My Body, Myself

Here’s one lesson I wish I had learned in childhood – be kinder to your body. I never had much use for mine, below my head that is. Probably because I was always a chunky child, I learned early on to be embarrassed by my body. Also, it didn’t do all the things I wished it would.

When my mother took me on a class trip roller skating, she and I spent the whole time on the floor while the rest of the class and their parents did loops around us. On the playground I was hopeless at Dodge Ball and Duck, Duck, Goose – so frightened of making a fool of myself that I barely participated. I would learn to scratch my knees to draw blood so that I could go to the nurse’s office and not have too participate in the softball games. In fourth grade, I couldn’t master the somersaults and cartwheels in the gymnastics class and instead got to be a clown at a school-wide exhibition – which, I would like to inform the gym teachers now does little for a young girl’s self esteem.

Since my body caused me shame and I couldn’t get rid of it, I learned to ignore it. My brain got all the accolades. I was good at schoolwork. So, although I yo-yoed in weight over the years – at one time, I now realize, I bordered on an eating disorder as I starved myself to be thin – I pretty much didn’t give my body any thought.

As I wrote last week, doing this self-portrait project, I look back on my childhood self and wonder why I wasn’t happier with the body I had. Sure my thighs were chubby and I wasn’t reed thin, but you can see I might have grown out of the baby weight if I hadn’t started to feel so badly about myself that I would eat as consolation. But, I look back and even at its worst, my body was nowhere near as horrible as I imagined. Now like all those who stare age in the face, I really wish I had appreciated it more.

I began, however, to pay attention to my body more, to feel more connected to my skin, a few years ago when I decided to get my first tattoo. I now have four. Unlike some people who find tattoos cheap or gaudy, I love the way they look, and like dyeing my hair, I think they offer me yet another artistic and creative outlet, a way to shape myself. My first tattoo was a “tramp stamp” on the lower back. Although, the term is certainly deragoratory, I found it somewhat liberating, figuring I could let a little tramp come out given my goodie-two-shoes existence. It is of a dog and cat with the Hebrew words “living soul” beneath it, referring to a passage in the book of Genesis. Some Biblical scholars feel that the word “soul” in the first chapter of Genesis – “nephesh” was translated to read “soul” when referring to “man” and “creature” when referring to animals, but that in the original Hebrew it was actually the same word for both. I, who value, the uniqueness of my pets, believe they do have souls  and so I chose to tattoo the phrase and the animals on my lower back. I chose a brown henna colored ink, similar to the tattoo on my wrist, which reads “Resisto Ergo Sum” –I resist therefore I am (a paraphrasing of Descartes famous declaration)– it refers to resisting all the bad stuff that life piles on you over time, such as the belief that your body is shameful or embarrassing, for instance.

Something happened as soon as I got that first tattoo, I felt connected to my body in a way I never had before. I felt grounded. My head realized that it was attached to something and I felt proud as if I had reclaimed a lost part of myself. When my first pug, Buffy, died I tattooed her image on my right shoulder with the words “True Love” on a ribbon wound around her. The final tattoo in my quartet is a peace symbol, appropriately received in Woodstock, NY. I got this one done on the fly, a quick whim as I drove out of town. I found it all the more liberating, congratulating myself on my impulsiveness.

People comment all the time asking aren’t I going to regret these tattoos when I get old and I don’t understand the question. "You’ll be all wrinkly," they say. And, I figure I’ll be that way with or without the tattoo. I think they’re underlying meaning is that tattoos belong on the young, but like a medal or badge of courage I will wear mine on my wrinkly hide and know I lived. My body will bear the marks of my hand and I will be proud to claim them and it as my own.

Addendum:

The childhood picture that inspired this post is of my brother and me in our bathroom in Richmond, Vt. I cropped the photo of my brother for privacy reasons. When we were little, like many siblings we would bathe together. Once, when we were nine and seven and had just moved to Bethel, my brother had a friend over to the house and he found a photo of the two of us in the tub. I was so embarrassed by the picture that I tried to take it away and when he would not relinquish it, I wrapped my hands around his throat and began choking him. Of course, my mother intervened and rescued him before any harm was done, but I can still remember my fury at being caught naked in the picture.

