Skills: Beauty Lost
from Contributor: Stacie Moore
I’m 12
I’m in science class. I’m wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, feeling uncomfortable in my skin. I just know I gained five pounds back over Thanksgiving. Nathan is sitting beside of me. He has taunted me for years. Something I say pisses him off. “Whatever, you’re still just a fat-ass,” he responds. I feel something intangible break inside of me. I know this: I’ll starve myself if that’s what it takes.
I’m at the dinner table with my whole family. I go to get seconds. They talk about me as if I’m not here. “She could afford to lose a few more pounds,” my dad says. I’ve been losing weight all summer as it is. I say nothing and stare down at my plate.
I’m 11
I’m in homeroom. Three boys, sometimes my ‘friends,’ are trying to knock me out of my chair from behind. Even all together, they can’t do it. My chair barely moves forward. “Damn, she’s fat.” They laugh, saying this and other things. I pretend to ignore them; I listen to their insults.
I’m in the backseat of the car. My father and his girlfriend are up front. They are taking me to my brother’s house, where I live. I want to stop and get dinner first. All that will be at the house are frozen pizzas and Hot-Pockets, which I hate. I’m whining, asking to stop. We get stuck at the red light, and my father screams at me: “We’re not stopping just so your fat ass can get a cheeseburger! So shut up!” I’m scared of the yelling; most people in my life yell, but he usually doesn’t. I stop begging and begin to cry.
I’m 10
All of my cute, skinny, popular friends have boyfriends. They hold hands and go to the movies in groups on the weekends. I’ve never had a boyfriend—they don’t like me that way. I can just make people laugh, but I’m not girlfriend material. I know I’m not like my pretty friends. They all wear clothes from Limited Too—a store with no outfits even close to my size. I pray and ask God to let me be one of them. I’m disappointed because I wake up every morning and I’m still me.
I’m 9
My brother makes me go to the YMCA with him. I hate it. He goes to lift weights and I walk around the track by myself. I’m bored. I want to leave and get lunch. Once we leave, he gives me some advice: “Now, you’re smart. And smart people can be really successful. But if you’re fat, you won’t get a good job. You won’t get chosen. You’ll end up living in a trailer and working at McDonald’s, eating Big Macs for the rest of your life. Now that’s not what you want, is it?” No. That’s not what I want at all.
I’m 8
I’m in dance class. I like being here. It’s fun and makes me laugh. I’m in tights, leotard, skirt. I look in the mirror at the other girls. Their outfits look better. Their bellies don’t stick out. I feel very round. I don’t want to be in a leotard anymore.
I’m 7
My brother’s girlfriend is driving me somewhere. I grab her arm and ask if I’m beautiful. I expect her to say yes. But she hesitates before she says, “Of course.” I don’t quite believe her.
I’m 6
My mother dies.
My sense of beauty began to die then.
I resemble a woman who disappeared
I see a face in the mirror I don’t
recognize—a stranger
a face that left
a face in so few memories
a face and a body
that became sick and silent
This body I inherited
but was never taught to love
She’s a being rarely mentioned
a body in a grave
a body,
if we are to be frank,
disintegrating
I seem to have tried to follow suit.
To disappear, become entirely
unrecognizable
run away, forget,
be ill, silenced
heading toward disintegration
and a grave
This was mirrored to me
and then I was left without due care
Lonely, perhaps I gravitated
toward what I’d been given
reinforcement came in
to try and prove that was,
indeed,
the way I should go
Gained weight
Put on a show
Screamed until
I learned to hush
Hide
Turn inward
Keep everything in
I took unexpressed grief over beauty
& saw it, & myself, as ugliness
Images: photographer Julian Bialowis
