What I Like Most About My Body is Not a Noun

If I were asked what I like most about my body, I wouldn’t answer with a noun.

This came to me last night, as I was lying awake and letting my mind wander, and I started mulling over some celebrity interview, of all things. This celebrity was asked what she liked most about her body, and she said her wrists. She likes that she can put her fingers around them.

You know, that’s a pretty good question. It’s taking the usual standard of negative body image that we—mostly women—have generally felt, and it’s standing it on its head. What do you like? And, you know, that’s a pretty good answer. Wrists are lovely in general, and I’m sure hers are, too.

I was thinking that I like my wrists, too. I mean, I can put my fingers around them and all, but what I really like about them is what amazing joints they are. They can move my hands in just about any direction, allowing them to do almost anything! And they can hold them there for hours on end, just like they’re doing right now at this computer keyboard. Amazing.

If I were asked what I like most about my body, I’ve decided that I wouldn’t answer with a noun. Very simply, a noun is an object, and I’m so much more than an object. As well-intentioned as that question and its usual response are, they’re still using the language and philosophy that have objectified women for millennia. They’re still discussing us as passive things to be viewed.

If I were asked what I like most about my body, I would start with, “I like that.” I like that it’s carried me through so much, for so long, and that it’s cared for me—for itself—every step of the way. No matter what, my heart’s kept beating, my lungs have kept breathing, my muscles have kept moving, and my blood vessels have kept squeezing into those shockingly tiny vessels all over my body. It’s mind-blowing! I can’t think of a system more elegant or efficient, and I declare that no one can engineer one better.

If that’s too passive an answer for you, though, maybe you’d prefer to list your body’s extra accomplishments. In my case, I love that it carries me up mountains! I love that it can ride all over a hilly city on a bike! Heck, I love that it climbs stairs. In fact, I really like that it’s weathered some pretty nasty diseases and nightmarish food poisonings and has kept on trucking right along!

Or even, I like how great it feels when I stretch each morning. I like how nice it feels when I lie down each night. I love that, after a good workout, it feels all euphoric and wobbly, simultaneously telling me that I’ve done great and that I need a break. Now that’s amazing.

And I think that answering that way isn’t sidestepping the question or somehow glossing over the idea that one dislikes how they look. I love how I look. As an object, my body is a beautiful one. But that’s kind of boring when I think about every cool thing that it does. A thing is so much more interesting when it’s alive and moving, don’t you think?

I hope that this is only contributing to or restating a huge pile of feminist lit that’s already out there. I honestly don’t have the time to do the research right now (I have things to do, ha!), but I assume this is a conclusion others have reached before. That said, I think it’s one that cannot be emphasized enough.

As I think about my beautiful friends far and wide, swinging from trapezes, running marathons, climbing mountains, giving birth, kayaking, and dancing for hours, I can only marvel at how stupendously magnificent it is that they can and they do! It’s silly and stupid that anyone—of any gender—be reduced to a list of body parts to like or dislike when we can do that much.

We are so much more than nouns!

My Great-Great-Great Grandmother's Poetic Battle for Love

Charles Hinton Lofland and Martha Jane Turner Lofland

One of the few treasures I own is a beautiful quilt that was hand-pieced by my great-great-great grandmother, Martha Jane Turner Lofland (1858-1939). The embroidered inscription on the backside of the quilt bears her name, and it has given her almost epic qualities in my imagination. In spite of this, I knew very little about this ancestor until last night.

"Who are these people?" I asked my mother, pulling a gold-framed diptych off her wall. I'd seen the portraits before, but I was suddenly struck by the dark tones of the beautiful woman on the right, not knowing that it was the very creator of my beloved quilt. "She could be half Native American, even," I suggested. My mom hmmed over that one, saying that she was pretty sure that Martha Jane Turner's line was pretty well-documented. 

We're fortunate to have had many very thorough genealogists in the family, and, before I knew it, my mom had pulled out a hard-bound book documenting the Lofland family line. Sure enough, Martha Jane's father was a Methodist minister born in Henry County, Georgia, before moving to Texas and marrying a woman from Tennessee. All the family names and locations were organized and recorded--no indication of racial mixing as far as anyone could tell. 