The adult shot is of me after a shower today. You can see the tattoo of Buffy on my shoulder. It was important to me when embarking on this project to take at least one photo that showcased my tattoos for the reasons given above. Also visible in this photo is my pink Turbie Twist towel. A couple of years ago, I purchased it as stocking stuffers for my mother. She was nowhere near as enchanted with it as I was and gave it back to me. I couldn’t live without them. They work better than a towel because they stay wrapped on the head with a small piece of elastic to secure them.  I guess, I’ll end now while I’m ahead. I may have just given you too much of a glimpse into my life with that endorsement.

Writing Prompt: Dreaming

If yesterday’s photo showed my confidence – me in control of my life, then tonight’s shows my vulnerability. It’s about admitting that even though my life is full of work, friends, and wonderful activity, I am lonely, still waiting for someone to share my life with on a daily basis, someone, that is, besides my two curly-tailed sidekicks. It’s not easy to admit that. I prefer the gal who looks the camera and the world in the eye, control in hand, and directs her destiny. But, truth be told, there are some things that have not yet yielded to my will (note the optimism there), some things that have yet to turn out the way I dreamed.

That’s me at five or six in my cornflower blue nightgown and mother’s wedding veil. I remember when this photos was taken. I felt so special wearing her headpiece. Funny, for some reason, this was readily available to me as a child while my grandmother had taken the accompanying bridal gown and stored it away – probably waiting until my own wedding -- until we discovered it a year ago. I would wear the headpiece and like many a little girl, dream that someday my prince would come. This photograph sits on my mom’s dresser where I see it often. Sometimes, it makes me smile. I remember that little girl as being happy. At that age, you don’t even know the whole world stretches before you. You live in the timeless age of childhood, where life exists in the moment and is played out in imagination. Sometimes I feel wistful, longing to have all those years between the two of us back, contemplating what I could do with them now. Sometimes I feel that’s what I need most – more time to find the life she expected.

I wonder if that little girl could see me if she would blame me for things not turning out as she had dreamed. I wonder if a part of me blames her for not stepping out in the right direction.

I look at the photo of me now and know that it is about more than waiting for a prince. It is about all the unfulfilled hopes we keep inside. It is about the part of ourselves that remains veiled and hidden, because as happy as we are, as strong, there is always a little girl inside. So I move forward for the both of us, making the best of each moment and filling it with all the life I can, not to keep loneliness at bay, but as an act of faith.

In truth, I’m still dreaming.

Writing Prompt: Write about a childhood dream? Did it come true? Do you know why or why not? Do you wish it had?

Me: Then and Now

Of all the pictures of me as a child this one is my favorite. I can’t really verbalize why. When my father saw it tonight he said, “This is just you.” And, he’s right. If I needed a picture that captured me as a child this would have been it. This is what I envision when I picture myself as a little girl. I was probably seven in this picture. It was taken in Richmond, Vt. in my grandmother’s backyard, which adjoined our own. This is the pasture and mountains I would look out on from my swing set. It captures not only the view of my childhood, but also how I spent much of my time – alone in my imagination, overlooking this lawn. I appear happy and slightly puzzled in this photo, but I know I was also comfortable up on my perch.

I love it when you juxtapose this shot with the adult one. Of all the ones I’ve taken for this project, I think these two show the greatest similarities. I still look the same 38 years later, right down to the haircut. How can that be? How can I have the exact same haircut as my seven-year-old self? Even my body shape is relatively the same and I still find myself curling up in this same position. I’m a little less confused looking in the second shot. Here, I stare at the camera more directly. I took several similar shots, but loved that this one shows the camera remote. To me it illustrates that I am the one controlling this shot, controlling my future. It is the same girl with a little bit more experience. Sometimes, you look back at pictures of yourself when you were younger and you wonder who was that girl? Sometimes you look back with embarrassment or longing. When I look at these two pictures, it is easy for me to say I know that girl and she is me!

Turkey Basting

I spent a long and discouraging day seeing a series of ear and sinus specialists. It seems I have an unusual knack for encountering oddballs and asses in the medical profession. Today, it was the later.

