The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

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Something I find interesting about living inside of me is that I have no idea what the outside of me looks like or behaves like. I would have no idea how to imitate myself, and on the few occasions when people have attempted to do so, I have no idea who they're trying to emulate. Like, for instance, that one time about fifteen years ago when R.'s friend A. was making every effort to ridicule me by speaking rapidly through the side of his mouth, and I looked at him like he was insane, not understanding that he was 'doing me'.

'Are you having a fit?', I believe I asked him.

Then, recently, I saw a bit of video footage from one of the many family get togethers where my brother-in-law captures snippets of live action on film, and I watched the way my face moves as I speak, and I heard the sound of my voice and the almost lisp I have with the letter 's'. I watched, in horror, at how I've effortlesslly mastered the look of 'you all suck', even when I'm doing something I think I'm enjoying. While watching this, I suddenly realized that A. had been right about the way I speak, that I do speak out of the left side of my mouth, that I absolutely speak too quickly for easy listener comprehension, that I appear disinterested and angry even when I'm inwardly feeling fine. Also, I'm not as graceful as I like to think myself, and though I'm not obese, I had to marvel out how my body parts are sort of rounded, like I'm carved from marshmallow or camembert. My hair looks thicker in video than it actually is, and it can be rather severe looking when it hasn't been cut in a while, laying limp in its indescribable colour. I am short, I am slightly hunched, and my eyes verge on bulging. When I was a kid, my sisters liked to tease me by saying I looked mongoloid, an unbelievably cruel insult which often had me convinced that this was everyone's point of view. Now I see that they were kids and they were reaching for the most lethal of weapons which wouldn't draw blood, and they succeeded. I used to retaliate by telling P. that she was stupid and would amount to nothing, and my sister K. I nearly convinced that she was not really my father's child, but was instead the result of an affair between my mother and the mailman (he was black, and my sister is very dark. Why she believed me given that my father has black hair and brown eyes I'll never know). I bet both of them remember these bits of cruelty but do not remember the mongoloid comments, but that's how it tends to go.

I wonder how it must feel to know you are beautiful. Classically gorgeous, a kind of attractiveness that no one can debate. I know it shouldn't matter, but I can't deny wondering about the benefits of having a pleasing appearance. What is it like to know you have the voice of an angel, the grace of a dancer, the art of conversation that engages every listener? My ordinariness sometimes suffocates me, and the shame I feel for caring about it is even worse. I have always found strong women to be the most interesting, and seldom does their beauty have much to do with allure, but tell me then why I sometimes obsess over my looks when strength is what I should be craving? Looks crack and travel south on the woman, but intelligence and dynamism seldom ever bleed away. Why, then, do I care so much about my physical attributes when I've managed to come this far with what I've got?

I don't believe there is any woman who doesn't walk a little bit straighter when she's wearing an outfit she admires, or when she knows her hair is looking especially good that day. I don't care about shoes the way so many other women do, but give me the right shade of lipstick and I feel like a supermodel. I wear dark clothes, not just because they're supposed to conceal the lumps and bumps, but because I love the sheekness in the fusion of sinister with sex. Like in the movie 'Kalifornia', the clothing favoured by the character Carrie (Michelle Forbes) influenced how I dressed from the moment I saw her. Everything about that character appealed to me, the strength and the artfulness and of course, the sexual power. Somehow, a grey t-shirt and black jeans seemed the most beautiful of ensembles, and my closet soon looked like everything in it had been covered in ash and soot. I figured the red lips would bring the look together, but when I see photos of myself from the last sixteen years or so, I look vampirish and tired: washed out and annoyed. What is misleading about this is that I also love femininity and I've been known to sigh with admiration over lace tops or floral skirts, but the hard, dark persona is the one I most often see in photographs. The side of the mouth talker with the attitude problem. The sponge-limbed party-pooper with folded arms. Which version of myself is the most authentic?

Softer colours are inside, but I can't wear them yet. There's something in me which won't allow the mints or the pinks. I'm not done with my uniform, yet, even if it's not really who I am. I suppose I'm afraid to drop the armour because it's all I have to protect me from the lingering looks and the summing up. This way, I fade into the background more and it keeps me safe.

I suppose one day I'll look back at old photos and video and be grateful for the things I can't see yet. Right now, I shall focus on using my whole mouth to speak, maybe smile with teeth on occasion. I'm told that this is all a person really needs to be seen as something of beauty.