To Paradise & Back...
Returning from the jungle is a process, it turns out
My dear people:
I got back from my Mexico retreat this week, and I’m still not quite sure what day it is or where I am. The retreat was amazing and wonderful and splendid, and I will write about it soon, but first, I have some settling back in to do. So for now, to keep (sort of) on schedule with my Substacking, I’ll share the below piece about noses that I intended to share before I left for paradise. And I’ll be back next week with some reflections on traveling, jungle noises, and why kirtan makes us cry.
Take care until then,
Abby
Nose
When I was in eighth grade, my nose changed from button to Roman. It was the same year my scoliosis changed from “moderate” to “severe,” and the same year I started wearing a back brace. It was the first year I remember feeling self-conscious about my appearance, the year I developed my first unrequited crush, and the last year before I got my period.
Each night after brushing my teeth, I would position two mirrors just so, so I could have a good look at my profile. I would take my index finger and cover the small bump forming on my nose, the bump that signified I was no longer a cute little kid, but an awkward almost-woman, growing too fast in all the wrong places and not enough in others. At the same time I wanted to look older, I also clung, desperately, to the girl I was growing out of. I wanted to stay petite, little, cute, while also becoming strong, experienced, and sexy. I could not figure out how to do both, and I was sure my nose wasn’t helping.
I would look at pictures of myself from seventh grade, the year when all the boys had crushes on me and I was miserable about it because boys were still gross. The irony, I thought. Just when I start to like boys, I become ugly.
I soon learned that this is what girls talked about: how ugly we are, and how much better our lives would be if we looked like celebrities, or even our friends, who were so pretty, unless the boys we liked liked them, in which case, they were ugly skanks who we never wanted to talk to again - unless of course they were popular, in which case, we would continue pretending to be their friends while we talked shit behind their backs.
It was also the first year a girl in my class called me a mother fucker.
While I hated my nose intensely, I did not feel the same vitriol toward my back brace. Perhaps because I knew it was temporary, and could easily turn it into a joke: “I’ve got abs of plastic!” I would say, and then knock on the belly of my brace while everyone laughed. With my brace, I could stay ahead of the teasing, garner sympathy, even. But with my nose, all I could do was wish, secretly, that it would break, and that I would have to get reconstructive surgery where they could just shave a little off the top, while they were at it.
But alas, my nose did not break, and the only surgery I needed was the one that fused my spine together. C’est la vie.
Once I got to college, I left my nose alone and focused instead on the rest of my body. If I can’t control my face or my spine, I thought, I might as well at least control everything else. So began the years of starvation and too much exercise, the years of side-eyeing myself in every mirror and window I walked by, the years of thinking constantly about every calorie in and every calorie out. This is what it’s like to be a woman, I told myself, even though I knew better.
How fucked is that? A proud feminist, a loudmouth about injustice, and the first to tell a friend how much she kicked ass - and still, I could not walk by a window without peeking at my belly, could not look at a woman without wondering if she was prettier than I was, could not look at a man without wondering if he thought I was prettier than other women…
This is what it’s like to be a woman.
Two years before my nose grew its hump, I was standing on a balance beam when one of the junior coaches called out to me:
“Abby!” she hollered. “How old are you?”
When I looked over, I saw her standing next to a young man - another junior coach, whose name, for some reason, I knew was Anthony.
“Twelve,” I said quietly as I looked away, praying I was wrong about why she was asking.
She turned to Anthony with a firm look. “She’s twelve. Stop it.”
“No way,” I heard him say as he laughed.
After that, every time I walked by him, Anthony would stare and smile. “Hiiii, Abigail!” he would say, eyes following as I walked. Each time, I quickened my pace, and each time, I did not reply. For as much as he looked at my body, he was terrible at reading its language.
This went on for several weeks, until I began to feign illness. I didn’t feel like explaining to my parents that an 18-year-old man was harassing me, so I told them I had a stomach ache, or that I just didn’t feel good, both of which were technically true. It worked a few times, but eventually, I had to go back. I loved gymnastics, and I hated that Anthony was ruining it for me.
After a few more months of “Hiiiii, Abigail!”s and my avoiding eye contact, Anthony went to college, and that was that. A few years later, I got too tall for gymnastics anyway, and left the gym. I did not think about Anthony for years.
