The Sin of Female Form

I’M NOT A WHORE!

I spat out the words in mounting frustration and tears after a classmate who was leader of the week in my church discipleship program asked me to go change my skirt because it was too short. I’d had it. The damn thing was well past my fingertips, I’d worn it before without incident. This was just her exercising her righteous gate-keeping to impress the program directors.

I’m five foot nine inches and in my young year's people (non-church people) had made comments about modeling. My legs went on for days, one of my strongest features to be sure. I loved them. And I hated them because they were too good for anyone to look upon. They were tools of entrapment that endlessly got me into trouble, and it was bad to secretly like a part of my body that I knew was attractive. Jezebel used her beauty to be attractive, and she is the ultimate poster-woman for wickedness. My classmate was accusing me of being a Jezebel. Fuck her. I’d had enough, so I went into a mini-rage followed by swift regret when she called me out. Her eyes widened and body leaned backward “no, no, no Rachel, that’s not what I’m saying” she threw her hands up in defense like she was subduing a feral animal. Of course, I had to back down and repent for my reaction. It was wrong of me to react in anger and say such a disgraceful word out loud inside the church sanctuary right before a worship service.

At least my problem wasn’t my boobs. I prided myself in a flat chest that went nowhere when I danced. We all had our struggles. Endowed girls kept things under wraps by wearing two sports bras so their chest wouldn’t perform a distraction dance opposite their body while busting a move during performance ministry. I couldn’t even create cleavage by squeezing my elbows together, but I had a friend cursed with the problem of this otherwise very desireable effect and t-shirts and dress tops were not her friend. Some girls just lived in a semi-permanent state of keeping their hand flat against the top of their chest to block any peek-a-boo accidents when approaching male company or at the slightest slant forward of their body. I’d perform the same action from time to time because it seemed holy to do so. It was an action that signaled to others that I was prudent and concerned about guarding the eyes of my brothers against getting a glimpse at my bra. But really, my chest wasn’t my problem. It was always the waist down for me.

Shorts were the bane of my existence and reigned supreme at the top of the problem-clothing hierarchy. Their name defines their proportion. Long shorts are gaucho pants or knickers (those pants like in Newsies that button at the knee - remember the 80’s?) or capri pants or clam diggers or board shorts…you get my meaning. Shorts were evil and out to get me. Every time I stepped out in public in a pair of shorts I was jeopardizing the thoughts of my brothers and my own dignity. To avoid the embarrassing tape-measure I simply tried to avoid ever stepping into a church sanctuary wearing shorts because I got enough peering eyes measuring the length and snugness of everything else I wore.

I wasn’t a curvy girl either, so receiving discipline over such an offense caught me by surprise one Sunday morning because the dress I chose impeccably covered all the problem areas. In the late ’90s, the satiny Asian-Esque column dress came into style. A champagne-colored one caught my eye, so I snatched it up because the times when fashion cooperated with church standards were a true blessing and only a stupid girl would overlook that. I took extra time getting ready that morning. Cream dress, cream tights, cream pumps. My long dark wavy hair pulled in to an attractive low ponytail that laid over my shoulder with curly strands of hair to frame my face. A perfect look of the times a la Friends. I glanced into the full-length mirror, spun around for myself, and set off for church feeling like I looked - lovely. However, I had an exquisitely trained danger radar, and I wanted to mingle before the service but sensed I must make haste and find a seat to fold my silhouette out of view. Feeling good about how I looked scarcely served me well. The better I felt about my appearance, the higher the chances that I was dead wrong and about to find out why. I gave an artificial smile to the youth pastor just as she caught my eye and started walking toward me. Here we go. A big smile and overly done morning greeting starting at three feet away, followed by the customary hug of reassurance and love, to land the final mission of critical message delivery deep inside my personal space.

Rachel, honey, you’re a lovely girl, but….

I hated these deliveries. Sickly low-toned voice to be nice, but firm. It was patronizing at best. She used her hands to illustrate as I turned red in the face, wondering how many people were trying to be nonchalant about this intimate and public humiliation while she communicated to them with her muted gestures, sending the message loud and clear.

Your dress is a little form-fitting, and it particularly emphasizes your bottom, which is distracting, especially to the young men.

I had just bought that damn dress. First time wearing it, and I was dumb enough to be proud of it. What a waste of money.

I’m going to ask you to go home and change, honey.

At least I lived just across the street from the church. A convenience I sought out so I could spend as much time as possible at the church working for the performing arts ministry. My mind went into the familiar rage as I crossed the street, threw my stupid dress on my bed, yanked on whatever would adequately cover up my form, and went back to church looking like I felt - ugly. Why did I always do this to myself? Why couldn’t I just learn my lesson? I berated myself and my body all the way through church and skulked out as soon as possible to hide from God, from my pastors, from everyone who saw me and judged me. Like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden when they knew they’d sinned.

There is a place very much like the Garden of Eden, and it is called Maui, Hawaii. I had been brought there by my aunt, and the first time I stepped out into the Hawaiian sun, Aunty M observed my full-coverage swimsuit and questioned why I didn't don a bikini and take advantage of my young form while I could.  I was unable to reply with a convincing answer.  And I knew better than to launch into the Spirit of Jezebel, purity, and stumbling blocks.

