BodyTalk: The Women Issue

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The Women Issue

February 2010


issue three


contents

the not-sosouthern belle -6-

thanks for the mammaries -8-

An admiration for hair -10-

surgical steel is a girl’s best friend -12-

ready -14-

untitled -16-

women's health 101 -19-

second guessing -22-

sexy soles for my soul -25-

the revolution will not be low fat -27-

size matters -30-

looking for the meaning of me -32-

lessons of love -34-

victim’s statement revised -36-

what have i done? -38-

plus an amazing comic for you!


This issue is about women. Brave women, frank women, inspirational women. Women of size, women of color, women from Georgia, women from Rwanda. Queer women, women scholars, pierced women, women with a sense of humor (think psychedelic vagina cupcakes). But all about women with a vision— a vision of equality and self-determination. In our culture, we are constantly shown one-note caricatures of who women are. But we understand women to be more complex and we wanted to showcase powerful stories from the lives of multi-dimensional women we know to exist. We received loads of amazing submissions—from a story about a woman who rose phoenix-like out of the ashes of her abuse, to a story about a woman and her love for sexy shoes, to a story about a woman and her hate of low-fat foods, compulsory exercise and unachievable body images. As always, we are incredibly proud of this issue, and we hope that you love it as much as we do. With that said, we want to be clear that this issue encompasses people’s experiences that are very personal and sometimes emotionally difficult (but also empowering) to read. With you in mind, we have highlighted a few stories that could possibly elicit emotional distress. While we invite you to read the whole issue, we also encourage you to take care of yourself. If, for any reason, you need to speak with someone after reading a story, do not hesitate to reach out to a friend or a professional. Remember that you can always visit the Student Health Center, the Counseling Center or the Relationship and Sexual Violence Prevention Center on campus for immediate help and support. As you read, keep in mind that we do not represent one viewpoint, one ideology or one sexual narrative: we are a collective voice. You do not have to agree with us or condone what we do, only respect and appreciate our experiences. Welcome to BODYTALK. 4

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The Not-so-Southern Belle by valerie pollock 6

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Forgive me, Mom and Dad, for I have sinned. It’s been years since I did what was “expected” of me. In a southern, conservative town in the middle of Georgia, I, of course, had a family structure riddled with conservative values and religious propaganda—not that the public school system didn’t provide me with enough of those ideas. So, it was up to me to situate myself within my body and space and define what I wanted from it all on my own. Belief systems weren’t forced upon me by my family, but they were definitely understood. So I did the opposite. I got the grades, did all of the hard work but did everything else deviantly. Including sex. My brother and sister tried to hide their discrepancies while I embraced mine. I’m sure my parents got the point when I started taking birth control at sixteen. I mean, I was in high school with sexual messages all around me; it was virtually unavoidable. However, my experience of sexuality was different from most of my peers. For me, sex wasn’t about commitment and affection; it was primal, uninhibited and my way of expressing agency in a rigid, patriarchal social structure. Sex was excusable for my peers if it was with their partner, but I had no desire to form close, long-lasting bonds with any of the men in my town, and not doing it was just not an option for me. I lost my virginity because I was bored, and I wanted to know what it felt like. After it was quite the letdown, the stock value that virginity and sex had for other people wasn’t there for me anymore. I valued my body and womanhood and enjoyed the things that satisfied and excited me, and as long as I was smart and safe about my decisions, I could be comfortable with the choices I made. My opinion of how I express my sexuality has not changed much, even now as I am about to graduate college. I have still not had any substantial relationships, or even anything lasting longer than a few weeks, but that’s a decision I’ve deliberately made. I do not wish to be defined by whom I am with but rather who I am and what I do. Sexual agency is something that I, as a woman, have taken hold of and made my own. I don’t need a phone call the next day or even a cuddle to feel that the decisions I’ve made with my body are validated. I think that too often our society has policed my sexual experience as a woman and said that the way I choose to live is threatening and not how women are “expected” to behave. But I have grown to understand myself through all of my actions, including those in the most intimate of arenas. bodytalk 7


Thanks for the Mammaries:

How a Job in Intimates Helped Me Celebrate My Ladybits

by janine ingram 8

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b

efore my stint as a sales associate in the intimate apparel department of a swanky department store, I had a pretty ambivalent attitude towards breasts. Awkward appendages that stick out from the center of your chest? I guess I could live without that. When I was offered the job, I assumed that

it would be similar to my previous retail experiences, except for the product and the responsibility of doing bra fittings. At the start, I admitted to my manager that the tasks and degree of intimacy intimidated me, but as time went on, it became more than a typical retail job. Much more. Every woman that I saw, regardless of age or size, shared the same desire to feel good about her body and find some under-thing that worked for her needs. I’ve waited on women who have had mastectomies, teens getting their first real bra, and older ladies wanting the same bra they’ve worn for sixty years. Those diverse perspectives of womanhood not only enriched my experience as a sales associate but helped turn my ambivalence toward my own body into confidence. I don’t know if it was the process of asking candid questions about women’s concerns, the actual fittings (I’ve seen WAY more breasts than I ever thought I would), or the fact that I was surrounded by bras and underwear (I still hate the “p” word) forty hours a week, but I am now comfortable with vocalizing my feelings towards my body and my sexuality. Although I still have my gripes, my experience has helped me realize that my body is my own and I should celebrate it, cherish it, and give it good support. bodytalk 9