I did not think about Anthony until I was in my early 30s, which is when I started to panic about the rest of my life. I had dated several men, ranging from extremely kind to extremely manipulative. Each had broken my heart in some way, and I had, in turn, broken each of theirs. I did not think I had the energy to start all over again. As I scrolled and swiped through my collection of dating apps, I suddenly had a memory of Anthony. I don’t remember if it was triggered by someone who looked like him, or a mention of gymnastics, or what - all I know is that I had the thought, “I wonder what Anthony is doing, and if he is still single.”
It was not a thought one would have toward an enemy. It was not an innocent, friendly thought either. It was wistful, almost nostalgic, as if I were pining over an old crush. But of course, Anthony was not an old crush. He was a young man harassing an even younger girl after a girl his age had told him to stop it. He was the kind of young man who probably got away with harassment for years because he was handsome.
As soon as I had this thought, I felt my body go cold. It was not the memory of Anthony that was the most disturbing. It was the fact that, despite how violated I had felt, I wanted so much for a man’s validation that I wondered if he might still be single - still single, and perhaps, still interested in me.
I felt my stomach ache return.
This is what it’s like to be a woman.
But of course, it’s not just women, and it’s not just girls. It’s not just men, and it’s not just boys, either. Plus 18 is hardly an adult, so I feel for young Anthony. He was probably doing what he was told men do, what he saw the men around him doing.
This is what it’s like to be told what it’s like.
This is how patriarchy persists.
I still stare at myself in the mirror sometimes. Sometimes I still position two mirrors, just so, so I can have a good look at myself from all angles. But now, instead of wishing for things to be different - a smaller nose, a straighter spine, a different body - I am looking to see what is actually there, and how I might learn to love what I see: The wrinkles forming around my eyes, signifying I am no longer a very young woman, but a woman approaching middle age. The rogue gray hairs that remind me my hair will not always be so colorful. The ribs that, despite the surgery, are still visibly lopsided. The tailbone that is so prominent it looks like my pelvis is broken.
I did not want attention from Anthony. And I did not want the attention from the boys in seventh grade. But as I get older, I am realizing that part of me will likely, one day, miss something about that attention. Another part of me hates this. And then there is another part who, calmly and kindly, reminds me that it is okay to feel needy and small, just as it is okay to feel big and righteous; that I am both, and I am also neither.
In my email signature, there is a quote by Toucan Sam. “Just follow your nose,” it says. I have had this email signature since I opened my gmail account, nearly 20 years ago. I put it there because it made me giggle, and also because something about it felt resonant. Maybe because I’ve always had a keen sense of smell, and I trust my nose to tell me when something is off. Or maybe because my nose is the foremost point in my body, and literally leads the way when I walk or cross a threshold. Or maybe because my nose was the first part of my body to mature, the first thing to cross over from childhood into adulthood. My nose changed before I was ready, but eventually, the rest of me caught up.
Now, I love my nose. Not for how it looks, thought I’m fine with that, too. I love my nose because it is sensitive, and because reminds me to trust my sensitivity.
I love that every time I smell a particular brand of sunscreen, I am brought back to the first yoga retreat I taught in Mexico, the trip that confirmed: this is the work I was meant to do.
I love that every time I smell a different brand of sunscreen, I think of all the Ultimate Frisbee tournaments I’ve played, and all the friends I have because of that silly and wonderful sport.
I love that every time I smell lavender oil, I think of the first yoga studio I worked at, the first job I quit for ethical reasons. I love that I can still love that smell, even though my memory of the place is complicated. I love that a smell can remind me to forgive.
I love that every time I smell freshly baked bread, I think of my mother, kneading bread in her giant ceramic bowl with her strong and beautiful hands. I love that every time I make bread, I love my mother more.
I love that every time I smell a certain kind of soap, I remember my last shower before surgery, the last night I could move my spine. I love that this memory also reminds me of my father’s hospital room, of his last days, alive in his body.
I love that I have learned that loving is not the same thing as admiring, or being proud of, or even being content with. I love that I have learned that change is okay, even when I’m not ready, and that sometimes, following is not relinquishing, but trusting.
Thank you for being here. To read more about this project, or to join me in this creative journey, you can read this post, or simply follow the prompt below:
Choose one part of your body, then write or create something inspired by that part. It can be a poem, an essay, a song - even a painting or a dance! Whatever the creation, let it be an inquiry into your own body, and all the bodies you have been influenced by: parents, ancestors, friends, enemies, doctors, teachers, therapists, pets…
Our next prompt is: EARS.
Upcoming events w/ Abby:
