This month I am thinking about shame.
How it blooms in us, even when we are sure we are beyond it. How it asks us to question our worth, our decisions, our right to say no.
I’m re-reading Sonya Renee Taylor’s, “The Body is Not An Apology” this month, a book that has truly helped me work through my own internalized fatphobia. I returned to it recently on a quest for nuggets of wisdom about boundaries (long story short: I’m workin’ on ‘em).
Early on in the book, Sonya asks the reader the question:
“In what ways have you been asked to apologize for your body?”
It took a minute for this question to actually penetrate the arrogance that sometimes shows up, convincing me that I am liberated, I am healed — that shame doesn’t darken my doorway anymore.
But as I allowed myself to consider the question more deeply — those apologies started rolling through. I felt them with a somatic impact — that anxious tingle I get when I feel like I’m crowding someone on a plane & taking up more space than I should. That feeling of panic that blooms in my tummy when I realize I’m walking as fast as I can and that I still can’t keep up the pace with the group of friends I’m with. The burn on my neck during the scramble to get up off my knees gracefully from the stage — because a director insists I sing the aria on the floor. Dining with someone with a much different appetite than mine — that prickle that makes me feel like I should keep pace with what they order, versus what I actually need to quell my hunger.
In all of these moments, I am honoring the privilege and assumptions of others over the needs of my own body. In these moments — I am embarrassed. I feel shame. And I feel that ugly word “should”. I *should* be able to fit in that seat like everybody else, I *should* be able to keep up the pace with this group, I *should* be able to do whatever a director asks of me in a scene.
When in reality it’s an access issue. It’s an inclusivity issue. It’s an abilities issue.
It’s NOT a *something-is-wrong-with-my-body issue*.
So this is what I will picture when I lay my head down on my pillow tonight…I will visualize these scenes, and I will drift off into a deep and shameless sleep.
Someone flops next to me in the middle seat, and pushes the armrest down, painfully pinching down into my hip. I flash them a grin, offer them gum and hand sanitizer, and ask them if they don’t mind keeping it up as it actually hurts me when it’s down. They say “I’m so sorry, of course!”. I thank them, put in my headphones and drift off to sleep.
My friends are almost three yards ahead and I am breathing hard. I stop, cup my hands around my mouth and yell “Hey assholes — you’re walking faster than I am able!” They circle back, throw their shoulders over mine, and we all stride together anew, laughing and happy.
A director gives me the staging — he would like me to fall to my knees for the aria. I straighten my spine, throw back my shoulders, and say sweetly, “You know what — I had a different idea for this aria…it involves me staying on my feet and I’d love show you if you don’t mind…”
The waitress at the deli flips a sheet on her pad, looks at me and says, “what’ll it be honey?”
I smile and ask: