Warning: this post is brutally honest. If you think I’m perfect, stop reading now if you’d like to maintain that conception (though I’m not sure where you would have picked up that
idea!).
In Uganda, the bigger one’s hips, the more beautiful one is considered.
In Uganda, what Americans would consider fat is actually beautiful.
Evidence A is provided above: all skirts and dresses are
presented with extremely wide hips, as if the salespeople are trying to prove that
buying that particular skirt will
make one’s hips wider and thus more beautiful. It reminds me of the American
trick of clipping the back of shirts together on a mannequin to make it seem
that if I purchase that particular
shirt, my tummy will seem slim and trim and gorgeous.
There are multiple reasons for why Ugandans value large
women, which I won’t discuss. I simply provide you with that background to make
the following story more understandable.
The other day, when I came home for lunch, I was chatting with
our houseworker and she says excitedly “Oh, you are getting pouf (indicates an expansion from the
hip area with her hands) and your brother will not recognize you at home!”
My immediate, gut-level, unfiltered reaction was a
mixture of shame, embarrassment, fear, and astonishment.
Shame, because
honestly, I have gained a few pounds
since arriving in Uganda;
Embarrassment, because I’d hoped
nobody would notice;
Fear, because what if I get fat and can never get skinny
and skinny is the only way I’ve ever been called beautiful and if I lose that,
then no one will ever love me;
Astonishment, at
the perceived audacity of saying such a thing to something and also at my own
reaction to such a statement. When did
being “skinny” become how I defined my own beauty?
Thankfully, I maintained my composure, reminded myself that
she was trying to compliment me (I think!), and laughed it off…but not really.
As I walked in the house to make lunch, my first thought was No bread today, let’s eat just veggies.
As I washed my hands in the bathroom, I studied myself carefully in the mirror:
Maybe it’s just the outfit. And I should do
a really good workout tomorrow. The wound, though completely unintentional,
was there and there to stay.
All my life, I’ve lived in a culture where skinny is
beautiful. All my life, being skinny has come naturally, and thus I’ve been
considered somehow attractive, even if not exactly ‘gorgeous’ by Hollywood
standards. I was barely a teenager the first time anyone complimented me on my
thinness. The compliments disguised as insults from my fellow teens (“how do
you eat so much and stay so skinny?”) always made me cringe, but deep down, I
was glad to be more than a wallflower, excited to be noticed, even if for
something that made them jealous. Step by step, year by year, the idea that my
beauty came merely from my ability to avoid excess body fat was pounded into my
subconscious…just like into every other American girl. In my head, I said the idea of
skinny as beautiful was wrong, but deep down, I clung to what seemed the only
definition of beauty that I had in my favor.
And then, on a beautiful, sunny day in the middle of the
African bush, I was forced to confront the idea that perhaps this definition of
beauty wouldn't always remain in my favor.
I’m not writing this to get sympathy points. I’m not posting
this to fish for compliments, to seek reassurance of my beauty apart from my
weight, or to rant about American culture. I’m simply sharing, with the hope
that maybe it will encourage other women struggling with body image issues. Or
maybe it will encourage those of us who fit into our culture’s definition
of beauty (whatever that may be) to be more compassionate to those who don’t.
Or maybe it will simply remind women and men
to consider carefully how they are defining beauty to their daughters, their
wives, their coworkers, their friends.
Do I have God’s view
of beauty? Not yet.
But maybe God will redeem this
wound to bring me closer to it.
