Body Talk Read online

  Recently, I found myself in a HomeGoods parking lot, covered in my son’s poop after he decided to blow out his diaper in the middle of a shopping trip. Somehow, he had managed to get feces in both his hair and mine, and all I could think was Goddamn it, I just wanted to get some place mats. When I realized I hadn’t packed a spare outfit for him, I burst into tears. Then the sight of him in his car seat, stark nude except for a diaper, sent me into hysterical laughter.

  It’s true that life can be shitty, and if you can’t laugh at it, you’ll cry. But I’ve found that it’s more than fine to do both at the same time.

  Our bodies are incredible machines,

  and whether or not they’re able to function the way we wish they would all the time, we each only ever get one. Its form may change or shift. It may add pounds or various hardware to make it more mobile. But in the end, each person has only one body.

  This section looks at how and where our bodies offer us insight into the greater parts of who we are, both on the inside and in the world at large. This is about sharing laughs, about sharing cringey experiences, about leaning into loving the things that make our bodies—us!—what we are.

  Body Positive

  by Aly Raisman

  Needham, Massachusetts

  Spring 2015

  I was eating lunch at home, covered in chalk from training (as usual), when the phone rang.

  “We’ve been in talks with ESPN to feature you in their Body Issue,” a member of the Octagon team [my management] informed me.

  The news threw me for a loop. The Body Issue was one of ESPN The Magazine’s most popular editions—and there was one big reason why.

  “Naked, you mean?” I said nervously.

  “That’s the idea,” he responded.

  “Do I get approval of the photos?” I asked.

  “No, you don’t.” That wasn’t what I had hoped to hear. In my endorsement deals, there’s always a line in my contract that says I have approval over the images. With magazines, that isn’t the case. Not having control over the images was all the more nerve-wracking when we were talking about naked photos (even if they’d ensure that no private parts were visible).

  “Can I think about it for a while?” I said.

  When we hung up, I sat back, chewing thoughtfully. I was not at all sure I felt comfortable about posing naked. I pictured myself typing my name into Google, knowing that naked photos of me had been published—and there was nothing I could do if I didn’t like what I saw. I also wondered how the people I knew would react. My coaches, for example. Or Martha [Karolyi]. What would they think?

  I thought about calling back immediately and saying no thanks, but something held me back. I had learned the importance of taking some time before making a big decision. Sometimes sitting back and reflecting for a while can make you see things in a whole new light.

  I talked it over with my parents, who I was half expecting to quash the idea immediately. But to my surprise, they agreed with me that it was a great opportunity, and saw that it could be an empowering, confidence-building moment. After all, my parents had always taught me to love myself.

  “We’ll support you no matter what you decide,” Mom said. “But you shouldn’t say no just because you’re afraid that someone won’t approve of it.”

  [My brother] Brett was far less enthusiastic. “You’re going to pose naked for a magazine?” he said, horrified. “Do you realize what my friends are going to say when they see this? I’ll never hear the end of it!”

  My sisters were divided. “If that’s what you want to do, you should do it,” Chloe said, shrugging.

  “But why would you want to?” Maddie wanted to know.

  I mulled Maddie’s question over while driving to practice that evening. While chalking up for bars. While doing crunches. While stretching.

  If I were a man, this would be no big deal, I told myself. Men pose for these things all the time. Why is it different because I’m a woman?

  I’d come to realize that girls and women face lots of pressure from society about their bodies. Instead of feeling good about the wonderful things about them, they are taught to dislike what makes them stand out. I thought about my own experiences in school, when boys had made fun of me for being muscular (as if that was anything but rad!). Girls who had filled out early had teased me for not developing at the same rate. All along, others who I’d thought were “perfect” confessed to feeling ashamed of their bodies. I shook my head. Why do we all feel this way? I wondered.

  Even in sports, I realized the toughest female athletes are not always given the respect they deserve. On my beloved 1996 Olympic tape, the women who competed in Atlanta were referred to as “little girls” and their difficult floor routines characterized as “dancing.”

  I heard an actress who had been raped say that when she shared her story, people sometimes asked, “What were you wearing?” As though wearing a sexy outfit gave a man the right to disrespect her. As though it was her fault she had been attacked.

  It made me mad. I realized that I wanted to tell people that everyone deserves respect, regardless of their body type or what they were (or weren’t) wearing. We should all be able to express ourselves in any way we want, without judgment, no matter what our gender.

  Sometimes, if you want to take a stand about something, you have to do something a bit controversial, I figured. If proudly displaying my muscular body helped one person feel good about theirs, I thought, it’s worth it. And if seeing my photos and reading the accompanying interview could help teach the next generation to love themselves and their bodies—a task made difficult by social media—all the better.

