Body Images

Body Images
During one dinner conversation, the topic arose of “body images.” Several guests waxed nostalgic and half embarrassed describing what they “hated about our bodies” as children. When my turn came, I was at a loss for an answer. I don't know that I was ever that self aware or self absorbed as a child to “hate” something about my body.” Like most children from a large family, with working class roots, we were thin, goofy looking and full of boundless energy. We ran through the parks and neighborhood environs of South Buffalo, New York like wild young animals on a romp. What clothes we wore, who got whose hair cut where or a myriad of other cosmetic and fashion considerations were questions as alien to us as queries posed on theoretical astro- physics.

On some primitive level of the subconscious we were probably aware that most of us were not going to pass as body doubles for John Wayne or Marilyn Monroe but it was unimportant to us. The notion of feeling bad, or disliking a personal physical peculiarity is a concept foreign to a gang of young hooligans. There might be the odd caustic reference to a peculiarity of someone’s “exterior wrapper,” but it was usually made more in the semi hostile and aggressively friendly style of derision common amongst all male adolescents. It usually followed close upon some other unflattering comment about one’s mother, sister or family. You were what you were. I think it is the introduction of “girls” into our lives, at about age 13, that changed all that. I can remember the first time a pal asked me if his shirt looked okay before we went out that night. I didn't then understand the question and had no answer for him.

It was about at that age, that we started being aware of the length of our hair and whether or not a certain skin condition was going to clear up in time for the Friday night dance at Bishop Timon High School. Even then we were pretty accepting of the “physical hand we had been dealt.” The order of Catholic nuns who taught and raised us would never understand questioning the top banana about the type of parts distributed, or the colors and styles that they came in. “God made us in his own image” they would chant in mantra.” It's not for you to question his wisdom,” the good sisters would admonish us. That sounded logical enough to us. It was an era long before “nose jobs,” “tummy tucks,” and other feature altering procedures. And most everyone had the hair color they were born with.

Mostly, it was a simpler era when society and the media did not focus so much on appearances of normal people. That scrutiny was reserved for movie stars or those exalted personages who moved in socially prominent circles. Who would ever care what the average person looked like or what they wore to work? Besides, the nuns had taught us that we were created in god’s image and it was blasphemous to question his wisdom. That ended that for us. Who was going to argue with one of those black robed and fearsome enforcers of the Lord’s private army? I still feel that way today.

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Joseph Xavier Martin