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hair an admiration for

by socialized smooth

Some women spend hours cleaning, styling smoothing and primping their hair. Hair on their head, that is. Hair anywhere else – legs, armpits, face and genitals – involves

a slightly different treatment. Try trimming, waxing, shaving, bleaching, ripping, laser removal and anything that involves concealing a sign that our bodies are not naturally “smooth.” At the age of eleven, I anticipated the day when I could start shaving. Commercials showing women relaxing on a beach with sleek and hairless legs made shaving seem appealing. Presumably, advertisers are forced to create convincing imagery to avoid highlighting the unpleasant task of running a razor blade attached to a piece of plastic up and down our legs. Now, nine years later, I realize shaving is anything but pleasant; it requires maintenance, money and often a certain degree of pain. Initially, when my best friend stopped shaving her legs during her sophomore year of college, I was somewhat surprised. After listening to her experiences along the way, I realized what she did was extremely brave. Starting off was challenging, Jane said, and it always felt like people were staring in a disapproving manner. But eventually, she reached a point where the seemingly negative attention didn’t matter anymore. Feeling comfortable in public is one thing, but what about in private, like with a partner? Is a woman still desirable when she doesn’t shave? Yes! Even though we are socialized to believe otherwise, having body hair doesn’t make a woman undesirable. We should own what we’ve got. If we decide to shave and feel more comfortable that way, we should be confident with our smooth skin. Or, if we prefer to grow our hair out naturally, we shouldn’t allow anyone to change our minds. Go on, do your thing. Trim it, wax it, bleach it, zap it, but let’s not whisper about the woman whose armpit hair is peeking out of her sleeve. Instead we must stand up for her, because she’s standing up for us. bodytalk 11


surgical steel

is a girl’s

by amy williams 12

bodytalk


I love piercings. At current count, I have thirteen, ranging from the fairly typical ear lobes to the more adventurous tragus. Each of them elicits a range of emotions, from admiration to disgust. My best friend dubs my ears "creepy" and refuses to look at them anymore. I no longer meet the traditional standards of femininity, but that’s not something I regret. Irrespective of how others may judge my appearance, I enjoy knowing that I’ve made a choice that I find attractive. This summer, after careful consideration and fighting back some terror, and against the advice of my friends, I opted to get a horizontal clitoral hood piercing. This decision was based in part on having run out of things to pierce, but also because I wanted to have something that was just for me. Even if my other piercings were about self-expression, they were still visible and open to interpretation by the world. My clitoris piercing, though, has been my secret. It’s not that I am ashamed or unwilling to speak openly about it, but for once I’m not on display for the world. We live in a culture where women’s bodies are put on display. Objectification is something we’re all familiar with. This objectification can make one feel powerless to control their body and their physical worth. Women’s bodies are judged, controlled, and even legislated. In 2004, the Georgia legislature attempted to ban female genital piercings (male genitals were not considered). When piercings become defined as illicit mutilation, we lose sight of the importance of consent and choice. In the shadow of objectification, something as small a piece of steel in my “down there” is liberating. My clitoris piercing is not about increasing my sex appeal to others, but for increasing my appeal to myself. It’s about my own pleasures and my own self-expression. It’s about creating a conception of my own physical worth not tied to society’s expectations. When people ask me why I would put myself through that pain or why I would choose to “mutilate” my body, I tell them it’s not for them. It’s no one’s concern but my own. bodytalk 13


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F

ed a steady diet of Cosmo’s version of sexuality, with the silence of my teachers and mentors ringing in my ears, I came of age in a cacophony of mixed messages. By fifteen, I endeavored to be at once virginal and knowledge-

able—coquettishly sexual—as I flirted with my classmates. Things were different than before; my friends and I used to giggle over late night epi-

sodes of Undressed at 5th grade sleepovers, but one by one our dominoes fell. My best friend lost her virginity to a senior in the backyard at a party. Afterwards, he paraded around with the blood of her inexperience smeared on the hem of his shirt. Another friend lost hers with a long-term boyfriend in the cramped space of a twin size bed while her parents were on vacation. And I remained. I had done other things, but the only sex that mattered to my adolescent mind, the only virginity I could lose, penal/vaginal, remained elusive. There were opportunities, it’s just that when the moment came, the garage door opened, there was no condom, or I shied away. I felt like a failure. In our suburban bubble, some of the girls were ready and handled it with maturity and safety, some of them got pregnant and some of them searched for fleeting popularity between boys. But it felt like everyone was doing it some way, somehow. Little did I know, I was one of the lucky ones; not lucky in that I possessed the maturity to deal with my burgeoning sexuality, not lucky in the colloquial sense. Lucky in that I clearly was not ready and I was allowed the opportunity to wait until I was. After a few experiences with typical, heteronormative sex—the kind I thought everyone else was having—I settled into myself and began to wait. Not for Mr. Right, or Prince Charming, or marriage. No, I began to wait until I knew what I wanted and was brave enough to say it. I stumbled upon feminism, and then I stumbled upon the words to say: as a woman, I have needs, needs that are not a caveat to your whims. I stumbled on the voice to say these words to potential partners, and I stumbled on the bravery to walk away when these exclamations were ignored, patronized, or not met. And then I knew I was ready. bodytalk 15


untitled by jen apoian

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The following passage contains sensitive information regarding relationship and sexual violence. It may be triggering or upsetting to some readers. Make sure you take care of yourself while reading, and take breaks if you need to.

