Belated Rebellion

article by MEREDITH MCKINNIE

I gathered the pantyhose into the palm of my hand and started the awkward half-sitting, half-standing dance of maneuvering my body into the confining undergarment. Mom insisted I wear them for church, but they looked ridiculous. Everyone wore suntan, even though our arms were pasty white, a revealing sign that our legs were properly hosed, something the elderly church ladies nodded at with appreciation. Bare legs meant loose girls, or so it was suggested. I was just beginning to understand the term “loose” and all that implied, as I hadn’t even had a boy try to kiss me yet. That came freshman year, with the preacher’s son, no less, and yes, he was a good kisser, though his dorky thick-framed glasses and Gumby-esque stature would suggest otherwise. We just had the one night of innocent kissing, and then proceeded to interact on friendly terms at school as we always had, like it never happened. I didn’t know enough to be offended.

As I became more aware of sex and that my peers were having it, I also knew I wasn’t, hadn’t even come close to such an exchange. And I didn’t want to because I had always been the kid that listened when adults warned us about reckless behavior. I was a rule-follower for the most part throughout adolescence. I didn’t drink or get high on the weekends, and I didn’t climb in the back of pickup trucks; though to be honest, the opportunity rarely presented itself. I blamed my size 14 pants. Body positivity wasn’t encouraged in the late 90’s, in fact; only body negativity was perpetuated.

Later in high school, when spaghetti-strap dresses were in style and my curves became more pronounced, I was so excited to find this black dress with thin white straps that accentuated my frame, highlighting my curves but hiding my lumps. I bought it at Express, the skinny girl store, and it fit me, like a glove. It grazed the tips of my toes, didn’t show even a glimpse of my tanned legs, didn’t require those dreadful pantyhose, and I proudly packed it in my bag for church camp. I wasn’t dressing for any boys, but rather for me, because I felt good in the dress. I felt positive about my body, before I knew it even mattered. But on the third night of camp, when I slipped into the dress, the counselor scrunched her face, insisted I take it off, that “it wasn’t appropriate.” I didn’t understand. All the other girls had been wearing similar dresses all week. And yes, most of them were flat-chested and curve-less, but their delayed development gave them a freedom the counselor was denying me. She told me my breasts were too big to wear the dress, that it would distract the boys, as if something was wrong with the way God made me. For the first time I felt ashamed of how I looked, as if I was dirty somehow.

I changed clothes in submission to authority, but the limits placed on my wardrobe gnawed at me. I wanted to wear that dress. My mother had paid good money for it, and frankly I craved the confidence it provided. I deserved to feel good, and I wasn’t doing anything wrong, regardless of what she thought. I stewed on it for days, resenting not putting up more of a fight. So that Sunday evening I took an extra long bath, painted my lips bright red and slipped into the black and white dress that gave me joy. I was finding the rebel within. I walked into the sanctuary that evening as proud as ever. I took the stage with the other camp-goers and sang the songs we’d learned. I even took the microphone, gave a testimony while the counselor glared at me from the pastor’s pew. She knew I was reclaiming my moment, and I made sure it lasted. That dress deserved an appearance, and I deserved to feel good in it.

I let someone shame me once in the woods of Texas, made me feel bad about the way I looked, as if I stole the curves instead of simply growing into them. I learned that my body is not what someone says it is. It’s not sinful or distracting or responsible for anyone else’s poor choices. It is simply mine, the skin God gave me in it’s own unique packaging. I look exactly as I’m supposed to, and I can decorate it any way I see fit. And anyone who has a problem with my choices can just sit in disgust on the front row while I take the stage.