If you think I am prone to exaggeration let me take you back to one of those stories that falls into the categories – it could only happen to me and too strange to be  true. It happened a few years during an allergy appointment. At that time, I had been seeing a woman allergist for a number of years, who shared a practice with her husband. I was not fond of the woman, deeming her one of the oddballs, but since I only had to see her once a year to report on the progress of my allergy shots, I let it slide. One of the things I found annoying was the woman’s reluctance to allow anyone to accompany me into her office. I like to have someone there with me to hear what the doctor says and to remind me should I forget anything.  Yet, on the occasion that I tried to have my mother join me, I was warned first by the receptionist and then the nurse that the doctor liked to see patients alone. When I spoke up and said that I would prefer that my mother be there, the Doctor adamantly ordered her out of the room.

The doctor was an older woman, stern with a commanding air. I was intimidated, but I held my ground and my mother stayed, but this scene was repeated each time I visited her office. I mentioned the behavior to my primary care physician at the time, who became very quite and seemed uncomfortable, but said nothing. I continued to see the allergist because it was necessary to continue my course of allergy shots.

As I said, this continued for a number of years. The visits came to an end, however, one November when I went to her for yet another progress report. We were told once again that the Doctor did not want anyone coming into the office, so my mother remained in the hall between the Doctor’s office and that of her husband, also an allergist. I went in and after the usual formalities, the doctor said she needed to give me a shot. This was highly unusual and as I started to question her she breezed out of the room. A moment later she returned, shot in hand. At that moment, her husband appeared in the hallway and called in a question. She turned and said, “Honey, dinner will be ready soon. I’m basting the turkey!”

That was it. I was out of there. I returned to my primary care physician a few days later, reported what had happened and learned on the q.t. that the Doctor was retiring and may have been experiencing some dementia. It seems a number of people in the medical profession were recently in the know, but were letting her serve out her final weeks out of respect for her stellar career. Given her behavior over the last few years, I wanted to tell them this career had been a little less than stellar and maybe the onset of dementia went back a little further than they thought. I know this story is scary as well as humorous and could even have had legal ramifications, but it’s so typical of my medical experiences that I have become immune. It also set the bar. To me a good medical experience is to escape the appointment without being basted. If someone has to be a turkey, let it be the doctors and not me!

Writing Prompt & Self-Portrait 3: Doll

I bet this doll is familiar to a lot of little girls who grew up in the seventies. This is my Chrissy doll. She had hair that could grow and be made short again and along with Mrs. Beasley, my Dawn dolls and my Malibu Barbies, she was a favorite of mine. I loved to play dolls and my grandmother would play them with me for hours. Whenever my mother played she would speak with a southern accent that would drive me crazy. I no longer play with dolls unless one of my nieces is around, but I still have several including the one in the picture below.

I had this doll specially made for me. Her name is Mira and if you look closely her eyes are in the shape of pug face's. Her eyes are designed from a picture of my pug Mira, who died when she was only a year-and-a-half old from an anaphylactic reaction to her distemper shot. She was the most joyful creature I have ever known, human or animal. She loved to watch television and listen to Clare de Lune. She would tilt her head and stare at my computer when I would play it on i-tunes. Vader would roll on his back and she would stand atop him and the two would gently tumble as Vader was already aging. She made everyone a dog lover and a pug lover, even when they were not.

This is one of my favorite pictures I have taken for the self-portrait assignment. It has a sense of vulnerability to it, that is reminiscent of childhood although it has a different feel. It is not childhood innocence that comes across in this adult shot, but vulnerability. The two are similar, but not the same.

Writing Prompt: In what ways do you show your vulnerability? Write about a time you were vulnerable.

Self-Portrait 2: Cowgirl

Here, I am on the Hoppity Horse.  I wrote about this morning. This was a common site in my childhood -- me decked out in a dress, always a dress, my cowboy hat and possibly my toy guns or Star Trek phasers, hopping along the perimeter of the lawn on my blue rubber hoppity horse. Usually I was pretending to be on a ride with the Barkley brothers of The Big Valley, the Cartwright brothers of Bonanza, or perhaps on a survey of an alien world with the crew of the Starship Enterprise. In any case, I was in my own little world and I seldom remember being as happy as that.  Not even years later when I had a real horse to ride.

The aspect of this photo that I wanted to take forward to my adult self-portrait was this aspect of fun and playfullness that I felt as a child.