My one-piece simply wouldn't do, and Aunty M didn't waste a lot of time to get me into the nearest swimwear shop. 

We're going to get you a bikini, Rachel. Go pick something out, and I'll get it for you. C'mon, go over there and have a look.

She shooed me away with her hand in the direction of a round rack packed with bikinis.  I really wanted to tell her it wasn't necessary.  But wouldn't refusing a new swimsuit be rude? Yeah, it would, I decided.  While the task made me highly uncomfortable, my fascination and carnal desire to be like everybody else got the better of me.  I ambled over to them and tentatively pushed through a few different models.  What was I looking for, anyway?  I didn't understand how the top and bottom sizing worked since one-pieces came with one size. Am I small on top, medium on bottom? Small on top, small on bottom?  Medium on top, medium on bottom?  But what if people don't have perfectly proportioned bodies, like me?  Bikini tops were like bras.  I wasn't going to fill them out. So many different styles, too.  How did I know which one would look the best and be the most modest?  If I'm picking out bikinis, is modesty even a criterion?  Should I just forget about trying to look chaste if I'm going to wear a bikini?  Obviously, I'm going to swear myself to secrecy.  I'd have to be ok with the idea that what happened in Hawaii stayed in Hawaii.  And that felt like a double standard.  A dirty secret that God knew about.  I pawed through, tried to match up a few different models and sizes.  I quite liked the solid royal purple textured fabric that looked classy with an underwire bra.  Never in my life have I required an underwire, but this felt grown-up.  Examining the results in the dressing room mirror, I turned to view all angles, blushing in front of my own self.

My previous experience with swimsuit shopping consisted of my mom and church friends and moms all making a collective trip to the mall while we clumsily modeled prudent one-pieces in front of them.  And it was a chore.  No high-cut legs (in the '80s, this was mission impossible), no low-cut front, it must be double-lined, etc.  By the time I reached my church’s discipleship program, I had to wear a T-shirt and shorts over a swimsuit, no matter what manner of sin it covered.  Double-layered armor.  Even during my stint as a city pool lifeguard, I was the only one who ordered the one-piece Speedo.  All the other girls chose the sport bikini.

Finally completing my task, I dutifully handed the two tiny pieces of purple fabric over to my aunt.  She approved, made the purchase, and on the way back to the hotel I knew what was expected of me. I took those first steps out in public, half-naked for the first time, feeling like I was on a runway.  I expected all the heads on the beach to turn and scrutinize me. I was nearly dizzy with paranoia. And then, I simply blended in with everyone else. Nobody cared. Nobody let me know how inappropriate I was. Aunty M nodded approvingly.  The first thing I noticed was the breeze that grazed my bare stomach.  It almost tickled and I felt bizarre.  Slowly, I stepped out from behind the brambles of shame and let myself be proud in the open Garden of Eden. I embraced the liberty of sunshine and ocean water caressing my skin.  I reveled in the new remarkable feeling.  I even dared to be in photos that I knew would be seen by my parents and church friends.  I decided I'd cross that bridge when I got there.  For now, though, I was free in paradise.

If you have sinned, slide forward.

The Garden of Eden and Jezebel are not perfect analogies. Adam and Eve and Jezebel did wickedness in the eyes of the Lord. Fair enough. These stories can be particularly damaging though when used to hammer in shame from a very specific interpretation toward modern-day living.

There is a man in the Bible who receives an astonishing pass from most church pulpits: King David. He did wickedness in the sight of the Lord as he had people killed for his own gain and actual sexual pleasure. We may gasp and clutch our pearls at his less savory acts, but we swiftly recover toward his more positive attributes. He was an underdog hero, psalmist, and pure-hearted servant of God.

There is a woman in the Bible who unequivocally gets a beating from the pulpit: Jezebel. She was a princess from a foreign land of polytheism, and the worshipers of the One-True-God agreed to form a union with her and her people in which they all co-existed successfully for years. Like her male counterparts, Jezebel had people killed to get what she wanted. But her actions were wicked to the Lord, so the men of God went to punish her. She gathered her dignity and symbols of authority and adorned herself with makeup and finery as men came to seize her. The interpretation of this story is often told of a haughty woman who tried to attract and manipulate the males who exercised their God-given authority over her. The final take-away on this story suggests sexual promiscuity and wickedness; Don’t you dare rise up with feminine beauty, which is manipulation, or you will be eaten by dogs. It was so thinly veiled from my church pulpit. My pastor loved this story. I got the message. It beat me down and did its job. Do not be attractive. Attraction is wicked. And somehow that equated to do not be a whore. The messages I received for 30 years about my gender and sin-prone form set me up to hate my body and to be afraid of it.

Thankfully, one day my aunt give me the opportunity to walk nearly naked in the Garden of Eden and consume the apple (pineapple?) that gave me the knowledge that I was ok, and my body was ok. I was not a wicked whore after all. It was ok to love my half-naked body in public and enjoy whatever attention or inattention I got. I was just being me and celebrating the beautiful body I had. It was a revelation that empowered me and moved me forward.