MOTHER
Naomi Garcia
Mother extends her arms, hands, legs and breasts, the constraints of the canvas borders no longer able to contain her as she hurtled towards me, engulfing me with her beauty.
Mother extends her arms, hands, legs and breasts, the constraints of the canvas borders no longer able to contain her as she hurtled towards me, engulfing me with her beauty.
Figure 1: Mother by Julia Trybala on Artsy, Julia Trybala | Mother (2021) | Artsy website, accessed 18 October 2023.
Mother fights everyday to be beautiful. She is a vivid exposition of contorted forms resembling limbs—arms, legs, hands and breasts—vying for comfortable space across the canvas, their delicate boundaries perpetually shifting. Am I beautiful? I ask Mother. She whispers a sweet symphony of colours in response—subdued pinks, earthy browns, radiant yellows, and deep crimsons—woven together, a spectrum that encompasses the very essence of femininity itself. That shade of red, embodying the layers of symbolism—feminine vitality, blood, the cyclical rhythm of menstruation—derived a pulse of female spirit.
The canvas and its borders clasp her elegant limbs in tightly, withholding her from bursting out and gracing the gallery walls with her inherent beauty. The canvas stifles Mother’s capacity to
exemplify her beauty across the walls of the gallery. Mother beckons to be a force against the
societal constraints of body image and the conventional standards of beauty. If she could, Mother would stretch out her arms, hands, legs and breasts, rooting herself into the walls of the gallery like ivy across a cobblestone wall.
Society keeps a tight hold around the women of the world. Stifles the idea of beauty, afraid of the power we as women may hold if we believed that we were all beautiful in each and every individual way. I was drawn to Mother. Her raw and emotional power, she sang her song of belle and vigour with her red rhythms and piano pinks; she demanded my attention in that room. When I see Mother I see women hand in hand, pushing against those who control the ideas of beauty.
***
I religiously went shopping with my mother as a child. The large shopping centres and the thought of something new coming home with us after our journey always excited me. The polished floors gleamed under my pink sparkly Converse, reflecting a cascade of lights that adorned the high ceilings. The chatter of people, a myriad of conversations, intertwined with the melodies of distant music. My own petite hand, intertwined with Mum’s. My eyes were always drawn to the neon pink of the Supré store. Teenage girls neatly flicking their perfectly manicured fingers through clothes along the racks, holding up short skirts and bodycon dresses against their beautiful, slender figures. I couldn’t wait for the day I would fit into those clothes. Mum and I walked into Katies, the store that my mum usually bought clothes from, I watched as she tried on an assortment of tops and pants in the dimly lit change rooms. She danced and jumped around as she tried to fit into those size ten jeans she had grabbed off the rack. My mum sighed and placed her hands on her hips, the zip of the jeans unable to fasten against the bulge of her stomach as her critical eyes surveyed the body she saw in the mirror. She turned to me, a look of disappointment and embarrassment plastered across her pretty face. ‘Go fetch me a size twelve would you Naomi—actually, maybe the size fourteen …’ My mum trailed off as she sucked in her stomach, revealing a hollow pit in and accentuating the scar below her bellybutton, telling the story of how she had borne three children and delivered them by caesarean. Her face flushed from holding in her breath as she attempted to zip up the jeans one last time, to no avail. I stood up from the small, cushioned seat in the corner of the tiny space and brought back my mum the size twelve. At the age of eight, I had no use for the zip on jeans as they would slide on and off in one swift, easy motion.
As a child, dinner would be served each day at 6 pm. The browning of onions and garlic filled the house on a warm winter’s night. Plump and crispy potatoes, drizzled with silky olive oil, roasted to golden brown. Paired with juicy and tender slow-cooked beef cheeks, bathed in a rich red sauce. Each plate was served with precision—Dad received the most substantial portion, my sisters and I were given equal shares, while my mother seemingly allocated herself a notably smaller portion. I used to find myself grappling with the thought; why does mum eat less than us, she’s older and bigger than us, doesn’t she need more food? It was a puzzle that my young mind struggled to piece together. As the days turned into months, I found myself inadvertently overhearing conversations my parents shared. The words ‘diet’, ‘fat’ and ‘doesn't fit’ slipped from her lips, like fragile shards of frustration. Her modestly portioned dinners gradually evolved into a nightly regimen of protein shakes, a transformation that seemed to echo the silent narrative of her struggle.
One day, fuelled by a surge of emotion, I scrutinised through my own closet, ripping out each piece of clothing I owned. Dressing for dinner with my girlfriends was never this difficult. Why was this so anxiety inducing? I danced and jumped around, the zip of my jeans scratching against my thighs as my legs struggled to slip in easily as they once did many years ago. The zip of my jeans now unable to fasten against the little belly protruding from my middle. I just bought these jeans last month! Why does the size eight no longer fit me? A crimson tide of anguish surged through me, as I struggled with the zip, my calloused fingers turning a raw red at the strain against my skin. My vision blurred as the heat in my cheeks rose to my eyes. The tears, a manifestation of my sense of insignificance that had settled deep within me.