  Plus, I was tired of being afraid of what other people thought of me. I was used to being judged in competitions, which spilled over into worry that people were judging me in other ways, and now into concern that people would judge my naked body. As a result, there had been so many years when I had thought my body was too muscular, too this, not enough that. But I had worked my whole life to look the way I did, and I was through letting anyone make me ashamed of my body. I was now twenty years old, and training for a second Olympics had made me appreciate my body like never before. Everyone’s body deserves to be celebrated. Everyone deserves to feel proud of who they are.

  I had always weighed decisions by asking myself “What will everyone else think?” first and “What do I want to do?” second. It was time to listen to my voice above the others.

  I called Octagon back the next day. When I spoke, my voice was firm.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  The crew had drawn two canvas curtains across the windows of a Newton [Massachusetts] studio and created a small alcove for hair and makeup. A white terrycloth bathrobe with the words “ESPN Body Issue” embroidered on the back in red was waiting for me. I slipped it on, along with ESPN slippers (so that my socks wouldn’t leave imprints on my ankles), and sat in the makeup chair as the makeup artist dusted a light powder over my face, with straightened hair to add some drama.

  We had a few phone calls with the ESPN team beforehand to discuss options that would make the shoot unique and the images artistic. Two giant light fixtures cast a soft white glow on the gymnastics equipment set up around the studio. From a distance, my mom and my aunt Jessica stood and took in the scene. Jessica had never been to one of my photo shoots before. “You really picked an interesting one to come to!” I said, laughing.

  When the moment came to begin, I took a deep breath and dropped the robe, handing it to an ESPN assistant. For five minutes, I felt nervous, and then I forgot I was naked, just as the staff on the shoot had reassured me I would. Their support and professionalism made me feel completely confident.

  I clicked with the photographer, Mark Seliger, right away. We were bouncing ideas off each other and I made the final decisions about the poses. Each was meant to highlight the beauty and power of
the human form. Throughout the shoot, I felt empowered and strong.

  A few months later, I was at July camp when I saw a tweet from People magazine and my heart started thudding in my chest. “Click here to see Aly Raisman naked,” the tweet started. Being at the ranch where the cell and internet service was weak, of course the link took forever to load.

  When it finally came up, I looked at the site for just a few seconds and closed it so I wouldn’t be tempted to pick myself apart. Later, when I saw the photos in print, I felt proud. I was truly happy about the way I looked. And I hoped this would mark a new chapter for me, where I could move forward knowing that confidence has to come from within.

  This piece was previously published in Fierce by Aly Raisman.

  Ode to a Spit Cup

  by Alice Wong

  Spit. Drool. Saliva. Our bodies secrete this clear liquid, up to one or two liters, every day. Depending on hydration, diet, medication, and other factors, saliva can be watery, sticky, bubbly, and infused with whatever is in your mouth at the moment. Bodily fluids can be endlessly fascinating, and following an increased difficulty swallowing, I developed a brand-new respect for saliva.

  I was born with a neuromuscular disability, which means that all my muscles progressively weaken. Over time, my body’s trajectory is always headed downward, its pace unknown. I stopped walking at about the age of seven, and at fourteen my severe scoliosis required a spinal-fusion surgery. Complications after this surgery added new concerns on top of lack of mobility. As my diaphragm muscles weakened, sleeping and breathing became major issues. I did breathing treatments with a nebulizer and an intermittent positive pressure breathing machine, used oxygen at night, and benefited from other interventions until I developed respiratory failure at eighteen. Since I had severe sleep apnea, I needed to sleep with a BiPAP machine at night or else I could die from respiratory failure.

  Fast-forward to today, and I’m a person who uses a BiPAP machine full-time. I now consider my power chair and BiPAP machine to be extensions of my body. They’re part of my personal space and sense of self. And in the last few years, I gained another bodily extension: my spit cup.

  What is a spit cup? Very simply, it’s a paper cup I keep nearby so I can spit out my saliva rather than swallow it.

  I can still swallow, but it’s actually quite tiring over an entire day. The spit cup provides a shortcut, as well as a way to preempt possible aspiration in case things go down the wrong pipe. My spit cup has become my new friend, a brilliant adaptation, and a source of wonderment.

  I’m now hyperaware of two interconnected bodily functions: breathing and swallowing. Previously, breathing was the top priority. I continue to fear the tremendous toll on my body whenever I catch a flu or cold and try to cough out my secretions. I still worry about the amount of battery life on my BiPAP machine when I am out for a long time or during a power outage. Whenever I eat a full meal, I cannot talk or breathe comfortably. Through all these concerns and changes, I adapted. I reduced my exposure to crowds during flu season. When I started to need BiPAP for the entire day, I got the machine connected to my wheelchair battery for extended life. I changed my diet and focused on high-fat, high-protein meals to make the most out of every bite. I scheduled smaller meals and snacks to lessen the feeling of distension.

