BODY, FOR SALE

As I grew, school officials demanded I stay hidden. When my adult years arrived, I was smacked with the opposite reaction.

The memory of a middle-aged, male schoolyard monitor escorting me to the high school Vice Principal's office for the third time in a month is forever etched in my mind. There are various violations a student could commit that would warrant a trip to the Vice Principals’ office: cheating on a test, engaging in a fist fight, or in my case, wearing a summer dress in 100-degree weather that exposed too much of my teenage thighs. At 15, I was nearly six feet tall, towering over classmates, teachers, and most of the boy’s basketball team. My stature was wobbly and uncertain, with every step like that of a baby ostrich chasing after their mother. Most clothing was far too short or ill-fitting. For many years, I wore boys’ basketball shorts and oversized t-shirts painted with dragons and other medieval creatures. 

As I grew older and taller, clothes for teenage girls seemed only to grow smaller. Feeling the pressure of what teenage girlhood should look like, I struggled to find where my body and I fit in. In my dragon shirts, I was ridiculed by peers, mocked for not dressing like the ‘cool’ girls. When I tried to follow the rules of teenage pop culture, I was punished by overlords, wielding rulers and measuring tapes like guns in a revolution.

During my escorted walk of shame en route to my impending punishment, out of frustration, confusion, and a perfect display of 15-year-old immaturity, I blurted out, “In trouble for wearing a dress in 100 degree heat?! I’m going to sue the school!” 

“Sue the school?” The yard monitor scoffed, "and exactly how are you going to do that, hmm?” His condescension reminded me of just how powerless I and my extra-long body were. When I arrived at the VP’s office, she took a ruler to my thigh, pressing her fingers into my skin, squealing as she did so. “Far too short!” 

Her kitten heels scraped the carpet as she began circling me like a pig at the county fair up for slaughter. Turning up her nose, she ridiculed, “Your skirt raises higher in the back over your bum! And your breasts are completely popping out!” She must have been blissfully unaware that when a teenage girl hits puberty, her body begins to develop curves. And at a size 0, it was obvious mine was egregiously offensive. 

Throughout my teenage years, I walked through the doors of the Vice Principal's office to pay my penance on countless occasions. Forced to miss Science or English class to cover up my treacherously exposed thighs or frighteningly visible shoulders. Ironically, forced to change into basketball shorts and an oversized tee shirt. Though, no dragons—only the school mascot. As I grew, school officials demanded I stay hidden. When my adult years arrived, I was smacked with the opposite reaction. People twice my age were no longer criticizing my body. Instead, the world seemed…desperate to use it. 

The first time I met with a modeling agent, he provided an address that appeared to be in a business center. Elated and naive, I made my way only to discover his ‘agency’ was actually his apartment just above a Starbucks attached to a strip mall. His apartment was well-lit with bright walls covered in young women’s seductive faces. Though it read more like a serial killer than a Paris or New York supermodel agent. He prompted me to change into a bikini and strap on high heels. Then he circled me, measuring my ‘potential’ with eyes hidden behind sunglasses. I stood as straight as I could, trying to appear cool and friendly, imitating the practiced nonchalance of a seasoned model, though I was barely 18. Stopping directly in front of me, he peered at my stomach and traced his finger from my belly button up to my clavicle. “I just love this line that you have down your stomach, it really accentuates your thinness,” he gawked. 

The unease I felt in his apartment was overshadowed by the realization that my body held a certain power, one I’d only been punished for before. Plateauing at 6 '1”, my limbs were welcomed in the modeling industry, and instead of being censored, I was celebrated. In the beginning, the feeling of acceptance was satiating, invigorating even. Casting directors battled over which runway designers I would walk for. Packages from brands began piling on my doorstep, filled with free swimsuits, lipsticks, or hair extensions to promote on social media. At first, my body felt like a force, one I’d just begun to wield. I soon realized that force was conditional and fragile.

Over time, the skin-level love I received turned into a fetishization. And then, a frustration. The rosy eyes of wardrobe stylists and make-up artists faded over time as the criticisms and control of my early days seeped back into my psyche. Scoffs from hairstylists frustrated that my hair wouldn’t bend to the whims of their 400-degree curling wands. Or photographers infuriated that my very fair legs turned a deep purple in the piercing cold waters of the Pacific Ocean in winter. Numerical regulations at the hands of agents with measuring tapes and critical eyes brought me back to the moments in the VP’s office. The realization that even though on a set with a dozen people, I was the only person who wasn’t offered lunch, because models evidently didn’t eat. Or didn’t deserve to eat. 

My anger reached a tipping point when filming for a TV show. I was prompted to shoot a nude scene, for creative purposes, tastefully, of course. At first, it felt cathartic, a chance for artistic embodiment. But quickly, tears and despair followed when my clothes were ‘misplaced’ by a crew member, leaving me to frantically search for them, completely exposed in front of a predominantly male crew (a very usual occurrence), with random bystanders observing every moment. 

I was done. Finished with daily examinations of my hip to waist ratio or covering myself in orange faux-tanning mousse to hide my purple veins. Never again would I join a conversation about who the best injector in the area was to prevent my face from moving so as to desperately cling to the appearance of youth—all for the purpose of selling. My body was no longer a tool for liberation and freedom, as it felt in the beginning; it was exploitation and commodification to promote—stuff. 

After many months of a hiatus, I came across a woman photographer on social media. Her photos were rich in depth and color, and the models were portrayed in such a way where you saw them, not the wardrobe or some product they were selling. It recalled the sensation that art could be found through the lens of a camera; I just needed to remember what that could feel like. 

The photographer and I met up in the desert at the break of dawn, equipped with a small all female team; we were safest that way. Usually, she shot models in swimwear or old Levi’s jeans. I chose neither. For years, my body had existed to sell something for someone—jeans, gowns, or swimwear. Now, I wanted to exist with nothing outside of myself. To explore, without commodification or the faux-feminism that was so often embedded in brand or beauty campaigns. 

Hours passed as I danced around the California desert, small pebbles crushing below my bare feet. There, nothing mattered. There was no gown to coerce into flowing with the wind, or beverage to fake a laugh alongside. No pretending I was having the time of my life to sell some overpriced fast fashion polyester boots. In the desert, I didn’t owe anyone anything. 

The pictures emerged beautifully, holding a contrast of warmth while remaining distinctly dark and curious, shadows echoing across the landscape and my body. Once edited, the photographer and I shared our favorite images on social media, conspiring to disrupt the regularly scheduled programming of ‘Amazon link in my storefront’ or ‘Comment for a discount code.’  Instantly, the image was censored and the photographer and I were abruptly sent to digital detention and curtly warned that if we exposed ourselves again…we were headed for expulsion. Surely, in an environment rank with discount codes and flash fast fashion promos, a woman's skin, and love of herself, was indeed the true enemy. 

After just enough censorship, the photos made their way to the virtual world. Part of me felt elated to undermine my prior years of selling—now rejecting brand deals and casting calls. The other wondered if people believed I was simply looking for attention. 

A year and a half after sharing the photos from our desert shoot, the photographer unexpectedly texted me a link. “Take a look at this,” she wrote. The link sent me to the Instagram page of an international painter. His work was inspired by the desert, cowboys, and women. At the top of his page, I recognized…me. I clicked on the image of myself. The post was a video showcasing the transition from my photo in the desert to a painting he created, an exact replica. It was beautiful. But it wasn’t his to take. The caption read: “I’ve been wanting to paint this image for a long time, grateful to have done it now.” He tagged the photographer, but he did not tag me. It was my body, my image, my vision—I was the owner. But for him, my body was treated as a metric, undeserving of autonomy. Evidently, he didn’t find my consent a mandatory requirement for him to replicate it. Scrolling through his page, it became obvious he took inspiration from women online. Without their permission. 

I reached out, acknowledging his exceptional work and asked for a clear photo of the final painting. A simple phone picture would suffice, as the video he posted didn’t allow for a clear screenshot. “Oh, I already sold the painting and don’t have any photos I can send you,” he replied. Sold it? I felt sick. This image, intended to symbolize my rejection of years of commodification of my body, was now sold? Without my consent? For a moment, I was fifteen again, powerless under someone else’s rule. After a few days of ruminating on the betrayal, I took it upon myself to share my distaste with the artist, framing it as a violation of my consent. He was stunned and sought to evade any responsibility. For him, my body was on display; therefore, it was his to take.

Since then, I’ve never found myself in front of a camera, fearful that no matter my intention, my body will always be taken from me; to be distorted or exploited. As a girl, my body was fearfully hidden, ridiculed, and shamed. As a woman, it was nonconsensually sold. Now, I’ve realized they were always saying the same thing. Your body belongs to us. But it doesn’t, and it never did. 

AUTHOR: Merissa Underwood ARTIST: Amy Park