Some thoughts on Bodies

Joy here…I was raised on a healthy dose of second wave feminism, the kind of feminism that was angry and frustrated, and my coming of age was shaped by the 1980s where feminism's face was that of Margaret Thatcher, the first woman PM of Britain.  My notions of what it meant to be empowered as a girl and young woman were formed by notions that feminism demanded some pretty sharp binaries:  smart OR pretty.

And it was pretty clear that a body was something that any self-respecting woman hated as she minimized its effect on her life.  There were no conversations about PMS having any effect on one's day-to-day life; tears were a definite no-no (as were pretty much all emotions); and the refrain from "Anything you can do" was to be taken as a guiding principle in my young life.

In those formative years, I saw that in order to be a woman worthy of note, one must not concern oneself with physically, including make up or hairdos.  My mom made sure that it was ingrained in me that pedicures and manicures were the luxuries of women with nothing else going on in their lives, or that leaving the house without a stitch of makeup on was a mark of her strong character (and in no way related to how hectic life must have been raising 4 kids).

Without knowing it, I was steeped in a Platonic duality that kept the body and mind separate, with the body being always and eternally inferior to what was going on in my mind.

So as I grew up, if you happened to say I looked good, you were likely to get a dirty look; and if I knew you well, I might even add on a shrill lecture to go with my dirty look.  As I got older, if you were dating me and made the mistake of telling me that I looked sexy, you were likely to get a nasty tongue lashing rather than an erotic tongue licking for your mistake.

Attention to bodies (mine or anyone else's) made me very uncomfortable.

And this all the while growing up with a guilty love of Barbies.

Please, mom, can I get a Barbie????

My mom, however, had a strict Barbie embargo; she wasn't letting one of those body dysfunctional things in our house!  So, of course, whenever denied something, that something becomes even more important and significant, as as a youngster I longed for and dreamed about Barbies, until my aunt bought me my one and only Barbie.  To my seven-year old eyes, when she married my uncle, she looked just like a Barbie (and to her credit, some 30 years on, I think she's still pretty much Barbie's dead ringer), and I certainly didn't (and don't) think any less of her for it.

But in my feminist desires to eschew screwed up body imagery that surrounds us in everyday media; in my so-called emancipated notion that my brain is what counts and my body can be relegated to second-class status; and in my willingness to equate self-love with shallow superficiality, I have forgotten that my body (and anyone else's for that matter) is this amazing tool, one intimately connected to one's spirit and mind.

The ever-talented Jennifer Lawrence playing
Katniss Everdeen.

As I've been out there hitting every single workout as planned over this last week, I've refound that connection between my body and the rest of me.  I've re-reminded myself that through sport I have to face my demons - my fear of failure, my willingness to be self-destructive - and overcome them.  I've also had to realize that my body is truly amazing.  It is strong; it is capable.

Let me rephrase that:  I am strong; I am capable.

A recent New York Times article lamenting the dearth of female action heroes identified Katniss (the character) and Jennifer Lawrence (the actress) from The Hunger Games as being potentially "transformative" in our culture:  "both princess and tomboy, glamorous and earthly, gorgeous and wickedly talented."

Perhaps one of the lessons that I need to embrace on this journey with sport is that I really can have it all, be it all, and do it all.  My body is not the enemy.

2008...

…5 years later, 2013.

That's me…that's my body; and I don't have to hate it in order to respect myself!  

Over and out, 

Joy