When my mother and her mother are enchanting the world goes right for a very long time.

When my mother and her mother make emblems-after all we are descended from the first pope-and are not overly proud about it, but merely properly pleased, we feel closer to God, as if we had privilege before others, though deep down are sad, because we know there is no truth to that.

When my mother and her mother make luscious cakes that dance on air, the world seems bearable after all.

When my mother and her mother make joyous pizzellas, the matrix that joins each of the family together becomes more than a symbol, legend, or story, it makes a pathway, mysterious and hard as butter.

When my mother and her mother call out “scungele,” or “calamari,” or “biscotti,” or “pizza” or “funculo,” then I know that there is no chance to be other than I am.

When my mother and her mother crawl on their knuckles away from their grave I begin the slow digging of my own-believing I can separate myself in death.

When my mother and her mother lose their teeth, their tongues fall into the wishing well, their words will follow me like a hungry stray who smells meat.

When my mother and her mother say that I am their daughter I wonder whose language they speak, and know that somewhere I must understand that this shall never change.

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I was talking to a colleague who I respect. We were chatting away and suddenly his head turned and locked. Silence. He became mesmerized. No, his brain froze or fried on the spot when a tall woman wearing a tight bright top revealing the exact shape of her breasts began to dance. Her pants hung so low you could almost glimpse her betty.

I thought about snapping my fingers, waving my hand in front of his face, or just walking away. I doubt he would have noticed. Then I realized I was mad. And jealous.

I was mad because I wasn’t commanding his attention with my presence. Sure, I could have yanked down my top so the effectiveness of my push-up bra could be revealed. I could have danced seductively too. But that’s not me. I want to be taken seriously — as a woman, I want to be listened to, cherished, not gawked at.

It’s not that I don’t recognize the power of skin. I just choose not to use it. Years ago, a friend told me that while she was talking to a man she liked she hiked her shorts up a bit so he could get a better look at her legs. This idea was so foreign to me at the time I couldn’t even imagine doing such a thing.

All my life my mother insisted I buy loose clothes to hide my ample ass. It didn’t work. The entire African American male population frequently commented on my “booty.” Some said that I must have Hottentot in my Caucasian ancestry.

Since then I’ve experimented a bit more showing a hint of cleavage, some thigh, clingy pants, but I wouldn’t want the general public to know if I had a Brazilian. Perhaps I’m alone on this. I always thought that a good present gave the most pleasure when it was beautifully wrapped.

Follow Susan Harrow on Twitter: www.twitter.com/soundbitesiren

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If you’re always looking for ways to not be seen, how do you speak out? How do you move through the world if you have an invisible cloak that has no magical powers other than to keep you in your own shadow? How can one be exuberant and thrilled about living if this exuberance is housed in a body that is a constant shame.

These are the questions I’ve lived with. These are the questions I’m answering for myself now at age 52 with a body that is seen, with ideas that are being heard, with a life being lived fully in the body, because of it, not in spite of it.

Until age 50 I didn’t want to have a body. I could have blamed it on Catholicism, but it’s much more complicated than that: family history, a love-hate relationship with food, illness, accidents, sex and the ultimate enemy, the mirror, the self.

Ever since I can remember I’ve had nightmares. That was probably the first rebellion of what I’d later call “The body.” I’ve never called it “My body”, that would be too close. To me, my physical self has always been “The Body” something outside myself and usually very far away. Like James Joyce’s description “Mr. Dufy lived a short distance from his body,” I lived a long distance away from mine.

Early on in Catholic mass I learned to transcend this earthly ball and chain. During the long Latin ramblings by overweight and overindulgent priests, I’d stare into the tall blue flame candles on the altar and let myself travel far far away. Churches and temples were created with high round high ceilings so the spirit could soar unencumbered, and mine did. It was the only time I felt free. Later I learned different types of meditation that would bring temporary relief from the pain of living in uncooperative flesh.

I had this secret escape valve that gave me some relief from my overactive mind and the critical thoughts that dominated my being. Author Mary Karr said something like, “My mind is a bad neighborhood. Don’t walk down the alleys or streets.” Mine too.

At one point after working intensely with Israeli homoeopathist Vega Rozenberg, things came to a tipping point. My heart was beating hard and fast for hours at time, racing from 50 to 150, I thought it would burst from my chest. Nothing I did could stop it. Not meditation, not exercise, not a soothing warm drink. It beat and beat, using up my quota, for we all have only so many beats that make up a life.

After days of this I called Vega in a bit of a panic.

“Are you in or out?” He asked.
“What?”
“Are you in or out.”

I told him I didn’t know the answer to that. He said I damn well better know. Before this I had never thought that accepting life was a decision that I had to make.

Follow Susan Harrow on Twitter: www.twitter.com/soundbitesiren

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