The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
14 — Wednesday, November 18, 2020
statement
T
he code word was perfect: obscure
enough so that the boys couldn’t
decipher it, but not so strange that
it would attract the attention of our teach-
ers. In the lunch line, we were giggling by the
shelves of Cheetos and Funyuns, pointing at
the girl a few steps ahead:
“Look, look,” I said, motioning to the back
of her white t-shirt. “Her walrus is showing.”
Walrus. For a group of fourth graders, that
was the most creative code word we could
come up with for “bra.” We were at the point in
elementary school when some students dou-
bled in height overnight, when a small fraction
of the boys grew little hairs above their lips
and when a few of the girls started using pads.
It was the early stages of puberty, so we were
immature — which perhaps made the environ-
ment all the more conducive for words like
“walrus.”
Looking back, I think our teasing came
from fear; we couldn’t even bring ourselves
to say the word of something so unknown, so
intimidating. As a small, flat-chested tomboy,
I dreaded any change that indicated woman-
hood, despite the long, sometimes awkward
conversations I had with my mom about pu-
berty. I feared the inevitable truth that as I ap-
proached middle school, my body would start
changing, morphing into an unfamiliar shape
with foreign characteristics, whether it be hair
or boobs or extra fat somewhere.
When my mom suggested I get my first
“bra” — and I put it in quotes because, as many
women reading this would know, it was liter-
ally a piece of unsupportive fabric — I agreed
only because it had started to feel uncomfort-
able playing soccer without one. But in the line
at Dunham’s Sports, I hid behind my mom,
embarrassed, while the cashier laughed affec-
tionately and scanned the tag on a small blue
training bra.
I detested puberty because I didn’t want to
grow up, but at the time I didn’t know what
growing up really meant, in terms of my body.
Even in eighth grade, when I spent an hour in
the principal’s office after breaking dress code,
waiting for my mom to bring me longer shorts,
or during freshman year of high school, when
a male friend groped my butt at the homecom-
ing dance, I didn’t make the realization that to
be a woman means to have two bodies at once.
The first body is the mechanistic kind. It is
the one we have known since childhood and
its job is to function. It breathes, it cries, some-
times it’s injured or tired. It kicks soccer balls,
chases siblings, eats burritos and takes naps. I
am grateful not to have to think about mine all
that much — it is mostly just a vessel to carry
me throughout my day. At the age of 21, I’m
this body, and only this body, in rare moments:
when I’m alone or with my family. It is only
then that my body’s existence is not under the
survey of outward eyes.
The second body is the one that comes with
puberty; it is the body of sex. This is the body
that ends up existing for other people — for
their observation, for their pleasure — whether
we want it to or not. This body is a tool that we
can enhance with the right pair of jeans or a
snug-fitting shirt; we can use it to wield power
over straight men. At the age of 21, I know that
I can rarely turn off this body. It doesn’t mat-
ter if I’m playing tennis, buying groceries or
out with friends — my moving through space is
wedded to the male gaze.
Coming to understand my second body
was much more subtle than the experience
of puberty. At some point, I went from resist-
ing growing up to feeling like I had to rush to
get there. Much of high school was a confused
effort to attract attention through my body,
which was slow to develop. But why? Whether
it was from what I saw on TV, from what older
girls told me or even a slight biological inclina-
tion, somehow I automatically began using my
body to wield sexual attention from men, even
though it was unclear what I wanted from that
attention.
I remember buying a push-up bra but not
really understanding why that was important
or what I wanted it to lead to. Why did I want
the boys in my Spanish class to see more of my
boobs? Maybe I just wanted to be cool, and I
thought their approval would validate me. But
why did I think the only way to get noticed was
through my body? And why was my metric for
self-esteem based on my physical appearance,
specifically that of my sexuality?
Of course, high school is a time when many
young people begin exploring their sexuality,
and along the way, we are bound to try things
that might seem stupid or embarrassing later
on. In reality, my wearing a push-up bra to
Spanish class was definitely not as deep as it
seems now. But the fact that as a high schooler
who wasn’t experienced, fully interested or
ready to have sex, I still had the subconscious
motivation to display my body for attention is
slightly disturbing to me now. It shows how
pervasive the idea is that a woman’s worth is
determined by her sexual appeal and how the
process of using — and maybe misusing — the
second body starts off at a young age.
What has changed for me, now a college se-
nior, is more so my mindset than my actions. If
I choose to use my second body, I do so know-
ing I am confident in myself and my sexuality
and I can understand the motivations behind
what I do, wear or say. My second body is no
longer just for others to enjoy, or under their
control — it is under mine.
I can also now understand that sometimes
we want to use our second bodies to attract at-
tention. Maybe it’s for the same reasons as be-
fore — for validation, self-worth — but maybe
it’s also to reclaim power. When men reduce
us to one dimension and for a few purposes —
bodies for sex, childbirth, motherhood — per-
haps we want to expose how that male gaze
and its superiority are so sensitive and eas-
ily manipulated. Maybe we want to show how
fickle the idea is that men are always in control,
that their gaze intimidates and traps us. Maybe
we want to say: No, it is you that is simple.
And yet, as I write these words and think
these thoughts, I falter, I worry. I fear I am try-
ing to justify behavior that still results in objec-
tification and degradement. But then, I won-
der if I am placing blame where there should
be none. I have no ill judgements toward
women who wield the power of their second
body when they want to, nor do I feel any self-
directed shame when I think back to the times
I’ve done the same. But it’s difficult not to ques-
tion if, for straight women, this choreographed
dance between our second bodies and men is
truly something we want or if it’s something
we’ve been trained to want. In the balance of
something as delicate as power, which can
quickly inverse or disappear, it is hard to know
what actions are truly autonomous and which
are conditional to a long-standing patriarchy.
As I did when I was a fourth grader con-
fused about why my friend had to wear a “wal-
rus,” I went to my mom for advice and answers
on the second body. Our conversation was long
as always, but this time, it was not awkward.
I watched as she sat on the couch, decades of
her own memories as a woman flashing in her
mind. She offered a piece of advice, one that
provided maybe the only way to find solace
in the complicated reality of being a woman:
“Just do whatever the hell you want.”
The
second
body
BY MAGDALENA MIHAYLOVA,
STATEMENT MANAGING EDITOR