I woke up yesterday shaking because I dreamed about what still chills me: trust and abuse. In my nightmare, my abuser destroyed my bike so I couldn’t leave, beat me up and threatened my friends. It was almost like old times (minus the bike). I dated a boy a few years ago. I’ll use his middle name, Dan, because that helps. He was very kind to me at first. This is how these things work. A few times he hit me, threw me against furniture, hurled plates. The worst he did, however, was damage my sexuality. Bruises eventually go away but insults tend to dwell like ghosts. He was a man who hated women. And a man who hates women, I think, does certain, sly things to persuade a woman to hate herself also. Poisonous gas was his best trick; sex was his psychological weapon of mass destruction. He said if I didn’t sleep with him, I was a terrible girlfriend or I was cheating. He said I was ugly. He said my vulva was ugly. I one time had a horrendous urge to cut it all up (beef curtains, indeed) so he would not have to look at it. It... That thing for him. That ugly, ugly thing. There was trust, but for the wrong reasons. I trusted him because I was frightened, or because I needed him; sometimes I’m not sure. I trusted him enough to let him tie me up. In a loving or playful context, I’d regard this as some light BDSM experimenting, bodytalk 17


but once I was paralyzed by rope I realized how stupid I was. He raped me. He didn’t stop when I cried. He told me afterwards, when he untied my burning wrists, that he didn’t know what came over him. Later that night he called me a slut because he said I enjoyed it. I felt the weight of the world crushing me. I’m not one for crying, but I cried for a long time that night. I punched things, enraged. Someone felt entitled to do that to me, to steal the joy and pleasure I might have experienced from sex. He violated my trust. When I finally dragged myself to the shower, I cried there too. It’s hard. It’s really hard. They say you become paranoid. I’m paranoid now. I think we are each uniquely damaged. After I broke free, I began exploring myself, but when I gave myself orgasms I cried afterwards because I knew, despite the wondrous ability to orgasm in private, I could never allow someone else to share it. Luckily, I allowed myself to open up to lovely partners. One of my then-girlfriends showed me precisely where her clitoris was, and told me what to do before she ate me out until I felt dizzy. Another partner created a safe space by letting me tell him explicitly what I wanted to do sexually and how far I wanted to go. Even a casual night reminded me of compassion when boundaries were respected. These people who gave me orgasms revived, phoenix-like, the joys of kissing, fondling, sucking, groping, massaging, licking and sometimes even being penetrated. In a rape culture that is so vastly saturated in victim-blaming, slut-shaming, domestic abuse, queer discrimination and, of course, rape, it’s sometimes hard to remember that sex (whatever your definition) feels good. It feels really good. One day I thought about all of my friends who have been damaged. Every single one. Rape culture percolates into our minds, our socialization. Just as Dan’s hatred for my body and my sexuality seeped into my mind, rape culture oozes into every cranny— into everyone to some degree. But I am the great automaton girl who rebuilds herself after being destroyed by hate. This damage is not permanent. I trust my current partner more than I’ve trusted most people. It’s a powerful thing, trust. To have that in someone you sleep with is a challenge because it involves your most intimate parts, intimate because of how vulnerable they are. Free of any doubt, I know he loves and respects my body and what I do with it. Every orgasm with him or by myself is a lovely reminder of my phoenix powers. So, then, my catharsis is done, and maybe I can sleep tonight.

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learn something new!

Masturbation. Wait. Girls can do that? Many women are never told about masturbation growing up. Female masturbation is something that is largely quieted by our society and remains in a shroud of mystery. In reality, it’s a perfectly healthy expression of sexuality, and a lot of fun, too! Forget what you’ve heard—here’s the lowdown on masturbation: Myth: Masturbation is something for males/men only and women shouldn’t do it. Masturbation can be fun and enjoyable for EVERYONE, regardless of sex and/or gender. Women who masturbate are not “dirty” or “hypersexual,” and can enjoy masturbating as often and just as much as men. Myth: Masturbation is only for women who are not in relationships. You should be your first and best partner, but being in a relationship is not a reason you have to stop masturbating. Masturbation can provide a different kind of pleasure than sex with a partner, and can even be enjoyed with a partner. Myth: Masturbation makes sex less enjoyable. Quite the contrary! Because masturbation allows you to get to know your body and your response cycle better, it can help you to teach your partner how to maximize the pleasure that they give you. Myth: “Normal” women don’t use and don’t need sex toys. For many women, the aid of sex toys is necessary for reaching orgasm, and for many others, it simply makes it more fun. All types of women from all walks of life purchase and use sex toys for masturbation as well as partnered sex. If you feel uncomfortable going into a store that sells vibrators or dildos, there are many great (and some awesome woman-friendly!) online sex shops that can make the purchasing experience less scary and more enjoyable.

And remember…the only rule about masturbation is that there are no rules! bodytalk 19


Fear No More: The Gynecological Exam Unveiled Many females have a chronic fear of their yearly gynecological exam, and most of that fear stems from not knowing exactly what’s going on and what to expect. Here are some things that you can expect to happen at your exam. Remember that some doctors may be more or less thorough, depending on their habits and your preferences. Before the exam, you will most likely have to fill out some type of paperwork about your family and sexual history so that the doctor knows best what to examine. Be as honest as possible. Also, remember to schedule your appointment when you are not menstruating. A visual exam. You will probably be asked to remove most of your clothing and put on a gown, which will ensure that the medical professional can easily perform this part of the exam. It may include an exam of the vulva, as well as the surrounding skin. Some doctors may also include breast exams at this point. After the doctor positions you correctly on the exam table and has you place your feet in the stirrups, he or she will begin the pap smear. S/he will insert a speculum so that she has a clear view of the cervix. S/he will clean off the cervix with a larger swab, and then scrape it with a smaller one for the pap smear. Pap smears detect irregular cells on the cervix, which can be an indicator of various issues. Doctors will often then perform a bimanual exam in which they will insert fingers into the vagina with one hand and push down on the pelvis with the other to detect any abnormalities in ovary and uterus structure. After this, the exam is typically over. The doctor should ask if you have any questions or concerns before the exam, but you should feel free to ask them at any time. Remember that you can also ask the doctor to tell you everything s/he is doing as s/he performs the procedures. This can often demystify the exam and make it far more comfortable.

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the female condom

The Good • It can be inserted up to eight hours before sexual activity, so if stopping to put on a barrier method is a problem for you or your partner, inserting a female condom beforehand is a great idea. • It actually provides more protection from skinto-skin contact STIs than male condoms because it covers more surface area.

After checking with your partner for consent, making sure the condom is in date and not tampered with, carefully tear the package open. Be sure not to tear the condom.

• It is made of polyurethane, and is thus a great option for couples who struggle with a latex allergy. • It often creates extra pleasure for women who use it. Because the outer ring sits along the clitoris, the movement of the ring caused by sexual intercourse can actually increase the sensation felt by the clitoris and thus the pleasure experienced during sex. • By removing the inner ring, female condoms can be used for anal sex. Because they are already heavily lubricated and made of polyurethane, they can be a great alternative to standard latex male condoms. The Bad • Female condoms can be more expensive and harder to access. Luckily, all MU students have access to free female condoms in any of the condom machines and at various campus locations. • Female condoms have been shown to be SLIGHTLY less effective at pregnancy prevention—but this is mostly because of the misuse of the condom. • Female condoms require a woman to be comfortable enough with her body to insert and remove the condom, and sometimes require a bit of practice to get it just right.

Squeeze the inner ring. (If you using for anal sex, remove this ring, and modify the following directions accordingly).

Find a comfortable position and insert the condom into the vagina. Think of it as inserting a non-applicator tampon. When inserted properly, the inside ring will have expanded and be sitting against your cervix, at the back of the vagina.

Make sure the outside ring is lying flat and comfortably against you.

After using, twist the outside ring and pull gently (but firmly) on the condom to remove.

Tie the condom in a knot. Throw away in a trash can (never in a toilet!). bodytalk 21


second guessing by rebecca martinez

W

hen I first arrived in Venezuela over ten years ago to do ethnographic fieldwork to better understand the treatment process for women who had been diagnosed with cervical cancer, I didn’t think I would end up talking

about the threads of commonality that the women at the hospitals shared: patients, doctors, nurses, secretaries, and ethnographer. I thought my personal experiences, in particular, would be irrelevant to the writing process, but as I began to see the medical encounter as disciplinary practice, I also began to see the importance of writing about my own experiences with bodily discipline. While I was observing the ways in which female patients at the hospitals were experiencing the disciplinary gaze of mostly male

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doctors, which focused on the women’s sexual history, hygiene, and personal bodily care, I came to realize that I was also experiencing a form of bodily discipline. I experienced sexual harassment that led me to monitor my body in terms of my dress and spaces that I would inhabit and avoid. This isn’t something I intended to write about at the time, largely because these kinds of experiences were largely regarded as “personal,” and I thought I should only be writing about my work and not about my “personal” encounters. Well, thankfully, I managed to learn a thing or two through reading the works of feminist ethnographers, and to analyze the commonalities that all of us women at the hospital shared, while at the same time paying attention to our differences. What follows is a vignette of some of those so-called "personal" experiences… In both hospitals, I was among a mostly all male department of physicians. In these environments I experienced sexual innuendoes directed at me by a few of the doctors. They also told sexually explicit jokes about women, and in some cases within earshot of patients. One physician in particular routinely made sexual advances towards me and each morning would greet me with a kiss on the forehead (he did not do this with any other person at the hospital). I dreaded seeing him in the mornings and would try to avoid him by stepping out for coffee or engaging in a conversation with another one of the doctors in the hopes that he would not approach me. He was often at the hospital, and I tried to ignore his comments rather than confront him because I feared that he might make it difficult for me to conduct my research. In one of my early interactions with this doctor, he challenged my identity when I declined his offer to buy me a gift. A group of doctors (including him) and myself had gone out to lunch, and when a couple of the doctors said they had to leave, this doctor, who would later make sexual innuendoes towards me, asked me to stay and tell him about my project. I agreed. However, he did not ask much about my research, and instead began commenting on my physical appearance. He then said that he wanted to buy me a Christmas gift and wanted to know what I would like. When I politely thanked him and said that I did not want anything and that I could not accept a gift from him, he replied, “Now you are being a Gringa.” (As I had spoken about my background with the doctors and nurses in the department, they knew that my mother is Mexican, my father was Mexican-American, and that I had grown up speaking both Spanish and English. I identified myself as a Chicana.) The comment was meant as a challenge to my identity in the hopes of getting me to prove my “Latin” heritage by leaving behind the so-called cold and unfriendly behavior of a “gringa,” and engaging in the “proper” behavior for a Latin woman, which I assume includes accepting gifts from men that one hardly knows. By constructing my identity in that moment as a “gringa,” he was also designating me as an outsider. He played upon my Chicana identity, my identity as a woman, and my role bodytalk 23


as an anthropologist, warning me that I was not fitting into Venezuelan society. The manipulation of my identity in this way was an attempt to control my behavior by getting me to respond positively to his advances. In order to try and dissuade him without jeopardizing my own position within the hospital, I spoke often about my husband and let him know that I was happily married. However, his comments continued. Some comments included asking me, “How’s your husband? Is he better than me?” and “If you think he is being faithful while you are away, you must be crazy.” On one occasion when I was wearing sandals, he told me, “I want to suck on your big beautiful toe.” After that, I regulated my dress by no longer wearing sandals to the hospital because I did not want to subject myself to further remarks, even though many days it was very hot, and I probably would have been more comfortable wearing sandals. He monitored my dress in other ways as well. One day I wore a baggy linen shirt, and he said that it made me look like a “malandra,” a female thug. He suggested I wear dresses—more feminine garments. When my glasses broke and I started wearing contact lenses, he expressed his disapproval by telling me he liked the way I looked in glasses much better. As with most of his comments, I ignored him, but I felt uncomfortable when he was around. The almost daily sexual innuendoes that I experienced were mainly from this doctor, but other male doctors on occasion participated in the telling of sexually explicit jokes as well. For the most part, however, this one doctor was the only one who had consistently made sexual comments towards me. I felt powerless in this situation, as I feared that I might jeopardize my research if I tried to confront him directly. Although it is often assumed that the anthropologist is always in a position of power in relationship to his or her informants, in this setting I experienced harassment directed at me because of my gender. In relation to the (almost all) male surgeons at both hospitals, I was not in a position of power, and in fact as a woman in this environment I was in a relatively powerless position. I felt I simply had to put up with the unwanted sexual advances of this doctor and the sexually demeaning jokes about women from many of the others. As his comments led me to regulate my dress in some ways, it is possible to understand sexual harassment as a form of regulatory power. I monitored and regulated myself in some ways as a result of his comments so as not to further encourage his remarks. Although, in retrospect, I realize that nothing I was doing was stopping his harassment, I was trying to negotiate what I could in that environment. I also came to learn that many of the other women at the hospital (female doctors, nurses, and secretaries) were doing the same thing. Although it seems quite obvious now, among the results to come out of my ethnographic research was to realize that my (and our) experiences weren’t personal in the way I had once thought, and that writing about feminism and fieldwork is an often neglected, but important undertaking. 24

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s e l o xy s

se

l u o ys

m r o f se

uwa e g ade n by

I am a shoe collector. I cannot leave a good pair on sale in the store. I buy shoes because they are always there when you need them—flats for summer, boots for fall, and heels for all occasions. But I also buy shoes for practical reasons. They get me through the day. When I have a long day ahead of me, I always opt for a comfortable flat. They give me sex appeal and an invincible feeling. It might sound over the top, but the sound of my clicks announces my arrival to the world and that is just sexy! So this got me thinking, how do other Rwandan women express their sexuality? In general, Rwandan women are very conservative because we have to meet our cultural standards. Although our country continues to be ravaged by HIV/AIDS, no one talks bodytalk 25


about sex. Sex comes in the context of prevention and protection. Our mothers will tell us to use a condom but not how to put one on. Since my culture is very conservative, I wanted to know if women have space to express their sexuality. I asked three of my Rwandan friends how and when they feel sexy. I started with my friend Valentine*. She said that she does not feel the need to express her sexuality at particular times more than others. “I feel sexy all the time,” she said. “I feel like simple is…more. So if I try to be sexy then I will not be. For example, wearing a short tight skirt is not sexy. Wearing jeans with some heels and an attitude—the way I carry yourself—is sexy. What makes a great woman is not her physical beauty; what makes a woman is her personality—not just physicality, but her emotional and spiritual being.” My friend Josephine* said her boyfriend, leggings, and taking care of her body make her feel sexy. “I feel sexy when I am with my boyfriend…when he kisses me, holds the small of my back…the small things he does.” Intimacy with her partner makes her feel sexy just as much as her clothes do. She wears fitted clothes that show off her curves but doesn’t reveal a lot because Rwandan culture stresses modesty for women. When she wears a short skirt, she wears leggings—leggings are her “sexy clothes.” She takes care of her physical health by working out regularly. She pointed out that Rwandan women do not work out as much as people in the USA: “Media here are always stressing this weight watch, that weight watch. In Rwanda we do not have those sorts of media. Sex appeal comes from our personalites.” When I asked Gihozo* when she feels sexy, she laughed and said, “Each time I look good.” She pointed out that sexiness is more than just physical appeal: “It is about confidence and natural beauty because all the makeup we wear does not reveal us. You have to appreciate the way you look. Sometimes women depend on others for approval, and they do not dress to impress themselves. I try not to dress up for anyone but me.” She made an interesting remark when I gave her my scenario about attracting a guy from across the room. She said, “It depends on what I want. If it is a one-night stand, then I strut my physical beauty. If I want a relationship, then I use everything. I use my body to attract men and then afterwards I use other qualities, like my heart, to keep them. My physical appearance is not the final say, it is just the beginning.” Because Rwandan culture does not emphasize body image the same way that the United States does, sexiness comes from the way we carry ourselves. While our appearance is important, we value much more. As you can tell, my friends honed in on personality — confidence and intelligence — and the company around them, their partners. As for me, it is my shoes. I feel like they introduce me to the world, the first thing people should notice when I enter a room. I am at my best with them, because I am always wearing a grin. 26

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*Names changed to respect privacy.


The Revolution Will Not be Low-Fat by cat coyne

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I like Lean Cuisine in a pinch. It’s quick, “healthy,” and my mother buys them for me, so there’s the added benefit of being free of charge. But I always end up being unsatisfied by the small portion sizes and grab a PB&J to supplement its lacking fulfillment. What I’ve never liked about diets can pretty much be summed up with my feelings about those little Lean Cuisine meals: diets never satisfy. No matter how “good” you are, no matter how much grapefruit you eat to replace all other food, you are left wanting; wanting that chocolate, that yogurt, that candy. I’ve been there, trying desperately to stave off my desire for a steak or a slice of pie by reminding myself that if I stick with it long enough, the results will pay off. But I got wise to the game. You see, it might not be obvious, and it might not even be conscious, but food is seen in terms of bad and good. And if you avoid so-called bad food, you can be good. People congratulate you, comment on how thin you look. Who doesn’t want that kind of validation? Thin equals good because to get thin, most people need to avoid the bad foods. Thinness equals control and power, and that is why it is so coveted in our culture. Why’s that bad, you ask? Oh, let me count the ways. I’m not an advocate for unhealthy eating, but what is seen as healthy and unhealthy is seriously warped. People say you look really healthy if you are thin, but thinness and health have no correlation. You can be fat and be healthy. You can be thin and unhealthy, as the catwalk models who subsist on Jell-O and diet coke can attest to. We need to change our conceptions about health in this country. Fat people don’t sit around and eat potato chips all day like we are told they do. Some people can eat anything and still be thin, but that doesn’t mean their internal health is in tip-top 28

