Skin Deep Talent

“What I want to know is, what are you good at? What are your talents, or what you think you were born doing well?”

The question was well-timed, coming as it did, on the heels of an older woman who had managed to hijack the five-person youth panel discussion with a 10 minute rant. Not a rant but definitely a hushed lecture responding to most of the points the panel had made directly or indirectly in their 30 minutes on stage. 

The question was a bright spot- a positive way to not only return the panel to the panel (in an audience full of black and brown folks, no one really wanted to interrupt a gray-haired elder) and wrap it up on a high note. The moderator smiled brightly and turned to the three young men and two young women on the stage, to offer them the floor. 

Jace, deep bass voice steaming out of a dimpled baby face, answered first. “Running. My family says since I was a baby I’ve been running. I’m good at running.” He pushed the microphone over to the young woman to his left. She shook her head a little. The rest of the group sat quietly, even as the moderator revisited the question. 

“I think everyone should answer this one.” She focused her attention on the young woman Jace had motioned toward. “What are you good at?” 

The question was met with silence. “I mean, you are gorgeous. Let’s just start there. You are gorgeous – you both are,” she nodded at the other young lady on the panel, “how do you use that gorgeousness toward other talents?”

I may have misquoted that last line but she said something closely resembling that. I was shaking my head violently and looking for somebody, anybody, to share my derision of this turn of conversation. Everyone seemed to be looking intently at the stage. 

A few more moments of silence and as the facilitator finally ended the panel the young woman leaned in slightly toward the mike, “biology…” her voice trailed and was swallowed by the shuffle of people leaving the stage. 

You are gorgeous? Seriously? A woman’s talent is how gorgeous she is? Even more heinous to me, that notion of “pretty as credentials” was presented by a woman in a leadership capacity.

What do we do with that?

Already the young women spoke the least. The young men answered questions first and most often. Each of the young women spoke no more than twice – less than five minutes combined of a 30 plus minute presentation.

I know that beauty – regardless of gender- is a commodity in this country. Beautiful people get paid more, beautiful children get attended to better. But beauty isn’t a talent. Beauty can be an asset, but it is an asset with precarious spikes. Precarious because beauty – by mainstream American standards – is a fleeting thing that (especially for women) recedes with age. But more importantly, viewing beauty as a talent can minimize the way a young woman sees herself and her potential. That biology talent fades into the shadow of the beauty one.  And while biology talent can lead to confidence in her ability to compete and a STEM career, “beauty” demands external judgments and validation…to what end? 

How many pretty girls become models or actresses? Beautiful as their only acknowledged talent, what else is there to aspire to?

My sister made fun of me when my nieces were born. I was careful in my language to compliment them, even as infants, on how smart I knew they’d become, trying to counter each, “aren’t you so cute” that sailed- with the best of intentions – their way. 

Hell, I’m guilty of it too. I see a tiny nugget laughing joyously or sleeping peacefully and I think, how adorable—I say, “how adorable.” Being adorable isn’t the problem, acknowledging adorable at the exclusion of everything else is. Beauty as single identifier. 

Beauty may be all we know of someone when we are meeting them for the first time, but when they are offered an opportunity to introduce themselves to the world I hope they are able to express more than what is skin deep, I hope we adults encourage them to know what is more than skin deep.

When the young woman returned to the seat in front of me I tapped her on the shoulder; all I could think to say was, “your talents are more than your beauty.” Lame, I know. She smiled uncertainly at me and said thank you. And then she returned to her day. We all returned to our day.

Breasts a-Plenty

I have a conflicted relationship with my breasts; they are the most sexualized part of me. And they are pretty big, at least in relation to the rest of me. Big in an unassuming way most of the time, unless I am not vigilant in the way that society has taught me…to wrap them up, strap them down, conceal them under layers.

Some of the stories about my breasts are funny. At a renaissance faire a few years ago I decided I would try on a corset. I’m not quite sure what I expected.

