As I say every time I present myself to new people, in a slow southern accent stronger than my usual drawl, I’m from “Oaaak I’lan, North Caralinah.” Yes, Oak Island is, in fact, an island. It’s a little Y shaped thing off the southern coast of North Carolina. A mile wide, 14 miles long, the world was relatively close. I grew up smack dab in the middle of it. Everything that was anything was in walking distance; my family’s business, the Food Lion, the beach, the waterway, the library, the arcade, the Dairy Queen (DQ).
From late elementary school onwards, my friends and I had the autonomy to go and do whatever we wanted, given we could get ourselves there and pay for it. My summers were filled with biking to the arcade, bumping into school friends, making friends with tourists, sitting outside the DQ licking soft serve, checking out the fish that the older kids caught by the pier, and working at my mom’s coffeehouse to get some change to fund my next day’s adventures. And all of this was done with bare feet, daisy dukes, and a swimsuit top. This is not an idyllic narrative about my southern upbringing, but rather the setting for a conundrum that would not appear to me until later high school.
Entering ninth grade, we were presented with a strict dress code that was expected to be followed in full. Rules I can remember off the top of my head were: shorts/skirts not past three inches above the knee, tank-tops at least three inches wide, no low cut shirts, no leggings, no yoga pants, etc. This was public school. I found it bizzare. I was 13, and while I’m sure I had a crush on some boy with a Bieber haircut in third period, I was not thinking about sex—much less my social responsibilities as a sexual item. But suddenly I was confronted with it, because it was there, layed out in print, the implication that if I did not regulate myself, I would be a distraction for those around me.
I had known the kids in my class for years, both inside and outside of school. The pier was the place to go, and you were bound to find schoolmates there in the summer or after class. So, what I couldn’t wrap my head around, was that these kids, my peers, could spend summers together around the island—everyone in swimsuits—but suddenly in a school setting, my bare shoulders became threatening?
I didn’t have the vocabulary then, but I sure as hell have it now. I knew I felt uncomfortable, I knew I grew incredibly self conscious, and I knew I didn’t like the dress code very simply because it was hot and not all classes had air conditioning and I just wanted to throw my shorts on and not worry about it. Between entering high school and leaving it, I grew to compensate for any exudesion of female sexuality I might place upon others. Blame it on the dress code, blame it on backwards southern politics, blame it on the way Kim Kardashian was talked about in the media.
I was especially conscious of my chest, and how to fold inward on myself to not draw attention. I went to the beach less. I wore T-shirts if I did. Visually, I was changing. And though I was already so conscious of hiding myself, around this time began the comments from scraggly old men in Wal-Mart and gas stations saying things like “If I was only 20 years younger,” or, “Don’t tell me you’re in High School.” I felt like it was my fault.
Now, in my sophomore year of college, my closet is full of crop tops, cut off shorts, and low-cut dresses. I wear what I want, and honestly, have so much fun doing so. Relaxing from the mental tax of proactively modifying myself for the sake of others has granted me the freedom to play with make-up, wear shoes with a heel on them, pick out any closet item at random and feel self-assured in it. This transition was not instantaneous after leaving high school, but something learned later on, while revisiting my home with fresh eyes.
Society has decided that the beach is a nonsexual setting, where my semi-nudity is expected and supported. But, when the context changes, as I leave the beach and go to the store, or a restaurant, or even driving in my car, my prior semi-nudity transitions from being moderate to being radically sexual. I understand, it is easy dismiss this on the grounds that there are obvious different levels of appropriateness for different settings—you probably won’t catch me at my cousin’s baby shower in stilettos and black lingerie. But, I request that before you easily settle with that counter-argument, at least humor me in considering; Who gets to decide what is appropriate, and for what reasons?
Somewhere along the line I decided that, unless I do declare it, nothing I do is goddamn sexual. I am in charge of my sexuality, and my choice to involve others in it would be something of a gift. Besides being a basic human right, consent is quite beautiful in respect to the idea of exchange; it says, I trust you with this part of me. Until then, my body is just a body, as standard as any anatomical figure you can find in a textbook.
Back home, I’ve returned to barefoot bikini’d saunters into the Food Lion to get lunch or whatever provisions are needed for the beach day, and I don’t worry about any eyes that make their way upon me. Life ain’t a spectator sport, and no one needs to perform for anyone. I was so caught up in trying not to be a distraction that I ultimately hurt myself. So, as the warm weather makes its way from the coast, I recommend all to rethink their relationships with self-image and clothing. If you liked it in the dressing room, why won’t you wear it out? Don’t let the change of scenery redefine your self assurance. It’s hot, you’re tired, you owe it to yourself to do away with these antiquated social guidelines regarding literal scraps of fabric, and to embrace wearing whatever the hell you want.
Kezia Matson is a Trinity sophomore.
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