My Body is not open to your analysis;
I will shield it, hide
it, for it is mine and I will
let it dissolve beneath its cloak
before I give it
to you, again.
My introduction to Ana was
in some Junior High class. She was a fictional character then
like Queen Elizabeth or Joan of Arc. We became better acquainted
some two years later when I traveled down to Europe to visit some relatives,
namely Gaby, a cousin I shared a childhood with.
I land in Germany. I am filled with excitement-- this
trip will be a voyage into my memories. The preceding phone-calls
between us all focused on that. "Remember when we
were little and Babcia (Grandma) used to... That was
so funny, remember, she'd always... Oh gawsh
I almost totally forgot!" When I step off the plane,
onto terra firma, I'm in a land of the past. Gaby
is there with her fiancée to welcome me back. I
have not seen her in thirteen years.
Gaby grew up from a cherub-like butterball into a grand,
tall woman. She was a deliciously good hearted child. Her
face still bares the resemblance to her childish self;
it looks chipmunk-like atop of her long body. The next
three evenings are spent over martinis, cigarettes, musings
about the past, and updates on the present. We sit on Gaby's
balcony and watch purple Stuttgard sunsets, nail-polish
dries on our toes, we laugh and confess everything to each
other. "I missed you so much, Tutta (her childhood
name for me). "You meant everything to me..." I
was one year older, our mothers were sisters — always too
occupied with trivial rivalries to give us much mind. Our
Babcia brought us up. We loved her more than anything.
"You know when Babcia was dying I asked her," she
starts suddenly, "I asked her why she always loved
you more..." Gaby turns to me, her eyes are
sharply focused on mine. No, she did not, don't say
that... She nods: "Yes. Because I reminded her
of my dad," she goes on, "everyone knows that's
why, I was a chubby miniature of my dad." Babcia
didn't like Gaby's dad. "She always loved
you because you were clever and frail, like a little doll... Remember?
She'd say you were so poor because your daddy left
and you were so thin and anemic and never ate? You'd
make me eat your portions so we could go play and I wanted
your mom to like me and she did because I'd eat everything
and ask for seconds and you'd be capricious, remember?"
One time my mother caught me giving Gaby my portion of
soup. She wanted to teach us a lesson. I was excused from
eating the whole day; Gaby was forced to eat two extra
portions. "See? Now how do you feel? You want more,
you'll get more and if the little manipulative waif
wants to starve, she can starve." We were six. I
wasn't very upset about the idea of sitting in my
room without food. Gaby threw up. "My mom taught
me to throw up," she tells me, "now I can do
it on the spot... But I don't... anymore." I
look at her, for the first time she's very serious.
I feel like I should be guilty of something.
Gaby takes great care. The house is spotless; the kitchen
always smells of something delicious brewing on the stove.
She feeds me all sorts of succulent concoctions. For breakfast
there's always an abundance of Nutella for the crepes,
one time she made me crème brulee to start the day
with. "Really, it's too much," I tell her, she's
putting herself out for me, I don't want to be a
pest. She insists I eat it, she insists I finish it before
we go sunbathe at a castle nearby and have a little wine.
She wakes up before anyone else and always finishes her
breakfast before we get up. She gets so full, she tells
me, that she has barely any room to fit anything else in
her for the rest of the day. I believe her.
We're laying out the blanket on the meadow in front
of the castle. We have an adorable basket with blush wine
and strawberries. We undress to our bikinis. Gaby is in
a rotten mood. It's the first time I have seen her
upset. She changes her mind about accompanying me to Poland
tomorrow. Why? She's mad at her mother. I am to go
with my uncle alone; she'll join later. "Look
at that idiotic photographer taking stupid pictures of
those newly weds by the castle," she changes the
subject. For the rest of the afternoon she is dead focused
on the stupidity of that photographer, I'm not sure
why. Before I leave for Poland that morning she joins me
in the bathroom. She shows me a new digital scale she bought,
she suggests I try it. I'm 54.5 Kilos. I leave. She'll
join me in a couple of days; we'll explore Poland
together and relive all our memories. She kisses me and
waves.
