I was raised to look at my body as something to be feared, something to be hidden. Being raised in a culture that insisted on modesty “lest you cause a brother to stumble.” I wore loose shirts and pants. I swam in shorts and t shirts. I covered my shoulders, my knees, my breasts, lest the temptation of my body cause the men in my life to be overcome by desire, aroused and unable to contain themselves. Even when I left the church behind, and began exploring my body, finding opportunities to let it rest naked in the moonlight or the bright midday sun, there was still the haunting feeling that my body was dangerous. It sounds cliche, but when I experienced sexual assault, the questions kept coming up about what clothes I was wearing, how much skin I was showing, and whether or not he could have been confused about my loud exclamations of nonconsent because of all that skindipping we did in our pool, right there in front of anyone. My body became, at times my enemy, and at times my strongest ally. It broke and it was healed. When I look at these photos, I see more than my scars, although they are there if you look for them. When I look at these photographs I do not see something dangerous or something alluring.. I see something matter of fact. Something that is, that requires no apology or explanation. I see something with potential and I see something brave, something vulnerable. I see something that can become and be transformed into a weapon, a temptress, a healer, or a playful child, but that is on it’s own only raw material. I realize I have come to terms with my body, with the way others may see it, and with the way I choose to interpret and display it. I am grateful for this opportunity to present myself in my most raw and unfinished state--a tribute to all the things that I may be.
