, in sand. Island girl. Hashtag.
Until one day, someone said,
Close your legs
Don’t be fast
Put on a robe
Tone down that dance
Dim your light
Don’t say that, don’t do that, don’t wear that
You will attract too much attention, so don’t.
Don’t stand, sit, walk, look like that.
And DEFINITELY DO NOT feel that way.
As if my skin is too brown
My smile too bright
My long legs, less than phenomenal
My waist too small
My thoughts, words and opinions ALL wrong.
And my privacy, isn’t as private as I was taught, since everyone is obsessed with what it’s doing and who it’s not
Eye internalize that I must be wrong. I’m not as perfect as they said.
So much for ten fingers and ten toes, born breathing
Send her back!
She’s orgasmic and blissful. She makes us feel uncomfortable. We need shot guns, an arsenal to hold them back!
Now, how can any ten year old girl focus in class holding all of that?
The fears of the anti-matriarch burdening her back
What else can she do but rebel?
Demand to be free!
What else can she do but agree and subconsciously layer by layer,
Cell by cell tear apart her body?
Destroy the unloved…
She grows up believing she is flawed and broken.
Then once a year a light shines. A door opens. The campaign begins and she can “Get Bikini Ready”
Strut for all to see.
Finally free to BE!
Even though there is no pool or beach near her or her, she too, can live the fantasy. She too can contort her mind, body, dreams, finances, heart, soul and schedule into a frenzied race, for the opportunity to be as close to naked, happy and free as possible. Only now, to be accepted, to be embraced as if she was still Momma’s Baby and Daddy’s Little Girl, worthy of endless hugs, kisses and smiles over all she did, receiving love and acceptance from all who peeped into her crib… now, she must be a million different versions of perfect. She has to “get right” in 90 Days…21 Days…no, 2 weeks to be allowed the privilege to shine, to beautifully adorn herself, to be adored and to commune with the very essence that created Her.
If she fails, even a little bit, she may eat, drink, smoke, mope and sex herself into not caring… until next get bikini ready season