Addressed To Jackson, Daddy, and Mr.Williams

Written by Kajae Evans

Dear Jackson, Daddy, and Mr. Handfield.

Is it really a crime to love myself? Is it really a sin to truly, utterly adore myself and my flaws, my mishaps, my selfishness, my anger, my jealousy? Is it wrong? Am I too young to place my hands on my hips and hug them tightly, cup my breasts, glide my hands down my thighs, rub my hair, kiss my hands, and flash my teeth in the mirror? Is it wrong to be infatuated with myself?

Jackson, Daddy, and Mr. Handfield, I cannot apologize for my absolute obsession with myself.

I cannot apologize for the way I walk, talk, laugh, sing, dance, cry because it is too extravagant, too grown, too fast, too much, for then I would no longer be me. Why do you think the things I do are wrong? I’m just running. Just jumping. Just cartwheeling.

Jackson, why do you always smack my rump when you tease me?

Daddy, why do you always yell at me to cover up when I’m in the backyard with a sleeveless tank top?

Mr. Handfield, why do your eyes leer for long periods of time over my chest when I come to ask you a question?

God, why did you bless me with this body? My breasts, my thighs, my hips, my lips, my butt? I love this body, but why does it have to be such a burden?

No one tells the beanstick girls to stop jumpin’ up and down gyal, your buttons look like dey bout ta burst! No one gropes the beanstick girls chests or lays their head between their bosoms. No one pinches the fat of the beanstick girls’ sides, or hollers an audacious ‘Hey Mama’ from the other side of the sidewalk. So if you don’t do it to them, why do it to me?

Why do I always have to cover up at the beach, and wear my old, crusty T-Shirt and shorts under my one-piece, while girls younger than me can run wild into the waves, exposing their arms and legs? Why can’t I go into the water with them? I want to kick my feet in the sand, and throw wet sludge at my friends, and cannonball into the ocean from the dock, and swim to my heart’s

content too!

Why did you snicker Jackson, when I told you I loved my body? Was that so unimaginable for you to believe? That a girl at my size, my height, my weight, could love herself? I remember you said you liked me because of how I carried myself. Aplomb, was that the word you used? No, your vocabulary’s not developed enough for that. ‘Confident’ was it. You said I carried myself confidently, and that’s why you liked me. So why such disbelief when I told you I loved my body, my arms, my legs, my head, my skin? Did you think I was only confident mentally? That I could not possibly feel, look, and act confident in my own body, my own self? Did you think I was ashamed of the way I look, how womanly I look and sound? Did you think I was ashamed

because other girls my age aren’t as nearly as physically developed as I am, and how I must have stuck out like a sore thumb? Is that what you thought?

Why did you scold me Daddy, when I asked to be part of the cheerleading team? Why did you reprimand me, tell me that cheerleading was unsuitable at the moment, because my grades weren’t good enough, and you didn’t have the time to pick me up from school late, and you didn’t have money to buy the uniforms, and I would look ridiculous and do a terrible, terrible job? Excuse, after excuse, after excuse wasn’t it? You and I knew fully well that just 2 years before, you fully supported my older sister Alisha to participate in gymnastics; slender, slim and graceful she was in her bright purple leotard on opening night, two bright red circles on her chocolate cheeks, naked brown legs flexing and curving on the beam. As she straddled the beam, her homaloidal rump stared you down in the face, and not a peep of her brashness out of your

mouth. But for me, joining a high school cheerleading team was unsuitable for reasons only known to you.

Why was I the only one pulled aside, Mr. Handfield, to cover up my body even though I was wearing the standard dress code of our P.E uniform: green, rubbery, polyester shirts and shorts? You told me to wear my sweater even though it was nearly 85 degrees outside, as all the other, skinnier girls got to run laps around the field, their perky chests heaving from exhaustion. Meanwhile, I had to sit with you, while you rambled nonscenically about geography and politics, all the while making a not-so-subtle attempt at ogling at the stretched fabric on my chest.

This is exhausting. Having this body is exhausting. Being a woman, no, a girl is exhausting. And here’s another question, why do you refer to me as a girl, when everyone treats me like a woman? The catcalls, the smacks, the kisses, the groping, the staring, the licking of the lips, would you do that to a girl who looked like a girl? Would you do that to your scrawny sisters and

female cousins with sticks for legs? No, you wouldn’t do that, because they’re girls, children, babies of course. But when it comes to me, all social conduct and rules for the sexualization of minors are thrown out the door, all because I have a big butt.

And the funniest part is, through all of this objectification, all of this sexualization, all of this plain disrespect of my body, you want me, me, to hang my head, and walk with my arms folded up, and wear turtlenecks and slacks on Jeans Day. You want me, me, me!, to feel ashamed about my body, to cover it up at all costs, to be embarrassed because my hips naturally swing from side to side while I’m walking, to be abashed of the way my breasts jump up and down when I’m running the 5k race on Sports Day. You really, oh god, you really, want me to dress up all frumpy, wearing oversized sweaters and baggy pants to hide my curves, and look up to you with a nervous half-smile on my face, as if I should be humiliated just to speak in the presence of a man with a body as supple, as mountainous, as twisty-turvy as mine is.

Well, Jackson, Daddy, and Mr. Handfield, let me say this to you, every man out there, and God. I love my body. L-O-V-E love! I love the way I look, I love how my lips are full and ripe like a mango, I love how my hair stretched down all the way to the nape of my neck, I love my back and their rolls of fat, I love my collarbone, defined under all of the layers of skin, I love my breasts, two brown mounds of dough slightly sagging on my chest, with a dark round pasture of flesh located on the middle of each one. I love my stomach, my soft, squeezy stomach; I love the way it gurgles and groans when I lie down on my back at night, I love hearing the rumblings echo across my abdomen and lower stomach; I love my arms, my hands, my fingers, slightly chubby, but long, the limbs long, the phalanges long, the nails long, bwai, my arms look like trees! Brown oak branches on a stump!

I love my legs, dumpy and short, I love my thighs, which have so much fat in between them, it becomes a single plain of skin and flesh when I sit down.

love my stumpy butt, behind, rump, ass; I love the fat gathered up under the skin, creating ripples on my buttcheeks, I love the way it looks when I wear my jeans or shorts, I love how round and squishy it is when I pinch it, I love it, I love it, I love it.

I love my body. I am consummately, radically, undisputedly, unlimitedly, entirely in love with my body. Does that make you uncomfortable Jackson, Daddy, and Mr. Williams? Does it? Because frankly, I don’t give a hoot what and what not you’re uncomfortable with. After all, since you’ve strived, gnashed your teeth, prayed to any gods that would hear you to bless me with the miracle of uncomfortableness for my whole life, I’m sure feeling a little taste of it yourselves wouldn’t hurt such big, strong, powerful men like you, wouldn’t it?

My body is too beautiful to be ashamed.

My body is too luscious to be ashamed.

My body is too fearfully and wonderfully made to be ashamed.

My body is too magically divine to be ashamed.

My body is too Caribbean to be ashamed.

My body is too Caribbean to be ashamed.

My body is Caribbean, mountainous hills, rises and ridges, rugged ranges and rough terraces,

high and towering mounds dotted with grasses of hairs.

My body is Blue Mountain Peak. My body is La Soufiere. My body is Pico Duarte. My body is

Mount Pelee.

My body, my body is an island itself, forming together, merging its various and widespreads masses of land to form me, beautiful me, beautiful me, beautiful body, beautiful heart, beautiful soul, beautiful everything. Ev’ry ting. Swallow on that, Jackson, Daddy, and Mr. Williams.

Sincerely...