The cowboy hat I'm wearing here is the same one I'm wearing in the collage for the header of this blog. In both instances, I donned the hat to show my playful side. Originally, I thought of snapping a picture of me sitting backward leaning on a chair in place of the hoppity horse, but in putting on my hat and playing with my i-phone I took this picture and liked it. I thought it said exactly what I wanted to convey -- I may be grown up now, but I still love to have fun and if I stumbled upon a hoppity horse today I might just jump on and hop along!

Self-Portrait 1: The Window

I began my self-portrait assignment yesterday with this picture of my brother Johnny and me looking out a window at our childhood home in Richmond, Vt. I chose this photo because it says a lot about us even though you can't see our faces. In those early years, before we moved to Bethel there were just the two of us. My other two brothers would not be born for years. We didn't have too many other friends as little kids and spent most of our time making up games together. We placed a blanket in our narrow hall, piled our stuffed animals on it and pretended we were on a raft floating down stream. We stared out at the blinking red airport tower at Christmas and thought it was Rudolph, on his way to deliver presents. We listened to the hum of a humidifier and spooked ourselves believing it was talking to us.

I remember being jealous when my little brother was born, but I had forgotten how much we did together as children and how much we were each other's world. When we grew older, in our college years, we were each other's best friends. I forgot that stretched back to these early years.

It's not surprising that I am looking out the window in this picture. The thing I remember most about my childhood in Richmond is the landscape. I was always looking out into the distance, roaming the landscape. We shared two acres of land with my maternal grandparents and I had a hoppity horse, a big rubber blue ball with a horses head, that I would bounce along the perimeter of the two full acres. I sat on my swing, pumping my legs to go higher and higher and staring out at the mountains and farm land in the distance. Our neighbor was a farmer and his field would smell of fresh manure. "Be careful of the cow plops," we would warn.

In recreating this scene today, I left out my brother. Logistically, it would have been hard to find the time to include him, but also he is not in my everyday world the way he was as a child. Like all three of my siblings, he does not live far away and I see him often, but we no longer share that daily bond. Today, it is mostly me. And, the pugs, but I chose not to include them in this photo. That will come later. I chose this hall window because it is one of the few in the house uncluttered by furniture. I chose a dress that I think complemented the retro feel of my childhood photo. This picture is less contemplative than the childhood shot. Maybe it's because I spend less time staring out at the world than I did as a child and more time in it. I liked the idea of throwing the curtains open and greeting the world with a smile.

I like how in the childhood shot you see my reflection, it's as if I'm looking out on the world and seeing who I may be. In the adult shot, you see the outside world. I'm no longer spending as much time pondering who I will be, I am being her.

Writing Prompt: Self

I’m having fun with my self-portrait assignment. We are supposed to take 12 to 16 photos to print out and bring back in two weeks. We are supposed to write down our intent in taking the photographs and document the process.

I decided to use photos of me as a child as a launching point. My idea is to recreate the mood of the photos or a gesture or a look. I don’t really mean recreate, but to find something in the childhood photo and bring it forward in time, reflecting it in the adult me. I figured that for better or worse our childhood selves often reflect a very authentic and unadulterated part of ourselves. That may be an idealized view. As soon as we are born, life starts taking its toll, but I think back at my childhood pictures and remember genuine emotions whether they be anger, fear, puzzlement, joy. So, I know what those things looked like then, what do they look like now? That was my idea anyway, but I didn’t want to be too literal about it and of course, just using the same props or gestures may not produce the same emotions, but they’ll produce something else. So, I figured, I’ll use the childhood pics as a beginning and follow where they lead.

Technically, it’s not too easy to produce self-portraits in general and especially at my house. Almost every wall is full and I don’t really have any backdrops. I don’t know yet how to use my camera remote, but I do know how to use a self-timer. I find that as I have written before, I love the iPhone because it frees me up and combats my perfectionist tendencies so after trying several shots with my digital SLR, I returned to the iPhone. I’m having fun, which is the important thing, but equally important is something else I learned. Like many people, I can’t remember a time when I really felt content in my own body. Still, I didn’t mind pictures of myself or being photographed and loved looking in the mirrors. I did this because it proved that I was there, real, substantial. I didn’t always have people who reinforced this, so I learned that if I wanted a reflection I had to literally find one. Even so, I don’t remember ever really being satisfied with what I saw. I struggled with my weight all my life and even when I was so thin that my collarbone showed I can remember feeling fat and worrying about my thighs.

Looking back at these pictures, I realize the little girl in them was pretty. She deserved to be loved by me more. It makes me wonder what I will think of the pictures taken of me now when I look back on them in the future. Maybe I should appreciate this person now as I am. So, I am trying to be bold in the pictures I take and in the sharing of them. I’m going to keep posting on the process. Tomorrow I’m going to try some pics with the pugs and me.

Writing Prompt: What did you like about your childhood self? What did you hate?

Self, Authenticity and Others

Today I attended a photography class called Who are You: Self through Photographic Image. In addition to expanding my photographic repertoire, I thought it was a good way to explore some of the same themes found in memoir through another medium – the visual. Our instructor, Polly Raine, encouraged us to be authentic. It is the same message, Jon Katz, our leader at the Hubbard Hall Writers Project tried to drive home. In my memoir class, I explore the idea of truth in memoir with my students: What does it mean to tell a true story? Is a story true if memory is flawed, if your perspective differs from others, if you have to manufacture dialogue, if you shape it to be more literary?

Today Polly asked us if a photo is a self- portrait if someone else is in it, if no one is in it, If someone else snaps the shutter or helps with the concept or the lighting? And, what does it mean to be authentic? Do any of us know ourselves, is knowing yourself the same thing as feeling comfortable with yourself?  These are important questions and just as I instruct my students, Polly instructed us, that we have to reach conclusions for ourselves, come up with our own working definitions of self-portrait, memoir and as in life, decide what it means to truly be our authentic self.

Sometimes this means deciding what to include and what to exclude – do I share this story or do I keep silent? Do I show my face or leave it out? What is the best way to be authentic and to share this self with others?

I have found that sometimes the knowing comes in the doing. In order to figure out who we are we have to take the picture, write the tale, share the story. For me, I sometimes find out who I am by looking at others. Their lives serve as a mirror into my own. Such is friendship with Joan, my pug Waffles breeder. I have found myself writing a lot about her on this blog and it wasn’t until one of my readers commented that she loves my stories about strong women that I realized this was part of my fascination with Joan’s life – her strength and her vulnerability. I am drawn to paradox. It is part of what I love about religious study – paradox abounds in the Bible – a crucified messiah, the word made flesh, truly god, truly man. I see strength and vulnerability in myself. It is probably in all of us. But sometimes I am strong when I should be vulnerable and vulnerable when I should be strong.

Polly said that traditionalists would argue that a photograph cannot be a self-portrait if someone else presses the shutter and that it can be argued it may not be a true self-portrait if someone else is also in the picture, because having someone else involved, by its very nature, changes the dynamic. Yet, no man is an island right? Like a tree falling in the forest if no one is around does it still make a noise? Are any of us anything in isolation? Even when we are the only one’s in the picture, we are not alone. Someone is always reading the story, looking at the photograph. It’s always our voice, our portrait, but how can we be authentic if we don’t acknowledge that?

We are social creatures. Isn’t my truth always being reflected and bounced off those around me? I’m not sure it is possible for me to disconnect my story from those around me – Joan’s story is my story, my mother’s story is my story, my friend Sheila’s story is my story – all these women, all these people both strong and vulnerable, are me. I look at them and learn who I am and who I want to be.

Keep Moving

My sister-in-law, a personal trainer, shared this picture and saying (from Get-Fit-Naturally) on Facebook today. I know she posted it to motivate people to keep exercising, but I love the sentiment in general. Life has thrown some challenges my way health-wise lately, but I don’t want to dwell on them. I want to keep moving.

Sometimes you have no control over what happens to you; sometimes you just have to deal with the consequences. Sometimes you have options. Regardless, you can always keep moving forward, learning and growing. A friend and counselor once told me that was one of my assets – in spite of the specific challenges I’ve faced in my life I didn’t let them stop me, I pressed on.

It’s not denial, it’s an act of faith and sometimes all you need is to take that first step to gain momentum. This morning I watched Alfie and Waffles as they faced the morning cold. Neither wanted to leave the warmth of the house and once out both immediately turned back toward the door. Then Alfie finally made the move off the stoop. Waffles watched for a beat and followed. Soon the two were climbing over the snow banks and prancing over the frosty ground. Watching them in motion, the air seemed lighter, the day seemed warmer. I wanted to make the leap with them.