  When I wear my BiPAP during the day, the machine produces a set number of breaths per minute. These breaths are not initiated by me; my rhythm is dictated by the machine. When I talk, there are “unnatural” pauses because of the incoming breaths. Swallowing becomes complicated when you’re working on a machine’s timetable. I can’t just swallow my saliva, or anything else, whenever I want—I have to time it right after a breath. Sometimes a breath happens midswallow, which causes me to panic and choke. The BiPAP has given me an incredible amount of respiratory support, and I know my life span and the ability to conserve my energy have increased because of it. But since I cannot separate the machine from my body, I have to work within this technical ecosystem as conditions evolve and shift.

  Maintaining the ability to breathe had been the top priority. But within the last five years, swallowing became the second major function to reshape the direction and orientation of my world. Can you imagine how many times humans swallow food, liquids, or saliva in a twenty-four-hour period? Think about the nerves and muscles involved in chewing, swallowing, and breathing, the kinds of things that, for most people, happen almost effortlessly.

  I used to choke on the simplest things: a drink, a tiny bit of saliva, food if I was laughing while eating. For me, aspirating creates a reaction that feels like a life-or-death situation. I will frantically try to breathe, but air can’t come in. My eyes bulge and tear up, my face becomes flushed, and I struggle to cough, clawing and swiping at my mortality. Everything tenses up, and then it slowly clears as the trachea relaxes and opens up again. By then, my face is a wet soggy mess, my breaths ragged and irregular, but I’m filled with relief to be alive.

  Is saliva my enemy? I don’t think so. It’s always present, and it’s an important part of the digestion process. Aspiration shocks my system, but it reminds me of the frailty of life and human vulnerability. Rather than hating and fighting it, or taking medications to reduce it, or being depressed about my growing difficulties with yet another major bodily function, I started using a spit cup as a DIY hedge against frequent choking. It gives my esophagus muscles a break, however slight. The spit cup was a gift to myself, a literal life hack.

  I learned how to present myself and move through spaces with this new accessory. By our culture’s standards, saliva is seen as gross and messy outside of the body. Spitting and drooling in public is gauche. It’s also an act that is infantilized, making it easy to feel shame and to be hurt by the internalized ableism. I had to work through my self-consciousness, holding the cup to the side, handling it carefully, discreetly spitting into it when out with friends. I worried about accidental spillage (and yes, it’s happened a few times) and people staring or looking at the cup’s contents. But the biggest thing I had to confront was my own aversion to seeing my spit in significant quantity.

  Every day, my spit looks different when it’s in a cup. It can be kind of icky, but like my body, it’s ultimately a work of avant-garde art. It’s swirled with food and stained with rainbow hues from liquids such as coffee or soup. I could produce spit that looks like soft dollops of cappuccino foam after talking animatedly with someone, or it could have solid pieces of mucus, or it could form abstract sculptures as the spit soaks up tissues that I stick inside the cup to prevent spillage. This is something that my body produces on the regular, and seeing it outside of my body places it in an entirely different context. Using the spit cup is a creative process.

  Being so familiar with my spit every day demonstrates the amazing beauty of the human body. Saliva serves me, and I am also at its mercy. My spit cup is an indicator of my disability’s progression. My spit cup is also a public signifier that this bodymind is hella unique.

  When we think of interdependence, we often think about relationships with people and with communities. Giving and receiving help from friends, neighbors, and family link us all together. As my body has changed, I have become more dependent on objects and have grown to appreciate them as part of this complex infrastructure that facilitates my survival. My cyborg body is tethered to orbiting satellites. These bits of hardware, machines, and everyday objects may not live and breathe, but they are a part of me. They simultaneously ground me and liberate me. They center me and allow me to make the most out of my life.

  Like breathing, swallowing saliva is an invisible, taken-for-granted task most bodies perform all the time. As I grow weaker, I become more in tune with the constant rhythms of breathing, swallowing, eating, and talking. I appreciate the sophistication of how each single action is interlocked with others and how fragile any person can be. My disability forces me to listen to my body and MacGyver the hell out
of it. I am as grateful for my cyborg existence as I am grateful to my spit cup.

  How do things like straw bans impact disabled people?

  Over the last few years, straw bans have gained popularity as a means of helping to reduce waste that ends up causing irreparable damage to the environment. These bans have meant that many restaurants have either switched from plastic straws to paper straws or elected to ditch straws entirely.

  But these types of environmental bans may not fully take people with disabilities into account. Those who have mobility or strength issues, for example, may not be able to hold a cup, making it impossible or very difficult for them to drink without a straw. Single-use plastic straws were, in fact, originally used to help disabled people.

  While there are certainly disabled people who can use alternative straws, the single-use, bendable plastic straw allows the greatest accessibility for those who need them. Not only are these individuals able to drink liquids safely this way, but such straws also reduce the risk of injury, allergic reaction, infection, and aspiration—all of which could be fatal. If a disabled person says they need a single-use plastic straw, it’s because they have tried alternatives that do not work, or they know using an alternative will be burdensome or harmful.

  Instead of blanket policies, individuals who can forgo straws should do so. Plastic single-use straws should be made available in a way that lets everyone make their own decisions about their needs, without having to explain their disability to acquire one.