Like a Marble Statue

Like a marble statue, I saw and see myself as large and intimidating. Always drawing the eyes of the spectators. Enticing and questioning, drawing attention to others feelings. Just my being is the antonym of gentleness. Even if i appear to be, it is impossible to be delicate. The weight of my presence is always a reminder that no man could ever move me, Could ever handle me. Strong and never ceasing. Impossible to move with a warning always accompanied, reading “fragile. Do not touch.”. Though unable to rebuke the touch, over time you will see the tarnish form on the cold skin. No longer perfect. Unshakable, until shaken. The destruction of myself could never be missed. Breaking the floor with me, shattering and covering the surrounding area with the fragments of my existence. Unable to be reconstructed. Never to be the same.

I am a lot of things people don't know. My thoughts, feelings, and ideas are that a mixture of what I have been taught and have deemed good or worthy enough of continuum and things I have sought and chosen to believe as truth. With most of those, I like to believe I have reason behind believing. I can articulate almost clearly enough for understanding. When I have an idea or opinion it's a fight to get it to change. All that being said- one of the things i like to believe is that i am open minded and rational. I see things as fact rather than opinions open for interpretations. This can be seen as a gift, But I firmly believe it is the fault that will cause all of my kingdoms to crumble.

One of my first memories i have of myself i can remember better and in greater detail than the events that unfolded in my life just last week.

I can't be older than six years old. I'm in my ballet class with about five other girls. I'm wearing pink tights, a leotard with short sleeves, and a black skirt. I really loved that black ballet skirt. It was a bit chilly inside, the room always smelled like dust and it was warm when I would breath in. we are all lined up and I am closest to the door. If we're going left to right, I am first in line. The wall behind and to the side of me had barres and one window so the parents could watch. The wall in front of me was mirrored floor to ceiling. As i looked in the mirror i starred from the last of the girls, foot to the top of their heads, all the way back to myself. I noticed one thing about all of the girls and myself. All of them were small. Their arms, necks, and legs. Specifically their thighs. I was not. My arms were thick, my neck didn't have the bones sticking out like theirs did, and my thighs were in particular much larger than theirs. I remember how badly i wished i could mold myself like clay right then and there. More importantly, i remember how badly i wanted to pull the blind on the window so no parent could see me. I didn't want them to be able to see that i was larger in size. I didn't want them to realize i wasn't beautiful. I don't remember the class, but i remember the car ride after. I was in the back seat, my mom was driving through the Starbucks line. Throughout the entire drive across town, through the drive thru line, up until the stop sign to exit the parking lot, I could not take my eyes off my thighs. They were so big. I hated the way they looked covered in the pink nylon that was supposed to make me feel beautiful and elegant. I felt the knot building in my stomach. It wasn't from sadness, it was shame. I remember saying something along the lines of “am i big? Like right here.'' The ‘here’ was followed by me gripping my thigh with both hands. She, like any adult and mother would do, told me no of course i wasn't. I was perfect and healthy and beautiful. i'm not sure if i shocked her, or if it saddened her, but i remember her being serious in the response. I truly believed she was lying. That is my first memory I have of my body.

In a society where there is a very particular image associated with beauty, seeing myself as anything less than exactly the way my sculpture sculpted me was, has been, and continues to be easy. It is more natural than breathing. In more ways than one, i was being deceived by the world and rather than cursing the lies, I welcomed them like it was a living truth. The words and ideas that were being presented to me at a young age were indeed not a cold glass of fresh water, instead it was scolding whiskey being poured down my throat. It burned and left me raw. I was always left searching for something to ease the utter discomfort it left me in.

Instead of noticing the way people's eyes close when they laugh, I noticed how their collar bones would show while gasping for air in between giggles. Instead of appreciating the movement their bodies allowed them to participate in, I appreciated the way their thighs wouldn't touch while standing with their feet together. Instead of being excited to share their favorite meal with them, I was anxiously awaiting to see the amount of food in which they consumed. None of this was because of how I viewed their worthiness, it was how I viewed mine.

Without question, i questioned the way in which my legs grew, the way my shoulder broadened, the way my stomach sat the opposite of flat, the way my hips decided to dip instead of fill, the way my feet grew wide, the way my voice would fluctuate between low and high, but never find a sweet middle ground, and the way my anger would show when i felt what i was saying was important, but not listened to.

Though all of these things written are my true feelings. Ones i hold of value, because they are mine. I do not believe that my being was created and formed to be despised or picked apart. I do not believe that i was created to be little in size, stature, opinion, or feelings. Even though i feel those things, that does not make them true. Every coin has two sides, Every point of view is different, And every personal opinion is just that; a thought formulated around feelings and truths we hold as true. Feelings are not bad, nor are they facts.

In a subjective sense, I think of a marble statue. Carved to perfection. not that perfection defined by the critics eye- but that intended by the creator. Rounded and smoothed with such delicacy. Designed with the intent to be seen and admired. Never in the wrong light or never to be seen from the wrong angle, because it just is. Placed in the middle of the room, no eyes cease to take in wholly the essence and presence. No shame from the sculpture, it doesn't try to hide because its reason for being is to bring attention to the one who created it. She, the marble sculpture doesn't know of its existence, it just is. The sculpture doesn't think about itself or the way its being takes up space in the room.

It, He, She, doesn't expect praise. The entire purpose of the statute is to be seen and to bring all of the praise to her sculptor.