When she comes to Poland, we are joined at Grandpa's
house for dinner. He made buttery cabbage rolls. She requested
them before coming. But today the trip was too much on
her stomach and she doesn't feel well, she won't
eat them, but I should have more so they don't go
to waste. We don't waste food here like they do in
America, we finish everything here. I have already gained
enough weight. I feel like Gretel all of the sudden, it's
the spark in Gaby's eyes as she loads more food onto
my plate. "Eat them, for Grandpa" she
insists. I say I can't fit in another bite. Grandpa
was always impatient with my fickleness, he tells me not
to grimace and to eat up. Gaby sits across me, smiling,
watching intensely. I finally get it.
It was confirmed some time later when on another food
abundant family occasion I hear her vomit in the bathroom.
I see her silhouette through the stain glass door, she
is bent over the bowl, hand in her mouth. I watch her as
she leaves. Angry, she pushes past me without a word. She
sneaks a quick cigarette on the balcony. I come out and
slowly close the noise of the televised soccer match behind
me. She looks over and apologizes. "I've been
rotten," she chucks her cig over the geraniums, onto
the traffic below. "I just get jealous. I wanted
my Tutta all to myself." Likely story, I tell myself,
you wanted to exorcise your childhood of my living ghost.
But I smile and let her hug me.
We return to Germany. It's my last day before my
return. I let her weigh me again: 59 Kilos, not bad for
two weeks of feedings. She seems satisfied, I hope she
is. When I'm about to wobble onto my train-car at
the station, she forces a few ritualistic tears and embraces.
I feel I should let her have her victory; I want her to
feel the softness of my flesh under her grip so she can
see my white flag. It must not have worked because I never
really hear from her again.
For the rest of the summer I feel estranged from my body.
It changed since the trip to Poland, or perhaps it is my
mind that changed. I keep looking in the mirror and the
scale; I tenaciously study pictures of myself. I am suddenly
very conscious of every fluctuation, every motion in my
digestive track, every remark from friends or men, every
glance from strangers. My body seems to be a constant object
of evaluation—not only my own —everybody's.
I am conscious of the food I put in me. I learn about food
and labels become my most frequent source of literature.
When I gain weight, I stare in the mirror and see Gaby's
Cheshire grin. I lose weight and it slowly dissolves, replaced
by my own that begins to take on its likeness. I want to
stop. But to stop I have to be at a "stable" weight.
I never get close enough and I become extremely angry with
myself. Ana dawns on me because she will be my only ally
against Gaby's invasive ghost.
Ana and I sit up late and contemplate new strategies
over hot senna tea. I cut out certain things like carbs.
If I happen to slip up, Ana disciplines me by denying me
food the next day. I try to be good. She shows me the ugliness
of gluttony; she shows me the fatness in everyone around
me with the magic to transform my dear friends into an
army of hungry, salivating swine. I become easily disgusted
with the sounds of their food mixing in their mouths, their
burps, their digestion; even their throat-clearing invokes
a gag reflex. I start to judge every female form I see,
the fat ones repulse me, the thin ones make me anxious;
both solidify my commitment to try to go another day without
slipping. In this way Ana became my guide and consort.
I watch her sometimes and I know she never takes her eagle
eyes off me...
Ana dawns and becomes. She draped a white veil over me
and I felt like this would be a pleasant, safe Communion,
now the veil tightens and grows so uncomfortable that the
only way to cope is to shrink with it. I hope to shrink
faster than it so that I may slip or melt from underneath
it and break free from Ana.
Oceans away, Gaby stands in front of the mirror. She
studies herself, she bids Ana good-morning and I know she
thinks of me. We are connected through her agency now.
We compete in secret like in our childhood and Ana sits
high between us, she will adjudicate and guide. And even
in the blossom of our mutual adulthood, we will succumb,
obediently to her voice which permeates time and space,
drilling into the depths of our minds.
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