I read an article today on CNN.com about body shaming in the entertainment industry. It was a stark reminder to me that us Fat Lane-ers do not hold the market on shame. The article shone a bright light on how much celebrities get body shamed, some for being too fat, some too thin. The article highlighted women that have been accused of having butts, boobs, or belly. It also addressed the struggles of pencil thin models and actresses constantly having to defend themselves against accusations of anorexia. I wasn't surprised. I was just sad. These women, these human beings, were broken down into their pieces. They were compared to animals and attacked for insect-like limbs or elephant thighs.
As I pondered the sad state of current human relations one of the first things that came to my mind was Walt Whitman's I Sing the Body Electric. The way he describes the eyes, the limbs, the torso. It's truly beautiful. But that beauty is contrasted by the realization that the piece is a commentary on the slave trade. Human beings broken down based on their physical utility. Beautiful men and women bought, sold, traded for their strong shoulders, ample chests, and the prospect of equally endowed offspring to continue the master's benefit. Whitman refers to the auctioneer as one who "does not know half his business." In this we are reminded that there is so much more to a body than what we choose to see. That the sinews and skin are an outer manifestation of what lies deep within. Strong, but tempered hearts and minds beleaguered to a menial existence. Quietly reveling in the artistry that lies just under the surface known only by the soul.
Now here we are over a century later and we are still creating chattel of people. Instead of plowing or sewing we ask that they sing or perform for us. Once again human beings broken down based on their physical utility. And again I am saddened. But then I'm reminded of Maya Angelou's Phenomenal Woman. I love the line, "I'm not cute or built to fit a fashion model's size." She describes the beauty in the reach of our arms and the span of our hips. Men wonder but are unable to understand the inner mystery of a woman. I guess, much like Whitman's auctioneer, they simply don't know half their business. Women exist in a paradox of outward beauty and inner care and grace.
Which leads me to one of my favorite poems of all time. "She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climbs and starry skies; / And all that's best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes; / Thus mellowed to that tender light / Which heaven to gaudy day denies." -- Lord Byron I've only written the first of 3 stanzas here for brevity's sake, but throughout the poem you are presented a beautiful woman without actually being told of her physical beauty. We don't know her height nor her eye color. We know nothing of her curves. All we are given is an air of elegance expressed through the dichotomy of light and dark. Each of us has a picture of the woman that they have constructed for ourselves, but the author had ensured that no two pictures are alike.
I wish I lived in a world of Whitman's, Angelou's, and Byron's. Well, maybe not Byron. Byron is...hmmm...let's just say controversial. But the underlying premise remains. I want people to know me for my talents and not my dress size. I want a boy to be intrigued, not intimidated, by my intellect. I want people to talk to me at parties because I have interesting things to say. I want to dance without people laughing, though that might be asking a bit too much. And I want to do the same for others. Maybe someday. A girl can always dream.
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