Backbone

I was an insecure, sensitive kid. I was different. I looked different. My features were different. My mixed heritage was different. My name was different. My favorite type of music was different. Once I knew my surroundings were safe, I could be pretty outgoing. Even though I had a lot of friends all through school, I still felt out of place and judged. I did what I could to be liked. In order not to be teased by the occasional kid about anything I didn’t want to accept about myself, I attempted to distract them with things I considered more worthy of interest. Coordinated outfits down to the right nail polish color would take away their attention from an unwanted facial feature. Sharing my drawings kept them from commenting on my strange name. Trying to be funny and silly, trying to be friendly to everyone. Anything to make them look the other way or not come at me with a hurtful word. Anything to disarm them before they disrespect me.

I hated when kids were teased. I hated when I was teased. Bullies fucking suck. What gives you the right to say something to someone’s face when they’re already filled with anxiety that someone would say something to their face about their face or something else they’re embarrassed about? Overweight. Thick thighs. Bad acne. Strange voice. Crooked eye. Body hair. Missing limb. Body odor. Odd quirks. Coping methods. Large nose. Jagged teeth. Darker skin. Anything else you can think of to pick on…..Stuff it. Kids have enough shit to deal with as it is.

Now, did I stick up for anyone being taunted or call the person out for being a jerk? No. I was too scared that I would be thrown into the heat of things and get some shit as well. I have always despised confrontation. If I felt compelled to say something I didn’t like being said from a teacher about another kid, I could barely scratch out a conversation about how I felt bad that a classmate was being commented on in a negative way, stumbling through my shaky words with tears streaming down my hot cheeks.

Fast forward to my years working on my bachelor’s degree. I was knee-deep in an art form where your body is the primary focus. Face it, dancers are gawked at, ridiculed, judged, critiqued, criticized, attacked, slammed, nitpicked, roasted, dissected, torn apart, bad-mouthed, poked at, prodded, gossiped about, pressured, reprimanded, demanded, deterred, faulted and denied. They put their bodies through hell. Their minds, too. Mental health wasn’t talked about back then like it is now. Mine was about to implode.

I had an unusual body type. Athletic, muscular, curvy, jiggly, sometimes one thing more than another. Short, stocky, big boned (is that even a thing?) with hyperextended arms and legs (my ballet professor told me I had the ideal ballet body…smirk). Weight problems were not unfamiliar to me. As someone who overate, stress ate, ate my feelings, whatever, was extremely difficult on its own, let along as a dancer. Had I not gone into dance in the first place, I would have already been 300 pounds by my twenties. I started in Polynesian which is where I actually felt like I belonged. Initially, when my mom announced that my sister and I would start lessons, I balked at the idea because I thought, “Oh, great. Something else to be made fun of for! Hula? Why?” My classmates were in ballet, sports, and violin. Normal stuff. I quickly realized how much it meant for me to explore my dad’s birthplace through dance. It is still my favorite form of dance that I hope to return to. Dance is what saved me at that time, but it put a spotlight on me I didn’t always enjoy. It’s hard being the center of attention when you’re hating your appearance.

Professors saying things about my body and others was hard to take. Sure, it comes with the profession we were all working towards, but it still sucked. It was especially rough coming back from summer break after gaining some weight to some comments on how much I had put on. I specifically approached one professor for advice on diet and exercise. Her response was unhelpful. Thanks, go kick rocks.

Some of my mentors were firmly stuck on their pedestals. I struggled to speak up for myself when things weren’t right. I didn’t stick up for others because I thought that I would be part of the others. See a pattern? This has been a big regret of mine. When I was a teen, I injured my tailbone during an inner tubing adventure in the snow. When I got X-rays, I found out I have an extra vertebra. You’d think that awesome little anomaly of my spine would have manifested some courage to open my mouth instead of silently stewing.

Later on in life, I finally learned how to tactfully speak up ahead of time before exploding into accusations, harboring resentments, nursing grievances and holding silent grudges. It’s easier now to stand up for myself and for others. I no longer care if I offend someone who was being offensive in the first place. They’re going to know. They need to know. I no longer care about how I’m perceived. I guess that’s what reaching a certain age does to you. You realize that you have no time for other people’s bullshit. Either do something about it or stay quiet. The world is getting stupider and scarier by the minute. That is probably why I felt like sharing this blog today. Just know I am making up for lost time. Watch out.