Opinion: Naked, But Not For Sale

Growing up, I wasn’t necessarily taught to be ashamed of my body, but I definitely wasn’t encouraged to celebrate it. In fact, I would venture to say the idea of “celebrating” my body and embracing myself as a woman did not become a reality for me until college. Indeed, my first experiences with the Aquinas College Gender Studies Club were formative and initiated what I now know is a lifelong exploration of my gender identity and gender expression.

As a child, I grew up with all the same stereotypes and generalizations most young women do: fat = ugly; short skirts and tight clothing = whore or prostitute; sexy = easy, etc. etc. However, to confuse the matter even more, I was taught all those favorite Christian fundamentals about how special I was, and how God created me in his image, and how Jesus loved me just as I was, no matter what.

It’s just that …

Good women wore conservative clothing that’s not too tight, too short, too baggy, too revealing, or really, too much of anything.

Good women were never nude in public places. This was seen as flaunting or advertising yourself in an inappropriate or cheap way.

Good women did what was expected of them, what they were told to do.

Good women did not, under any circumstances, flaunt visible tattoos. *gasp*

Good women were not visibly pierced in places other than the socially-acceptable lower ear lobes.

End of story.

As my mother always said, “Why buy the cow, when you can get the milk for free?”

Needless to say, as I began to explore the world for myself, these misconceptions of gender and gender roles came to be seen for exactly what they were: lies — little, twisted, mutated, misogynistic, fear-ridden half-truths that have permeated our poor, patriarchal society for eons and eons.

My experience at a friend’s house this past weekend helped put into perspective for me how far I’ve come in my quest to enjoy and express my love-of-self and presently-developed comfort within my own skin.

I strutted around topless, tepid at first, but topless all the same. Awkward at first, but proud peacock on the inside (and eventually on the outside).

And not a single woman batted an eyelash.

Not a single inappropriate touch, inappropriate comment, uncomfortable moment. Not a single, sideways glance. Not a single questioning glance. Not a single whispered, “who does she think she is,” or “what kind of party does she think this is?”

I sat in my lawn chair, soaking up the sun, sipping down the beer, and enjoying the good conversation. I sat, surrounded by several strong, empowered, comfortable, self-assured women — all quite fine with who they were, and who I was …

I was content.

I was happy.

I was me: small, brown, beer-holding, tomboi with not a care in the world and a smile as wide as the Nile.

Why can’t more women experience this brand of freedom without being re-branded as whores?

Why can’t we love and express our bodies, in all their various shapes and sizes, without being treated like we’re on an auction block or perhaps the feature presentation at a local petting zoo?