Body Parts
2023; Johns Hopkins University Press; Volume: 35; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1353/ff.2023.a902072
ISSN2151-7371
Autores ResumoBody Parts Victoria Bañales (bio) (Originally printed in Porter Gulch Review, 2019, reprinted with permission) I used to think I was ugly. "This one sure is ugly—ugly like her grandma," says my uncle, carefully inspecting me when I was seven years old. I run into the bathroom and cry. I used to hate my skin color. "¡India!" "N****r!" my third grade classmates shout. Too dark. Darker than a midnight sky. I didn't know midnight skies were beautiful with their twinkling diamond stars. I used to feel ashamed about my toes. "Old lady toes! Old lady toes!" a fifth grade classmate jeers, pointing to my sunbaked, wrinkly toes while others turn to stare. I learn to avoid open-toed sandals. I used to feel embarrassed about my feet. "Too patona—big-footed," complains my mom, frustrated at having to buy new shoes, year after year, my feet elongating to a size 8½—much too large for a twelve year-old Mexican girl. Upper-class Chinese women once crushed and bound their feet for the sake of beauty. Crippled and disabled, they hobbled for the rest of their lives. I think about this. [End Page 151] I used to deplore my legs. "Too thin," my older cousin laments, shaking her head. "Qué lástima que no saliste piernuda, mira nada más. ¡No tienes piernas! You have no legs!" she bemoans, filling me in on a little secret: "Did you know that wearing leg warmers inside dark stockings or tights can make your legs look fuller?" Instead, I pair dresses and skirts with mid- to high-rise boots. I used to feel uncomfortable about my breasts. "Double D! Double D!" my sister teases (even though I'm only a size C). I hunch my shoulders and wear tight-fitting minimizer bras alongside loose T-shirts and blouses. I used to loathe my nose. "This one's big-nosed—narizona," my grandmother says, blaming it on my father's genes. My cousin chimes in. "¡Bruja!—witch!" he jeers. In high school, my sister's friend gets a nose job prior to her quinceañera. Everyone says she looks prettier. I think about this. I used to dislike my behind. "Too damn flat," says my aunt. "No tienes sentaderas—you have no butt," she opines with furrowed brows, scrutinizing my rear. I tie a sweatshirt around my waist. (No legs and no butt. How very distressing and confusing to find out you are missing key body parts.) And then … In my twenties, six-hundred miles away, the voices begin to dissipate and drift away. Like parting clouds. My body parts. I realize. I have toes, feet, and legs—useful for standing, walking, bicycling, climbing, running, and dancing. I have a behind, and my built-in cushion is very comfy to sit on. With my nose, I pass air into my lungs; smell the sweet, [End Page 152] sickly evening scent of jasmine; and taste the spicy green enchiladas, savoring the roasted tomatillos and peppers. Years later, after I give birth, my breasts provide life nourishment for my beautiful baby boy. I think about this. When the hot summer months arrive, I wear shorts and skirts, bare-legged. I open my chest like a blooming flower and learn to stand a little taller. I store my winter boots in the closet and wear open-toed sandals and flip flops, letting my toes wiggle free. I bake in the warm sun, my coffee-colored skin radiant and glistening. I realize. Dark night skies are beautiful with their twinkling diamond stars. [End Page 153] Victoria Bañales Victoria (Vicky) Bañales is a Chicanx writer, teacher, mother, and activist. She is a member of the Writers of Color-Santa Cruz County, the Hive Poetry Collective, and founder and editor of Journal X, a social justice literary arts magazine. The recipient of poetry, teaching, and academic awards, she completed a PhD in Literature and Feminist Studies from the University of California at Santa Cruz, and her poems and essays have been published in various journals and anthologies. More information at vickybanales.com. Copyright © 2023 Feminist Formations
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