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shape. Health exists on a broad spectrum and we need to realize that. Seeing food as evil is self-defeating. We shouldn’t feel like we have to punish ourselves after eating cake by jumping on the treadmill. Cake is not out there plotting to wreck our waist-lines. I’m not saying that we should eat the whole thing, but having a slice (even two!) is not going to make us bad people, it’s not going to make us unattractive, and it’s not important enough to beat ourselves up about. We talk a lot about how we shouldn’t eat certain things, but I wonder who decided why we shouldn’t. According to Atkins, we shouldn’t eat pancakes, or bagels, or sub sandwiches. According to different diet guidelines, we shouldn’t eat many other things. Who wants to live like that? Women are particularly prone to self-esteem issues, and diets come around promising to make us “better,” “thinner,” and blah blah blah. I understand that resolving our issues with food is easier said than done, but it starts with recognizing where this desire for thinness and control comes from. If women are dieting, how can we conquer the world? How can we dominate at everything we do? Men are told they should and can eat “manly” food, but women should stick to salads. Frankly, that’s nonsense. Whether intentional or not (in my opinion, intentional), the desire for thinness keeps women out of the running. If we focus on a woman’s weight, make insulting remarks about her body when she doesn’t fit the ideal, then people aren’t focusing on her intelligence, her ideas, her strength, her power. Once we understand that food isn’t evil, that it is there to nourish, to be enjoyed, to be lovingly prepared, then we will understand that food can power a revolution about how we look at women and their bodies. bodytalk 29


SIZE MATTERS 30

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by lauren olson


Part of being fat, for me at least, is an almost constant feeling of hyper-awareness. I pay very close attention to the space I take up, as in the way my thighs fill up the seats in auditorium desks. I can feel the fabric of my blouse strain under the pressure of my squishy midsection. For some reason, I’m also convinced that everyone around me notices the same things. You can imagine how these unfounded thoughts tend to multiply while stripping down in front of a partner for the first time. Women of size tend to encounter a spectrum of attitudes toward our perceived sexuality or lack thereof. I’ve been with men that fetishize me. They ask me not to go the gym so I can stay soft for them. Having my size appreciated is more than welcome, but a man controlling my attempts to stay healthy is a deal-breaker, right? Then, on the other hand, it feels as though most men I encounter view me as a sexual non-entity. It feels as though I could do burlesque routine in the middle of Lowry Mall and no one would notice, because we don’t like to think about fat women being sexy. I attribute this to the fact that my shape is not the kind folks are used to seeing on glossy magazine pages or broadcast on TV. This is why physical intimacy as a fat girl is an emotional crapshoot. On top of all the nagging, sometimes self-hating thoughts I may have about my body, it’s hard to predict how a partner might react to a body type with which they might not have prior experience. The hyper-awareness comes back into play when I’m actually having sex. I can’t concentrate on enjoying myself when all I can think about is how my double chin must look at this particular angle or if my partner has noticed the fresh stretch marks making appearances on my thighs and forearms. I wish I could say that I’ve grown out of my self-consciousness. I would absolutely love to profess how I’ve risen above such inward and outward negativity, but as of right now, that’s not the case. Being comfortable by myself in this body is a process full of little daily battles, but feeling that confidence in the arms of another person is an on-going war. photo credit: thesugarmonster, flickr.com

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go

f me

l oo k

in

r o f g

t he

n i n a e m o an by

ny

us o m

How does it feel to be a woman? It’s interesting; I’ve been female my entire life but it’s something I only began thinking about pretty recently. Growing up, I never felt that there were things I couldn’t do because I was a girl; I never felt like my brother and I were treated differently, never felt like less was expected from me, or even like anything different was expected from me. I was encouraged to do whatever I wanted to do. I know that I was very privileged to have this experience growing up, to be blissfully unaware of sexism in my culture. 32

