From my high school 365 Project.

My friend and I had been talking about assault. I was talking about how if anybody ever approached me violently, I would use my entire body against them. I would kick them in whatever sensitive areas I could perceive, rake my nails into their skin, and use my teeth like a sabertooth tiger gripping the haunch of a primordial deer. I would make them regret ever thinking I was somebody weak. I would make them regret ever thinking I wasn’t prepared. I was excited for that aggression. That excuse for the energy I can exert, the dominance I can show, the unbridled aggression that can finally be released. And that concerns me. Why do I want to rip off some poor fucker’s ear? Sure, if they assaulted me, a defensive maneuver or two is probably warranted, but why would I want them to bleed. Why am I so excited by this visceral urge? Why is my being able to service my aggression so enthralling? That’s what I really want to talk about. The embodiment of aggression.

When I was growing up, I was taught—like most of the little girls around me—to envelope myself in the petals of purity, grace, and calm. For a fat, tall, big-voiced kid like me, that meant squishing myself into an increasingly tight box of lady-like quiet. It meant letting others talk over me, lest I would receive warranted sneers and the gracious pet name of “over-achiever.” It was an unspoken rule that I couldn’t be vocally proud of the essay I wrote with the big 100% circled on the header of the paper, or I would be slapped on the back with teasing.

I had to be gracious about my intelligence. Pursue academic excellence quietly and graciously by attributing my knowledge to the excellence of my teachers (who were pretty excellent) and by folding up my report card and shoving it into a bag before people could see the 4.0 GPA at the bottom. It’s not that I wasn’t proud, but my pride was constantly shoved back in my face as pretention and narcissism.

When a boy punched me in the arm for being a “fat cow,” I was reprimanded when I chucked a trashcan lid at him, and told, “Amelia, that’s no way for a little girl to act. Tell him you’re sorry, and go make a flower crown with Jennifer.”

I would be too ashamed of my body to confess to the wagging finger that Jimmy had called me fat, because I knew that he would not be scolded.  He would not be told to make a flower crown with Jennifer, and I would simply be consoled and told, “Oh, honey, I’m sure he doesn’t mean that.” As if my fatness was something I should already know is worthy of being bovine-like.

The only time my girth was really acceptable was when I was playing elementary school sports. I could channel the frustration I felt about being the fat one, directly into being the fat one with enough frustration to push a girl down. I was encouraged to bash my shoulders into other girls, or kick my leg into their unsuspecting shin. I was convinced—by myself and the coaches who cheered my juggernaut on—that the only way to prove myself as a fat 8 year old was to use that girth like it was muscle. The only time I was proud of my body was when I was using it as a bludgeon.

Aggression builds up. It sits in my muscles and in my fat and in my eyes and in my mouth. It is always hidden and ashamed of, because I am not worthy of it. I am only worthy of shame for being an over-achiever and for being fat. I am not worthy of the reactionary bubbling in my gut when my friend make the passive aggressive assertion that I am only accepted into colleges because of my racial status. And I am not worthy of the tingling of my fingers as they ball into fists when I am told that I should not eat that next spoonful of mashed potatoes because, “a minute on the lips is a lifetime on the hips.”

One hour self-portrait

I have spent my life attempting to squeeze myself into an hourglass mold, and the frustration that comes with bottling my body up, with doling out apologies for the space I take up, has exploded on to the scene in my needing to exude violence.

I don’t have any answers for myself. I can’t end this airing of grievances with any resolve to love my body, my intelligence, my assertive nature.

I’m working on it, but it’s a process of studying this emotion and this behavior. Why do I want to beat somebody up? Because in elementary school soccer that’s the way my body—simply as a body—was valued the most? I am worthy of the anger that I feel and I should not be ashamed of it, but I don’t want it to preclude my non-violent intentions. I don’t want to feel a thrill when my aggression is allowed to become fully embodied simply because some poor shmuck tried to grab me.

I am angry and I am worthy and I don’t understand my fists.