That is Funny

Fat. It was a word I commonly heard growing up in rigid rich-town. Father, a man who is supposed to show his daughter that if baby girls have baby fat they still are beautiful and loved, conditioned me otherwise-- to believe that beauty has to be worked for and not what we’re made of. Poking my innocent rolls along my waistline, trying to carbon copy me, thinking it’ll all turn out fine. Unwanted and uncalled for phrases vocalizing that I must BE THIN to be wanted and called upon, and that just being yourself was not easy. Giggling laughter followed by fat jokes. It wasn’t funny.

Slut. It was a word I commonly heard growing up in high school hell. Nameless boyfriend, started off as a boy meets girl romantic comedy plot line, shriveled me up in a tortuous turn of events. Dangling a torn little picture over my head, maliciously he distorted, crumpled up my body, and fed me to the fiery demons of insecurities. Too bad Daddy dearest spent his time trying to transform me, and not pointing out the boys, the men, the testosterone driven scum who routinely continued to exploit me, MY BODY, MY INNOCENCE. Venom spitting out the up turned corners of society’s mouth struck me down, blinded me, dizzied up my mind. Everything got dark. The only thing I saw was the malevolent laughter. It wasn’t funny.

Lost. It was a word I commonly heard growing up in an image oriented world. Spiraling into bed with anyone who messed with my head, gaining nothing but immediate gratification, I was convinced that I had to always fight to make it far. A fighter is someone who always pushes the boundaries without any knowledge to what the boundaries are, and won’t let anyone explain. I pushed, perpetuated the exploitation of my own temple, in efforts to feel something further than pain. Played for a fool by a heartless boy, used like a tool, abused like a toy, really did leave its mark on my body by default because there was no man in this daughter’s life to make me believe none of it was her fault. To solve this, I rebelled against the grain of society for not being appreciated, and yelled at myself in blame, disdain, as I slowly deteriorated. The laughter was distant, but ever present. It wasn’t funny.

Strength. It is a word that must be heard growing up as a girl, as distractions of impossible perfection are embedded into our media motivated world. Those three little words have had lifelong impact, but my body, beautiful as ever, stands tall. I stand to give the finger to society’s distorted definition of beauty. I stand to remind everybody that they’re fucking perfect, no matter what details may suggest otherwise. I stand because I must, we must, play our instruments until the music synchs up with our hearts’ direction; to see beauty in the scars, marks, and mistakes is to recognize the strength it takes to love a mirror’s reflection. My strength makes me stand. My flaws make me smile. This time the laughter is familiar…now who’s laughing? Now that is funny.

Written April 2006