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It was living in another culture that opened my eyes to what it meant to feel different because I was a woman. I was painfully aware of my gender every minute. I thought at first that it was just because the new culture I was living in was more sexist than the culture I had been raised in, but I realize now that this is far from true. My culture is sexist, but it’s my culture, so it was harder to notice. It’s always more difficult to analyze things we are embedded in. The sexism in my culture seemed normal to me to the point of being invisible. The new culture that I lived in was sexist in different ways, ways I wasn’t used to, ways that made me on edge at all times, feeling constantly threatened and inferior just because I happen to have a vagina. I remember one particular time when I was the only female in a room full of men who were analyzing every woman who walked past in incredibly inappropriate ways, especially considering that some of the “women” walking by couldn’t be more than twelve years old. I felt so helpless to say anything, agonizingly aware that to say something would be to turn their negative attention onto myself. And these were men who were supposedly my friends! But I knew with certainty that I was not one of them, that I was the outsider, and that I would be putting myself into danger by speaking up. This incident is only one of many that made my status as a woman crystal clear to me, and it is not even close to being the worst. Now that I’m back in the culture I grew up in, I’ve begun to recognize the problems within my own culture, to realize that here too I am seen as a second-class citizen, and it seems so obvious to me now that I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Sometimes I find myself exasperated at the women around me who don’t see it, but I have to take a step back and remember a time not too long ago when I didn’t see it either. Let’s be honest, I was happier before I understood sexism, back in the day when I thought I was on a level playing field, before I understood rape culture, before it became abundantly clear to me the ways in which women are marginalized not just in my culture, not just in the culture I lived in for a year, but around the world. We are told, in various ways, that we are less. Less than men, less than human. Here to be stared at, whistled at, ridiculed when we dismiss beauty norms and refuse to shave, count calories or wear high heels and mini skirts in below-freezing temperatures. That’s not to say that being a woman is horrible. There are parts of it that I love and that I wouldn’t trade for anything. Multiple orgasms are great, to pick one example. The ability to give birth is pretty incredible. The feeling of community that comes with talking to other women of all ages who have felt what I have felt, who have worked to overcome the same things I am working to overcome. So how does it feel to be a woman? Frustrating, agonizing, scary, but also hopeful, and sometimes even wonderful. I am working out what it means to be a woman in this world. It is an ongoing process, and one that I am happy to be a part of, because, as I have recently come to realize, it is such a huge part of who I am.

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lessons of

love

by rachel

The awkwardness of sitting in a living room staring at my parents while they tried to explain the mechanics of boys and girls and how they eventually become men and women and what these men and women would eventually do together—well, that never happened. So, I grew up obliviously, but curiously, to the murmuring and giggling speculation of my friends. What is sex? A question that was never asked nor answered until sixth grade biology class and never pondered again until the first time I was in love. Growing up and watching the innocent homogeneity of movie princesses had made love seem so easy. Compared to sex, love seemed idyllic and fantastic. Sex just seemed messy and brutal. Unfortunately, who was I to know that in fact, this was

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just the opposite. Oh love…that intoxicating, dizzying sensation that feels like an exhilarating rollercoaster ride plunging toward imminent disaster. I refuse to blame my own ignorance on my parents who followed one particular tradition of being Asian American to a fault—relationships, especially sexual relationships, were simply not talked about until too late. Instead, I fault myself for my own impulsiveness and eagerness. I’ve never done anything half-assed, so when I fell in love, why wouldn’t it be so hard that my whole world seemed to shatter? The first boy I thought I fell in love with probably didn’t speak to me unless he wanted my biology notes. Of course I gave them to him, unsure of what I really wanted in return. The second boy I did fall in love with. And how quickly hand holding turned into light kisses which turned into heavy kisses, which, of course, turned into sex. It’s amazing how much of ourselves we give away when falling in love. At the very least, it’s virginity, which is really just a symbol of innocence. And my innocence was already gone by the time I gave my heart away. At the very most, it’s everything else. In this first real relationship, I don’t think I saw any of my friends because I was wrapped up in my own secluded happiness. Elated by the idea of love, I became careless and inattentive to everything else, forgetting all other obligations outside of being with this person and making them happy. It seemed that everything I had—from time to emotions—I poured into this relationship. And eventually I became numb. All I could do was curl up, vulnerable and alone, and cry until I was empty. The third boy I fell in love with gave me anything but his attention. There is a truth in the saying that people would do anything for someone they loved. Parts of me changed as I tried to mold myself into what I thought he wanted me to be. On the surface, I really believed that if I tried hard enough, I could become someone he could love back. I thought that there simply must be something wrong with me because I was not and wouldn’t ever be that person for him. There was a brief intermission where I spiraled downwards into engaging in meaningless, shameful sex…and it was almost cathartic in how mechanical and empty that was. And now the fourth boy I can’t fall in love with because I’m not sure what it all means any more. I’m going through the motions and he is nice and I try to be nice too, but deep down I know that it just isn’t enough. I can’t even give myself away because I don’t know what that means either. By trying to fit my own happiness within someone else’s, I’ve started to feel like I’ve forgotten who I really am. So now, I just need time…time to figure everything out and understand myself and what I want. Otherwise, the fifth boy I might fall in love with would completely miss the whole point of who I am, and I’d miss me too. bodytalk 35


Victim’s Statement revised by madeline l. kuennen The following passage contains sensitive information regarding relationship and sexual violence. It may be triggering or upsetting to some readers. Make sure you take care of yourself while reading, and take breaks if you need to.

I have a tough exterior. I am reclusive, stoic, and skeptical. Mysterious, you always say. You can’t figure me out and it intimidates you. Can you tell I’m keeping something from you? Probably. You all can. I’ll tell you. I trust you and I feel you deserve to know. But I need to say this now: after I tell you, everything’s going to change. It always does. And this is where you place your arm around me and assert that you’re not like the other guys. You all say that, but I think I might believe it this time. I’m sitting next to you. I stiffen, averting my eyes and clenching my hands into fists to conceal the shaking. I tell you my secret. I tell you everything. On April 12, 2003, I was raped at a girlfriend’s birthday party. I was twelve. Several long seconds of silence and you tell me how sorry you are; how I don’t 36