Dinner, a cherished ritual once, now brings a touch of melancholy. The realisation that my clothes no longer hug me as they used to weighs on me like a shadow. I need to do something about this. I’m embarrassed that my clothes no longer fit me. My online and social media wanderings have become a collection of the words ‘calories’, ‘macros’, ‘protein’, ‘fat loss’ and ‘diet’. What is a calorie? I never used to count anything before eating. I’d just eat. What am I even counting? Desserts made way for cardio and leg day. The wholesomeness of homemade dinners yielded to a routine of protein shakes as night falls. One less meal a day, surely, I’ll fit into the jeans in no time …
***
In my twenty-three years, I have lived in different bodies. I barely remember living in one of the first bodies, so petite, thin and fragile. But I do remember the absence of its curves and prickly hair between my legs. My flat chest and naturally smooth and silky legs. At the ripe age of eight, I used to gaze in awe upon the women who stood a step ahead in life's journey. Back then, I yearned to fast-forward time, to mirror their allure. The allure of curves, a contoured chest, a profile that never evaded the looks of desire from men.
I am finally here. I journeyed over the years and here I am. At a point in life that I longed for … for so many years. Can someone tell me why I’m not happy? I gawk at my new and naked body in the mirror. The body I dreamed of at eight and I am filled with hatred towards it. I hate the thighs that press up against each other, I hate the hips that make me look wide, I hate the dropping bulges of fat upon my chest that once stayed flat. I pinch at the skin around my belly and suck it in, revealing that hollow deep pit I saw once, long ago. I wonder why the glow of the sun no longer reaches me like it once did as a child. My golden skin used to be as plump and browned as the potatoes I used to have for dinner. I cover my skin and hide my rolls, and the person staring back at me in the mirror, she is a stranger to me, I do not know her.
Reminiscing about that day at the shops with my mum, I finally begin to empathise with how she felt. I saw it in her eyes, the longing for her youthful body, before the wreckage of pregnancy and childbirth. What I did to her… Her stretched-out skin that no longer hugged her slender physique but pooled over the lip of her pants. Long, dark tops to mask her insecurities. I want to bear children but what of the aftermath? If I cannot accept my womanly figure at age twenty-three, how will I battle my internal wars after becoming a mother? What is to age as a woman? I am scared to age, to lose my credibility, to lose my power, my beauty.
Like a wall pushing up against me, I claw at it and beg it to stop. Beg it to stop pushing me towards my demise, a woman’s demise. Past my expiry date. No longer young and beautiful. Will you still love me?
He is not in control, we are.
Mother extends her arms, hands, legs and breasts, the constraints of the canvas borders no longer able to contain her as she hurtled towards me, engulfing me with her beauty. Mother tells me I’m beautiful, curves or no curves. Mother holds me in her plethora of hands, gently holding my own, small and petite, I lean into her beating breast as she whispers her tune of sweet love.
***
Do not cry dear child. You are loved. Amidst the radiant bloom of your youth and innocence, I softly encourage you to embrace the kaleidoscope of experiences that your young and laughter-filled life has to offer. As you traverse the complex and sometimes strenuous journey of womanhood, know that this path may present its share of challenges and discouragements.
In the passage of time, just as the gentle touch of the sun transforms your delicate petals of a flower into the opulent shades of maturity, so too will you evolve into the rich hues of your own grown self. Through every phase of your journey, remember that I, your Mother, will stand by your side, holding fast to your hand.
Along the tumultuous road of societal expectations and the pervasive standards of beauty that might seek to entangle your spirit, I urge you to remain steadfast in the knowledge that you are the embodiment of a beauty that is entirely your own. It is a beauty that resonates from the depths of your being, radiating through your thoughts, words and actions. Let not the arbitrary boundaries of others dictate the scope of your happiness. The world may attempt to define you within its confines, but it is within your power to break free and bask in the boundless expanse of your own potential. Just as I fight each and every day, you too must be a force against the societal constraints of body image and the conventional standards of beauty. As you journey forward, let your spirit soar beyond the constraints of conformity. Embrace your individuality, your dreams, and your passions with an unwavering resolve. For in doing so, you will unearth a sense of purpose that transcends the superficial prospects society deems to instil within you. Your identity, a work of art, is unique and intricate, composed of the vibrant tones of your experiences, hopes, and dreams.
In the tapestry of your life, woven from threads of resilience and authenticity, learn to shatter the rigid mould and redefine your narrative. As you stand on the cusp of womanhood, remember that you are not limited by the perceptions of others, but rather, you possess the innate power to shape your destiny. So, as you journey onward, may you carry within you the wisdom of generations, the strength of your own spirit, and the unwavering love and support of your Mother.
Women are beautiful. You are beautiful.
You are beautiful. You are loved.