The last time I thought I was cute was in third grade. I remember because it was the last year I actually liked my school picture: I had a sweet red and blue dress with puffed sleeves, reasonably tame hair, and clear skin with a dusting of freckles. It was undeniably adorable. But besides the fact that this is the last school picture I let remain atop the piano, it also, in my mind, marks the end of an era. It is probably one of the last times I ever felt good about my body.
This serenity was shattered later that year. It was the first time someone ever called me fat, and I still cringe when I relive that moment. As a nineteen-year-old, I can’t remember what life was like before my nine-year-old person entered the world of self-hatred and self-criticism. I’ve lived with it so long and have felt so helpless that I have made myself that way. Apparently I didn’t really start to gain weight until my dad got sick in seventh grade, but to me it always stems back to third.
I know many people who are very content with their bodies, and very confident–and I envy them. Regardless of shape or size, they accept themselves and move forward, which is something I’ve yet to do. I know my weight has stopped me from accomplishing the things I’d like to accomplish, especially because I’m a singer. Too many times I’ve been told “it’s entertainment”, and have lost solos and parts to ’sexy’ girls, or ‘confident’ girls, or ‘theatrical’ ones. Just as many times I’ve been asked why I don’t “let it all out”, or “open up” on stage. A recent comment sticks in my head the most: “Sell that shit!”, she said. “You sound great, so just sell it to me!”. Maybe if I’d listened, I would have gotten the part.
When I tell people I’m trying to lose weight (I’m currently on Weight Watchers; third time’s the charm?), they always feel the need to tell me that “losing the weight won’t fix everything”. But I’m actually pretty sure it would. Most of my truly disabling flaws stem from being absolutely terrified of asserting myself, and being incredibly shy and body-conscious. And while I don’t think being thin will make me rich, or give me my dream boyfriend, or write my essays, I’m pretty sure I’d feel better about myself.
So here’s my challenge. The girl who told me to “sell that shit” is part of an a cappella group on campus that I have wanted to be in since before I even started college. I tried out, made it to the top five, and didn’t make the slot (they picked the other four girls) because of confidence. I know, because several girls told me. The girl I’ve already mentioned actually called me. So: if I want to be confident, I need to earn it. I need to feel like I’ve done something to improve myself, and I’m on my way. Slowly.
But to me, at least, this all begs the question: why is physicality the measure of worth? It is certainly mine, and judging by a lifetime of experience, seems to be the way of the world. The damaging emotional patterns of a nine-year-old girl were only exacerbated by adolescence, and continue to be strengthened by a harsh world. I know I’m smart, I know I’m a good person, I know I have a lot to offer–but in the end, none of that seems to matter.
I’m celebrating the anniversary of this country the only way I know how: with watermelon, blogging, and TLC’s What Not To Wear marathon. In my mind, this actually presents a very American tableau, even though I’m not exactly channeling the founding fathers. 
Today was the 30th anniversary of San Francisco’s LGBT Pride Parade, and I was in it. To set the record straight (no pun intended), I am straight. And let me tell you, heterosexuality has yet to do me any big favors. But the cool thing about the pride parade is that it doesn’t matter. When we were walking to the parade from our hotel, I figured what I would like the most would be the outlandish costumes, crazy floats and decorated cars, and the much-rumored general chaos. And while the parade was probably one of the most orderly events I’ve ever seen, it definitely provided the ‘typical’ (clearly a relative term) fare, replete with fairies, rainbows, and Cyndi Lauper. My favorite part, though, was something that couldn’t be captured on camera, or dusted in glitter: pride itself. The general vibe of the whole event was one of abundant, effervescent happiness and acceptance. It didn’t matter that the guy next to me in the tutu and I both like guys. Above all, I loved seeing all the average people walking around holding hands, or carrying signs saying things like “Justly Married”, “Engaged for 23 Years”, or “We’re Here, We’re Queer, We’re Registered at Macy’s”. People were hugging each other, complimenting each other’s clothes, dogs, purses. Everyone was just happy. 
