My Body(2)

For most of my life, I thought of myself as savvy, a hustler. I understood that I had a commodifiable asset, something the world valued, and I was proud to have built a life and career off my body. All women are objectified and sexualized to some degree, I figured, so I might as well do it on my own terms. I thought that there was power in my ability to choose to do so.

Today I read that essay and look at interviews from that period of my life and feel a tenderness toward my younger self. My defensiveness and defiance are palpable to me now. What I wrote and preached then reflected what I believed at the time, but it missed a much more complicated picture.

In many ways, I have been undeniably rewarded by capitalizing on my sexuality. I became internationally recognizable, amassed an audience of millions, and have made more money through endorsements and fashion campaigns than my parents (an English professor and a painting teacher) ever dreamed of earning in their lifetimes. I built a platform by sharing images of myself and my body online, making my body and subsequently my name recognizable, which, at least in part, gave me the ability to publish this book.

But in other, less overt ways, I’ve felt objectified and limited by my position in the world as a so-called sex symbol. I’ve capitalized on my body within the confines of a cis-hetero, capitalist, patriarchal world, one in which beauty and sex appeal are valued solely through the satisfaction of the male gaze. Whatever influence and status I’ve gained were only granted to me because I appealed to men. My position brought me in close proximity to wealth and power and brought me some autonomy, but it hasn’t resulted in true empowerment. That’s something I’ve gained only now, having written these essays and given voice to what I’ve thought and experienced.

This book is full of the ideas and realities that I was unwilling to face, or perhaps incapable of facing, earlier in life. I had made a practice of dismissing experiences that were painful or incongruent with what I wanted to believe: that I was the living testament of a woman empowered through commodifying her image and body.

Facing the more nuanced reality of my position was a difficult awakening—brutal and shattering to an identity and a narrative I’d desperately clung to. I was forced to face some ugly truths about what I understood as important, what I thought love was, what I believed made me special, and to confront the reality of my relationship with my body.

I’m still grappling with how I feel about sexuality and empowerment. The purpose of this book is not to arrive at answers, but to honestly explore ideas I can’t help but return to. I aim to examine the various mirrors in which I’ve seen myself: men’s eyes, other women I’ve compared myself to, and the countless images that have been taken of me. These essays chronicle the deeply personal experiences and subsequent awakening that defined my twenties and transformed my beliefs and politics.





Beauty Lessons





1.


“When you were born,” my mother begins, “the doctor held you up and said, ‘Look at the size of her! She’s beautiful!’ And you were.” She smiles. I’ve heard this story many times.

“The next day he brought his children to the hospital just to see you. You were such a beautiful baby.” This is where the recital normally ends, but this time my mother is not done. A familiar innocent expression spreads across her face before she continues, one that I’m used to seeing right before she says something to me or my father that she knows she maybe shouldn’t. I brace myself.

“It’s funny,” she says with a small smile. “My brother was talking to me recently…” She starts to imitate him and his East Coast accent. “‘Kathy, Emily was a beautiful baby. But not as beautiful as you were. You were the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen.’” She shrugs and then shakes her head as if to say, Isn’t that wild? I wonder briefly how she expects me to respond, until I realize she is staring out the window, no longer paying attention to me.





2.


I am in hair and makeup on a photoshoot, making conversation with the hairdresser’s assistant. “Is your mother beautiful? Do you look like her?” he asks, running his fingers through my hair.

He sprays product on my ends and studies my reflection in the mirror in front of us. He compliments me on my eyebrows. “They’re good,” he proclaims, grabbing a brush.

“What’s your ethnicity, girl?” This conversation is one I’m used to having on set; it almost always goes exactly like this, and I want to shut it down as quickly as possible. I don’t like the way white women use the question as an opportunity to list their ethnicities in an attempt to sound quote unquote exotic: I’m thirteen percent this and seven percent that. Instead I tell him simply: “I’m a white girl.” My hairdresser laughs.

“Okay, white girl.” He grins broadly. “I can tell you got something in there, though.” He purses his lips and shifts his weight, popping a hip. He is mostly Mexican, he tells me.

“What about your mama?” He repeats his question, genuinely curious. “Is she beautiful like you?”

“Yeah,” I say. “She’s prettier than me.” My hairdresser’s eyebrows shoot up. He goes back to brushing the extension he’s holding. “Well, I’m sure that’s not true,” he offers. I’m used to people sometimes getting uncomfortable when I say this.