Just Fine...

Some months ago, I posted something about finally being comfortable in my curvy, fleshy, womanly body. I have to admit, this is nothing short of a miracle. I have been aware of the size of my body since I was in kindergarten. My weight, my thick thighs, my round belly had always been a source of consternation. I can honestly admit that for much of my life I did not like me--the outer me, that is. In my twenties and early thirties I fought with my body. I treated her unkindly. I starved her and worked her out mercilessly only to, a few months later, gorge her and give her permission to sit and do nothing for months and months on end. As a result, my weight went up and down and up and down and, well, you get the picture. My closet reflected this change. I had skinny clothes and fat clothes and really fat clothes on hangers and in bins just waiting until it was their time.

But this is a new day...

I am good with me. And, my husband is good with me. And, my doctors are good with me. But it seems there are some folk who haven't quite gotten with the program. I went to the gym today and decided to take them up on the one free personal training session. Well my trainer after pleasantries and required, but not authentic, compliments, asked me my height and weight. She then asked me my goals. I told her that I wanted get fit and lose about 5 pounds (picked up in the hustle and bustle after the wedding). She then ignored my goals and tried to persuade me that I needed to get to 125lbs and that she could get me there. I bucked. She bucked back throwing out numbers and words like dangerous and types of fat that she couldn't pronounce, let alone explain. But I stood my ground. First of all, I am quite healthy. Second of all, I am not my fittest, but I am no slouch. Thirdly, my head alone weighs 115lbs! Plus, and most importantly, I am good with my body. No one, especially not a stranger who is trying to milk me for 40 bucks a session, is going to lead me to believe that I need to be a size 4 to be healthy. I have been in this body for 34 years. I have been aware of her size for about 29 of those years. I am tired of hating her, hating me. I am tired of obsessing over every bite of food and every calorie burned. In fact, I had an aha! moment today while on the treadmill: Working out is much more liberating when you aren't obsessed with the results. These days, and for the rest of my days, I will be working out for self-care, not to be skinny....

So my goals, the ones I will share with ole girl when I meet with her on Monday morning are:
1)To have fun when I work out...
(I've already gotten back into my Bellydancing...next up, Zumba!)

2)To establish a routine...
(I want working out to be part of what I do like eating, sleeping, worshiping, etc.)

3)To build up my arm strength and my confidence enough to make that cartwheel happen...
(See an earlier post from January, I think)

If her harassment wasn't enough, I was accosted in the elevator of my mother's building a few hours ago. I was talking with a woman who has lived in the building all of my life. Apparently she had been literally watching me grow. She said, "You're gaining weight since I saw you last." First of all, grammar lady, grammar! Second of all, I saw you last week but you were too scattered to notice. And thirdly (what actually came out of my mouth), no I'm not gaining weight. She then tried to clean it up, put her foot in her mouth again, and thanks be to God, the elevator reached the seventh floor, our stop.

Why do people feel the need to comment on your weight? The audacity! What she didn't realize was that I am good with me and that I was feeling especially dynamite in my leopard print dress and knee high boots.

I was reminded of a comment my grandma made about my weight last November. At that time I was just getting on the road to where I am now. As always, my grandma made some comment about me gaining weight--this time used the word stout. What woman wants to be called stout? Huh? Anyway, I usually stay quiet when she brings up my weight, but I guess I had had enough. I politely said, "Grandma, are you trying to lower my self-esteem?" (I couldn't believe it had actually come out of my mouth.) She replied, "huh?" I knew she had heard me, I guess she wanted to know if she heard what she though she heard. I may have been an adult, but I still had no business sassing her. I boldly repeated the question. Instead of saying something harsh, she said, "I reckon not." That was the end of our exchange. That was also the last time my grandma said anything to me about my weight/body.

This is kind of random, but also related. I am moving to a place where I am refusing to participate in conversations when my girlfriends obsess over and speak negatively about their weight/body. There are so many productive things to talk about. We are too beautiful to wate our time on such chatter. Plus, it does more harm than good. Just as I am (finally) just fine, I want my friends--and all women in general--to be just fine with who they are, inside and out.

So, with that, I leave you with the wonderful words of Mary J. Blige. If I am not mistaken, this song is on every one of my workout playlists. It reminds me that I am good with me. It reminds me not to compare myself with others. It reminds me not to internalize the insecurities of others. Also, this particular video shows just how much of the joint this song is. Peep the news guy getting his groove on.




I like what I see when I'm looking at me when I'm walking past the mirror...

Untitled...

This entry isn't really untitled. It has many titles. I couldn't decide on just one.

Here are but a few:

Tell 'em why You Mad Son...

or, No/bodies, Some/bodies...

or, For Real MoMa? You're Kidding, Right...

or, Where is Lorna?

I feverishly typed most of this entry on my Blackberry while sitting on the top floor of the Museum of Metropolitan Art. I had not been to the new location (which isn't so new anymore) and I was excited to get out and be inspired. Instead I felt like my life/breath was being choked out of me. Here is my story:

As I traveled up yet another escalator, I realized that I paid twenty bucks to get mad. I could feel the heat rising in my body like steam coming out from a NYC manhole cover. I could have gotten mad for free (like I did in the Bolton's fitting room earlier), but no, I paid to be angered.

I should have expected it. I should have known better. But I walked in blindly and got smacked upside the head pretty hard. I felt like Wily Coyote getting hit by a ton of Acme bricks. What hit me? It was the reality that many are still content with ignoring the bodies and the bodies of work of African-American women.

Let me begin with our bodies. I am no small girl. In fact, I was reminded of this in the fitting room of Bolton's earlier today. I may not be tall, but I am certainly not lacking presence. Except, of course, in places where white folks and a few others aren't expecting my presence. I was bumped and brushed one too many times for my taste. It was like I wasn't there. It was like they didn't see me. I am grateful that I have been set aside for Christian ministry because there is no telling what I may have otherwise said and done. What happens when your body has become so devalued in society that folks treat you like you have no body at all? No body. Nobody.

As for the bodies of work of African-American women artists, MoMa gets the gas face. Minutes before going to the women in photography exhibit, I snapped this picture and sent it to a friend. She and I had just been talking about the Guerilla Girls.

My delight by the inclusion of work by the Geurilla girls, and their creative commentary on African-American/Black woman artists, was dampened by the exclusion of African-American women photographers in an exhibit that "encompassed the vitality and richness of photography's many creative traditions and demonstrates the medium's accessibility to women from its inception."
Accessible? To whom? By whom? What women? How could MoMa have an exhibition of women photographers that contains only one Jeanne Moutoussamy-Ashe print? Where is Lorna? Where is Clarissa? Where is Deborah? Where is Adrian? Where?

MoMa, what are you saying? Are we nobodies with no bodies of work?

In an act of resistance I slipped quietly in the corner on the sixth floor of MoMa, slipped my iPod out of my purple bag, slipped on my headphones and listened to Jill Scott's "I'm Still Here," and then I left.

I am a boisterous river
I am a mountains story
I am a quiet feeling
I am a fragrant flower
I am a moonlit evening
I am a peaceful night
I am a writers thinking
I am a wealth unfathomed
And if you don’t recognize my presence, I am here
And if you don’t recognize me, I am here

I am a source of power
I am excited journey
I am the rock of patience
I am a whisper singing
I am unbridled freedom
I am the thought from thinking
I am a love unshattered
I am the great orgasm

And if you don’t recognize my presence, I am here
And if you don’t recognize my presence, I am here

And even if you don’t recognize me, I‘m still here
And even if you don’t recognize me

And even if you don’t recognize me, I‘m still here
And even if you don’t recognize me, I am, oh, I’m still here

Even if you don’t recognize me, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here

To add insult to injury, I walked past (and doubled back to) a painted image in the window of the really swanky bar, Modern, that is doors down from MoMa. Here is a detail. There was too much of a glare to get the entire display. What you don't see in this image are the other two women and the ways in which their bodies are postured, layered on each other, baring flesh.

Here were black women's bodies. On display. In a window. They were teasing, titillating, tempting. I felt like I was at the intersection of a slave auction block and Q-Tip's video for Vivrant Thang instead of at 53rd Street and 5th Avenue in Midtown Manhattan.

It is acceptable for our bodies bodies to be sexual, used to invoke or evoke pleasure for others. It is alright for our bodies to be used in service to others, laboring for the well being of others whether as a domestic worker, nanny, or factory worker. But folks don't know what to do with our bodies when we are just being. Though I haven't talked about Erykah Badu's video for "Window Seat" on the blog, I think that is precisely the issue. What do we do with the body of a black woman when she isn't shaking her a**?

Black women have strong bodies. Black women have beautiful bodies. Black women have intelligent bodies. Black women have resilient bodies. Sadly, Black women have bodies that are only recognized when we are sexual or working.

I don't know how to end this blog. Truth is, I am still angry. I thought writing would help. Maybe it did a little. There is more to be done to right these wrongs...