The really interesting bit, though, came from one of Martha Jane's daughters (the author of the book), who recorded a story Martha Jane had told. It was about her competition with another young woman for the affection of her future husband, my great-great-great grandfather Charles Hinton Lofland, in 1877:

"Charlie would go occasionally with a girl, named Fannie Whitenton. I thought they had up quite a case, and I was worried over it. I got after him for going with her, and he said, 'Oh! JANE, you know I don't care anything for Fannie Whitenton. You are the only girl that I have ever loved.'"

It turns out that Fannie Whitenton had written and dedicated a love poem to Charles, and Charles pulled the poem out of his pocket and gave it to Martha Jane, who "went home and answered it" with a love poem of her own! Both poems are reproduced below.

But first, my 21st-century interpretation of this 137-year-old girl fight:

First of all, poor Fannie Whitenton! All that I can gather is that she was actually a pretty good poet, and that she was absolutely in love with my great-great-great grandfather, right down to the little details about him, such as the sound of his "hasty step" and his "kind sweet tone." And not only to lose the guy that was kind of leading her on by "going with her," but to have him give her love poem away to her competitor?! Harsh.

Second, bless my own great-great-great grandmother, Martha Jane. I can imagine her sitting there at home with this other girl's poem to beautiful Charlie Lofland on her desk, crying her eyes out and trying to write something decent in response. Emphasis on trying, because the literary critic in me has to say that her poem's not that great. I was kind of feeling it in the fourth verse ("There is not enough paper in this world, / There are not enough pens and ink..."), but then she goes and threatens to hang herself if she doesn't see Charles again? ("Run away!" my mom shouted to Charles, 137 years too late.) Good thing she was gorgeous and an amazing quilter--otherwise my family line might not have continued past Limestone County, Texas!

Third, Charles Hinton Lofland really must've been something to have inspired a poetry war over him! I mean, you see the portrait: he's a good-looking guy. I'm curious about his "playing the field," in a way, and his taking two years after this whole scene to marry "the only girl that I have ever loved," who was already 19 years old when she penned that poem to him.

There's so much we don't know. But I love it when such personal, human details pop out of the past to make us marvel at its everyday and how very, very real it was.

Fannie's poem:

"STAR OF MY HEART

I miss thee each lone hour,

Star of my heart.

No other voice hath power

The joy to impart.

Darkness is on the hearth,

Naught do I say,

Books are but little worth,

Thou are away.

I listen for thy hasty step,

Thy kind sweet tone.

But silence whispers me

Thou art alone.

Voices true and kind

Strangers are to me

I have lost all heart and mind,

Thinking of thee.

Yours truly,

Fannie Whitenton

Dedicated to CHARLES LOFLAND"

and Martha Jane's:

"Written by MARTHA JANE TURNER and dedicated to CHARLES LOFLAND May 1, 1877 -- Two years before they married.

MY LOVE

One evening as I sat alone

Thinking my love of thee,

I was thinking what a sad world to me

This world would be without thee.

I was thinking of the past;

I was thinking of the last

Perhaps he would ever say to me.

All these sad thoughts I burst into tears,

Oh my Lord what shall I do?

I feel like one that was left alone

In this wide world to toil.

Sad are those thoughts to my mind,

But then I have it to bear.

There is not enough paper in this world,

There are not enough pens and ink,

There's not enough hands, there's not enough tongues,

To tell what I do think.

I've thought of you my love, I've thought of you my dove,

I've thought of the one I love best,

I thought and I thought and I cried and I cried

'Til I feel like my heart would break.

Oh, if I knew I would never see his face

To tell him I loved him again

I would go right straight, I would hang myself 

To some high swinging limb.

Oh, if I knew that some other girl

Could step in and take my place,

I would pray to God to take me away

Where I'd never more see his face.

But I expect to go with a bowed down head

With a sad look upon my face

'Til I get a few words from my sweet turtle dove

And see a bright smile upon his face.

Written in answer to Fannie Whitenton's dedication to CHARLES HINTON LOFLAND ('Star of My Heart')"