A waif like woman with pert little breasts was laced up before me and she emerged with a slightly accentuated bosom and a tiny little waist to complement it. Her gaggle of guy friends smiled at her and told her how great she looked.

Then I walked out. My breasts were suddenly contained and simultaneously unrestrained. The laces pushed them forward toward my chin. All of a sudden, what I spend a great deal of time trying to – not hide but de-emphasize- was blatantly on display. The gaggle of guys immediately stopped talking and turned in my direction. So stunned, they failed to even pretend they weren’t staring. 

“I look like porn,” I told Goti. He stammered for a moment and then, with too great a pause between my comment and his response, assured me I didn’t. 

I laughed about it then. It was my doing. It was a controlled (mostly) environment. Boobs at a faire…no big deal.

There are darker stories though…some that don’t seem so bad if you are simply looking in for a moment. A kind of microagression of the female gendered form. But for me, they are stacked on top of each other over years. And with time, they have constructed the story of my body and how I inhabit it. 

Even as late as graduate school (in my late 20s) people were still policing my body and the way I looked. I had a job in the back of an office- a dress code had never been laid out and it wasn’t uncommon in the hotness of summertime Louisiana to see women in shorts and tank tops. Usually I erred on the side of more material but on one particular afternoon, knowing I’d be in class after a few short hours of sorting mail, I wore a tank top and a pair of shorts. I distinctly remember staring at myself in the mirror before I left home that day, contemplating the shirt, a fitted green striped number that showed my cleavage (as any shirt that has any kind of neckline is bound to do). I had another shirt I could wear over it but in 90+ heat and 90% humidity it seemed absurd. 

Part of my resolve about that shirt, which I’d had for some time and never worn, was about owning the body I was in. and so I began the walk to my job, through midcity. I was cat-called on the way and my resolve about my shirt wavered. But by that time it was too late to turn back and so I used my bag to cover my chest and continued on. 

By the time I reached the office I was already frustrated and feeling low. And then my boss, an older woman, called me into her office to ask me- in the form of a not-so-questioning question- If I would be changing before that night’s event.

Not a singular incident, I had a boss who stared at my chest in one-on-one meetings even after I asked him, pointedly and with no abstraction, to stop staring at my chest.

In those instances I felt lewd and inappropriate and the ideas about a part of my body I have no control over were reinforced. I should cover and be ashamed. I immediately suspected myself of wrongdoing not the person responding to me. 

These are strange things to recount so many years later except, when I read about the young woman who was kicked out of her Homeschool Prom because her dress was “too provocative”, I am reminded that we simultaneously sexualize women’s bodies and then damn them for being (by someone’s definition) “sexy”.

My impulse was to defend her dress as many commenters to her blog and the Jezebel piece did. I’m glad she is getting support in the wake of such a messed up situation. But pointing out how she didn’t break the arbitrary rules laid out for women’s dress doesn’t address the arbitrary rules. 

People cry slippery slope; people will wear anything. I live in the Bay Area, I know, I’ve seen some interesting things and in some parts of Berkeley and San Francisco you can get away with being nude. But the slippery slope works both ways. How much do we control, do we criticize, do we police? How do you “normalize” what is deemed sexy or sexual on a myriad of bodies?

I’m tall, skirts that fit me in the waist often look short. I have big breasts, even ignoring the cleavage issues, shirts pull across my chest and accentuate what’s there. 

I have a silk button up dress that I once loved. It was professional enough to wear to work and it was comfortable. Working a career fair years ago, and wearing the dress, I struck up conversation with one of my table mates. It was professionally friendly – I don’t think we had even exchanged names. I excused myself from my table for a moment and he waved me over to him- I assumed to make a formal introduction. Instead he shook my hand, held on to it and pulled me closer to him while he whispered something foul to me about my legs and what part of his anatomy they were impacting.

I didn’t wear that dress again for years. I couldn’t put it on without feeling like I was soliciting unwanted attention, like anything inappropriate sent my way was by my own invitation.