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deserve that. You had no idea something as horrible as that could’ve happened to me. And this is a reason why I decide to conceal this secret from you. You’re a rape victim, Madeline. I know you have so much inside of you. It’s not healthy. You can talk to me. Seven years ago, I vowed to myself, to the court, and to my rapist that I was not a victim. I refuse to pity myself or wallow in the past, permitting it to cripple me. I decided in that courtroom, looking at my aggressor, wordlessly telling him that he would not win. This was the means to my sanity for some time until I realized there was a social stigma that had been attached to me along with the incident; one that hangs over so many girls’ heads from being raped. I also had no idea that I in fact had no say in who won. It was actually the people closest to me — you, the boy I may have fallen in love with — that decided the outcome of my experience. This is why I never told you my secret. When you didn’t know, you were intrigued by my strong sense of identity. You were thrown off by my straightforwardness and sarcastic tone. I threatened you. Now that you know, you’re not afraid of me anymore. You’ve broken down that wall and know who I really am, inside and out. Everything makes sense now. Everything I do you associate to the rape. That’s why you hide behind your hair. That’s why you hate to cuddle. That’s why you wear so much black. That’s why you’re so unemotional. That’s why you take so many pills each morning. You now handle me like a delicate porcelain doll. I’ve been shattered, slowly put together over the years but perpetually scarred. I’m damaged and frail, and you need to protect me. When we have sex, you hesitate with every move. You ask if it’s okay to touch me. You say it’s because you don’t want to bring back bad memories, but I’m not so sure. You think I wouldn’t be able to stop you. You assume a position of influence and control: because I was raped I was unable to say no. You think I wouldn’t be able to say no to you, either. I was very young when I was raped seven years ago. There’s no question that it changed me forever. I have a tough exterior. I am reclusive, stoic, and skeptical. I would be none of these things if I had not experienced that. It’s a part of who I am, not my identity. I am not a victim. I’ve been struggling in the battle for my identity since I was twelve. And I plan on being triumphant. bodytalk 37


by francess, youth activist, lagos, nigeria

It all started when I got into higher institution. I was studying really hard because I wanted to get good grades. I did well in my first year, but in my second year I thought I was studying too much. I wanted to get a better idea of what it felt like to have fun in a higher institution, so I started going to parties and night clubs with friends and promised myself that I would be able to balance social time with school work. I met so many high-profile people and as a smart and pretty girl, I actually thought I would have my way—until I met one of the most reputable people in the entertainment industry. This man was about twenty years older than me. I fell so much in love with him and did not want to lose him because I found him very important and useful to me. It wasn’t just the social aspect, but also the fact that he was wise and financially supportive. I wanted to keep him really close to my heart and do anything he wanted so I wouldn’t lose him. I knew about all the celebrities that change girls like they change their underpants. Then, as expected, he started asking me for sex. Nothing actually stopped me from giving it to him, but it sounded very irritating for an old, married man (old enough to be my dad!) constantly asking me for sex. I felt really reluctant giving it to him, and it made things difficult in our relationship. I did not like the way things were going, because he started giving me less attention and I was not getting all the fame I used to. I talked to some of my friends in school about it and it convinced me to finally give in. He promised he was always going to use protection and I agreed to that, until one particular day we went outside the country for a trip and I stayed with him for close to a month. That was when the incident happened. When I returned from my trip, I waited throughout the month for my period but I did not see it. That was when I realized I was pregnant and went to the hospital. The 38

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doctor confirmed it was positive. I was so confused as to how I was pregnant and I still can’t explain how it happened. I was expelled from school, and my parents could not face the shame. I was totally lost in another world. My man friend (older partner) promised to take me in as a second wife and I was so happy about it. Then, when I told him I was pregnant, he told me he did not mean all what he said to me that day. I felt very useless and stained all over with sin. My parents not only found out that I was pregnant but that I was expelled from school too. I felt like the ground should open and swallow me up. My man friend avoided me, but he gave me some money to take care of myself. He told me he stopped chasing young girls and that he wanted to focus on his wife and children. I lost everything: my education, my family, my respect and my dignity as a woman. Right now, I don’t blame my friends for giving me the wrong advice because I was old enough to make decisions on my own. I really don’t know who to blame but myself.

In collaboration with Americans for Informed Democracy, Advocates for Youth, and Feminist Student Union, BODYTALK will host a Reproductive Health Forum on Wednesday, March 24 at 6 PM in 210 Strickland Hall. The forum will feature sexual health advocates from Jamaica, Nigeria and Ethiopia to raise awareness about reproductive health and rights issues abroad and to train students to advocate for increased U.S. support for international family planning programs.

Clear your calendars. Let’s put our talk into action.

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comic by jen vaughn


bodytalk 41


to bodytalk Calling all queers! Queer identities, bodies, and voices are storming BODYTALK’s pages, and we want you to be a part of it! Share a story, a testimonial, a confession, a poetic primal scream, a biogeographical sketch, an ode, a complaint, or just a string of syllables that expresses what it means for you to see the world with queer eyes and touch it with queer hands. We’re seeking out pieces written by LGBTQ-identified individuals of all sexual orientations, gender identities, colors, ages, sizes, shapes, nationalities, belief systems, and ability statuses. So tell us the story about when you first realized that something didn’t fit, or the moment when you first glimpsed the possibility that it could. Tell us in your voice and stamp a recognizable name proudly across the header or engage in a bit of textual ventriloquism with a pen name of your choice. The label’s not what matters. What matters is the act of expressing the truth, a truth, your truth. So write your transgressive digression and submit it. It’s easy, painless, and—who knows?—you just might learn something about yourself in the process.

Submit to The Queer Issue at bodytalkzine@gmail.com (note the email address change) by Friday, March 26. [As always, if you need an anonymous address to send from, use bodytalkvoices@gmail. com, password: talktalktalk.]

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The BodyTalk Art Department would like to thank the following contributing illustrators for their time and talents: Marcos Romรกn - pages 16, 21, 25 www.hellomarcos.com Jen Vaughn - pages 40-41 www.mermaidhostel.com Stewart Wagstaff - page 10 www.stewwaggie.blogspot.com An additional thank you to Melissa of Uppercrust for the cupcake decorations. 44

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