Nudity, Mashallah.
I walked into my living room, getting ready to leave the apartment when my dad glanced over at me and told me to put on another sweater.
I was 14. I was still going through puberty, and I guess he noticed my breasts were further developed than he’d had liked, for his own daughter at least.
I was never allowed to wear shorts, even as an elementary school kid. My mom would pair jeans with plaid skirts and I would take the jeans off whenever I had the chance. When I was in the first grade, I ran, sans pants and scraped my knees. My mom asked me in her floral salwar if I was wearing my pants when I fell. I lied and said yes, but I knew she knew the truth because my pants weren’t torn, but my knees were bleeding.
I learned from a young age that showing any form of skin was "bad" or haraam.
When I learned in the 7th grade that I would have to change in front of other girls in the locker room, I thought of every way to get out of it.
“Maybe if I change in the bathroom, no one will notice.”
A special thank you to the dozens of other insecure girls who had the same idea. We had a mere few minutes to change, and interestingly enough, the time limit wouldn’t even allow me to glance at other girls, let alone let other girls judge my body and I.
I recall one moment when I looked at the rotundas Dominican (or Ecuadorian, I wasn’t sure, but it could have been either or since they always argued about which country was better) girl standing in front of me. She looked embarrassed as I looked directly at her gut, but then I looked at the fear in her eyes and smiled.
Of course that worked against me because she looked away at me immediately and probably thought I was a lesbian.
I definitely wasn’t and am not a lesbian, I’ve had a different male crush every year in grade school until college.
When I was in high school, I judged the other Bengali girls who wore pants to school, only to change into denim short-skirts. I was secretly jealous because my legs never saw the light of day, and I always thought they were too thin.
I was hypersexualized and desexualized at the same time – like most of the South Asian Women I know, and most women in general.
I was never allowed to show any skin because doing so would make me heathen, and at the same time I always had to think about the next step in regards to modesty because my breasts were too big and my legs were too long.
There was a lot of hypocrisy involved in my upbringing. It was too much if my legs showed, but my father couldn’t keep his legs closed.
He drank and gambled and cheated and yet somehow, the character of our family relied on how much of my skin, and my sister’s skin, was visible to the naked eye – particularly to other aunties.
The first time I wore shorts was my senior year in high school. I was terrified and liberated at the same time. I forgot to shave the patch of skin over my knees and I couldn’t forget how ashy they looked without the extra lotion I carried in my oversized bag
Awkward, high school Bushra.
When I moved onto campus for undergrad, I finally felt free. I was away from the peering eyes of my neighbors and I continued to buy shorts and dresses. It was leg city. I went from taking every step to ensure my legs were covered to finding every pair of shorts that were at least 4 inches above my knees.
My sudden freedom worked against my better judgment sometimes. I made the mistake of wearing a long, pastel-pink tunic to a dinner as a dress. The top was not a dress, and my Dance Team captain pointed to the patch on my skin where the top ended. I got the message.
I made the mistake of sharing my leg-scapades on Facebook and family members in Bangladesh had an Astaghfirullah-kumbaya conniption.
I was suddenly more weary of what I posted, but instead resorted to blocking every family member on Facebook and beyond.
It was only after I was away from the peering eyes of aunties that I could truly feel free in the skin I was in. After a few slips of the thigh, I started wearing things that looked better on my body because I suddenly looked at my body as an extension of myself and not something to be ashamed of.
I slouched less because I was less cognizant of the people looking around me. The reality was, no one was looking at all. It was just that I was conditioned to believe that people would be inclined to stare at me all the time because I was a sex object but I’m obviously more than that.
When I forced myself to cover up because I was afraid of other people judging, I was also creating a barrier between myself and my body because I didn’t allow myself to love it.
I joined a gym close to my first gig after college, and was suddenly thrown into a locker room where women actually stood around in the buck. I thought I was mentally prepared but I resorted back to my middle school self.
I never looked up while I changed and used a towel to cover my groin as I put on my thong. I always put my bra over my sports bra and then slowly wriggled out of my sports bra just so no other women could see my areolas.
After a few months, I became accustomed to the other bared bodies, because again I realized, no one was looking at me. I recreated the idea that my body was a pedestal and everyone was judging. The reality was, everyone was there for a purpose and that was to workout and get fit.
I used to peer over at some of the women sometimes. Their different colored bodies, differently shaped bosoms and multi-colored tattoos reminded me of the beauty that is the human body and I relearned to love myself.
I started doing my make-up in my locker room in nothing but my undergarments. I could see the stretch marks on my hipbones, and the discoloration on my shoulders from some birthmarks, but at this point they were a non-issue.
Once I learned to look at my body as something that was just a body that was my own, I loved it more. I learned to ignore what my elders thought because although my ancestors would probably roll in their graves if they saw some of the shorts I’m able to get away with (and rock very well thank you very much), I realize that their negative feelings towards something that I own and control is none of their business.