In college I seldom wore anything form fitting. My sophomore year I acquired, and fell in love with, a fitted burnt orange tank top. It was so fitted I could wear it without a bra. One day on the yard, the denim shirt I wore unbuttoned over it blowing in the breeze, a male friend of mine kept gazing down at my breasts. Finally he said, “put those away, they are distracting me.” I picked up his t-shirt that was covering his zipper and proceeded to talk to him while gazing at his zipper. After a few flustered and uncomfortable moments he swatted my hand away. It was my silent protest.

My relationship with my breasts is complex. 

I am still mindful of the fit of my clothes and the audience those clothes will interact with, even as the feminist in me rages against the idea that I am somehow responsible for the way men – or anyone – look at or react to my body. It doesn’t mean I don’t think about it; I hope it doesn’t mean I always will.

Blooming reminder

I want a break from the critical. Seriously. I want to like something…most things. Hell I want to love something…a lot of things. The last few weeks (maybe months) I’ve been eating at restaurants that are alright…(Nido excluded). Meals that I can compliment on the one hand but must qualify on the other. Too expensive, too pretentious, too trendy, too something…or, frankly, just not enough of anything.

And maybe it is me.

Maybe I’m too damn picky. Maybe I’m seeking perfection without realizing it. 

What the hell does perfection taste, sound, look, feel like anyway?

But I’m not. Looking for perfection. I’m just looking for a smattering of moments where the world smiles at me and I am summoned and surrounded by Blue. It has happened before. I have been downright delighted by things…little things…unexpected things.

My neighbor (now friend) gave me an orchid as a housewarming gift almost two years ago. It was my first and had these big beautiful purple blooms that stayed big and beautiful for weeks…hell, for months. When they finally started to wither and fall off I remember so much sadness. Still, the barren green stalks with gangly roots escaping the narrow brown pot remained green and so I continued to water it. It is one of many plants I have in my house so it fell into rotation with the others. 

Then, a few months ago, well over a year later, I noticed small green buds on the ends of my slender green stalks. I began to count them. Five. Eight. Thirteen. 

I was filled with both a delivered and a pregnant joy. Delivered, because my plant wasn’t just stalks, it had renewed itself, it was going to bloom again. Pregnant joy because while the anticipation of the coming beauty was delicious, the blooms are…well…orchids. 

Have you ever really looked at an orchid? They are beautiful; so perfect in their beauty that often I assume a living thriving plant is fake because the flowers are too flawless. 

My orchid is in bloom now. Thirteen perfect blossoms that greet me each day. And just sitting next to it makes me smile. Looking at it. Marveling at how plain skinny stalks can become this delicate spectacle.

I mention the orchids because for all of my opinions and preferences, I do not require spectacle- I don’t demand fancy. Sitting on the roof of my apartment I am still awed by the simplicity of an Oakland sunset burning the sky orange and pink, or the sliver of crescent moon that rose early tonight (and I gazed at while taking out the trash). 

I was about to type a lie. I was about to say that lately I haven’t been stuck by the amazing (orchids and crescent moon aside)…but then I think of last weekend’s mediation retreat in the Santa Cruz hills, walking through a path of fallen leaves (so soundlessly yielding I wondered if I could fall from a great height with little harm), redwoods crowding the sky, a coyote sitting quietly at the edge of the clearing despite our presence. I was going to say I haven’t been impressed or inspired lately. But that isn’t true. I simply haven’t been inspired in the ways that I am looking to be inspired. 

I haven’t eaten anything so sublime I am forced to drag friends to have the same experience. I haven’t read anything that I just can’t put down. I am mistaking the absence of the perfect bite or an impeccable page for…absence. 

And beauty and splendor and majesty are not absent in my world, I simply needed a reminder. I needed to write to remember the enchantment I encounter all the time. 

I think I’ll go gaze at my orchid…she has five new buds; maybe in her shadow I won’t forget.