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

