How Far the Light Reaches: A Life in Ten Sea Creatures

by Sabrina Imbler

I realize now that my mother’s wish for me to be thin was, in its way, an act of love. She wanted me to be skinny so things would be easier. White, so things would be easier. Straight, so things would be easy, easy, easy. So that, unlike her, no one would ever question my right to be here, in America. I just wish I could tell her I’ve been okay without those things, that I’ve actually been better without them. I wish she would stop wanting those things too. There is no turning point, no clear moment when I started feeling good in my body. I know that when I started dating people who are not cis men, I learned to revel in queer bodies and the endless and inventive ways we crease into ourselves. When I desired these bodies and the people who inhabit them, I began to see how my own body could be desired, not just by others but also by me. Years later, in a wry twist of queerness, when I begin to wish my chest and hips were smaller, my old hatred burbles back to the surface at a different slant. This time the wish feels tacky, because I know an androgynous body can exist in different sizes, because I know narrow hips are not a universal end goal, and yet my childish envy still seeps out. I predict I will always be in negotiation with my body, what it wants, and what I want of it.