Body Talk

by Kelly Jensen

  Except the story isn’t over—not even close. I still have all of sixth grade left to go. This is my life now, even though I have barely had any time to process the fact that it’s real.

  My mom and my doctors explain it to me like this: instead of growing nice and straight like most kids’ spines, mine is growing in the shape of an S, pushing my right shoulder up and my left hip out.

  It isn’t visibly obvious, and it doesn’t hurt yet—which is why I didn’t know I had it—but my new orthopedist says that as I continue to grow, my spine will continue to twist and it will, indeed, start to cause me pain. He also says that if left untreated, my scoliosis will result in severe deformation, so he hopes that bracing my back for twenty-three hours a day will straighten my spine as it grows and prevent the need for corrective surgery down the road.

  The day of my diagnosis, those words—severe deformation—ring loudly in my brain as I try to convince myself that wearing a back brace for a few years will be way better than a lifetime of whatever might happen to me if I don’t. As much as I hate the idea of starting school with a brace, I hate the idea of back surgery even more—so I agree to it, begrudgingly, like I have any choice in the matter to begin with.

  Before I get fitted for the brace, my mom makes me read Deenie, Judy Blume’s young adult book about a girl who gets a back brace in middle school. I’m sure my mom didn’t read this book before she gave it to me, or else she wouldn’t have given it to me at all: Deenie’s back brace is huge and metal. There’s headgear involved.

  As I read the book, I am absolutely horrified, even though my doctor has assured me that my brace will be made of plastic. My mom, frantic and contrite, apologizes a dozen times, insisting that she thought I would benefit from Deenie’s story even if the details of our braces aren’t the same. All I can think is Thank goodness for evolving technology, or this brace could be even worse. It’s a small comfort, at least.

  But the day I am fitted for my brace is one of the worst days of my young life. I lie down on a cold metal table, wearing only my underwear and an undershirt, while medical staff wrap me in thick, wet strips of goopy fabric that will harden to form the mold they’ll use to create my back brace, fitted specially to my body.

  The process reminds me of the papier-mâché projects I’ve done in art class; I feel like a human piñata. As the goopy fabric hardens around me, I start to feel hot, uncomfortable, and claustrophobic. I start to sweat and then to cry. Is this over yet? Is this what wearing my brace is going to feel like?

  When they’re done, they saw open the side of the papier-mâché mold, releasing me from its clutches and holding up a perfect replica of my torso. I am free, for now—but not for long.

  A week later, my brace is ready for me.

  Starting middle school was already scary enough, because in my hometown, two local elementary schools combine into one for the start of sixth grade. That means a whole new crop of classmates—and now they’ll only know me as the girl with a back brace.

  I’ve never been popular, but I’ve never been totally unpopular, either. I’m right in the middle, generally well liked but never invited to parties; mostly, I’m kind of shy and awkward. When I don’t know what to say to people, I just blush and laugh, like a big dork. Still, new classmates meant new opportunities for first impressions, so I hoped middle school would be a turning point for me. I spent all summer imagining how I’d reinvent myself when the school year began.

  Now, though, I’m doomed, and it’s all because of this back brace. How am I ever going to become popular if I’m wearing the equivalent of a full-body cast beneath my clothes every day? I’ll probably become a total social pariah.

  Unlike Deenie’s brace, my brace will be worn under my clothes, so it’s supposed to be hidden. “Other people won’t even be able to tell!” my doctor promises me, but he’s not a sixth-grade girl. Everyone can tell.

  When I sit down in classes, the top of the brace separates itself a bit from my skin, creating a small tent beneath my shirt that makes me look like I’m wearing a cardboard box as a backpack. I try to sit up straighter to minimize the effect, but I can’t really sit up straight; that’s why I have a back brace to begin with.

  There are little breathing holes peppered throughout the brace, dime-sized spots in the plastic to keep me from suffocating in this thing. My friends have figured out where the holes are, though, so sometimes, in the middle of class, someone pokes a pencil into my side. Luckily, no potential bullies have figured out this trick—but my friends think it’s hilarious.

  When I change into my gym clothes in the locker room (I can’t believe that wearing this thing hasn’t even gotten me out of gym), my female classmates can see my brace in all its plasticky glory, like I’m some kind of weird robot.

  And, of course, there’s the squeaking in homeroom, so that even if you can’t see my back brace, you can occasionally hear it.

  Just this year, Disney released the animated musical The Hunchback of Notre Dame, starring the hunchback of Notre Dame himself, Quasimodo. Even though Quasimodo turns out to be the hero of the story, I don’t want to be compared to him—but I am a hunchback, as my cousins like to point out. They have taken to calling me Quasi, and I pray it’s a nickname no one at my school will ever think of.

  Slowly, though, wearing the brace becomes my new normal. I still hate it: it sticks to me when I sweat, and it chafes against me, and the thin skin around my rib cage often gets caught in the biggest of the breathing holes; I always have ugly purplish bruises there now.

  But mostly, I’ve gotten used to the brace’s existence, and my classmates have, too. It’s more like a prop than a conversation piece. No one really talks about it anymore; it’s just there.

  I’m caught off guard when one day halfway through the school year, a kid named Mario asks me, point-blank, “What happens when you take your brace off? Do you even have a spine?” Mario is really cute, and he has a lot of popular friends; his question isn’t mean-spirited, but I know if he had asked me at the beginning of the year, I would’ve been mortified. I would’ve done my signature blush and giggle, not knowing how to respond.

  Now, though, I just laugh.

  “Mario,” I tell him, speaking slowly and looking him in the eyes. “If I didn’t have a spine, I wouldn’t be standing up. I’d be, like, a puddle of a person on the floor. When I take off my back brace, I look exactly the same as I look right now—just without a back brace.”

  He looks confused; he looks embarrassed. Some of our classmates hear the conversation and start to laugh, and even though I feel a little bad for making him look dumb, I’m proud of myself, too. I responded confidently and with a little bit of humor—and it wasn’t weird or awkward. It just was.

  A week later, in art class, I tell my friend Mariah about the nickname my cousins have given me: Quasi, short for Quasimodo, like the hunchback of Notre Dame. I don’t know why I decide to tell her this; it just sort of pops out. Mariah is more popular than I am, but she’s nice, too, so when she starts to laugh—hilarious, riotous, raucous laughter—I start to panic.

  And then I realize she’s not laughing at me, she’s just laughing. Because it’s funny.

  I start laughing with her, and suddenly I don’t hate the nickname so much anymore. Soon I stop worrying that someone from school might start to call me that—but no one ever does.

  There’s no way around it: wearing a back brace kind of sucks. But you know what actually doesn’t suck as much as I thought it would? Being the kid at school who wears a back brace.

  Sixth grade is more than halfway over before I realize, with surprise, no one makes fun of me for it. No one really pays it much attention at all, and when they do, it’s pretty good-natured.

  When I am older—when I am twenty or thirty, ages I can barely imagine myself being since I’m eleven—I will still think back on this time in my life and wonder how I got so luck
y. Why wasn’t I bullied? Why didn’t anyone tease me? How did I make it through middle school unscathed when I wore a giant plastic back brace every day? It seems almost unfathomable.

  Middle schoolers can be brutal. Why haven’t they been so to me?

  My first explanation—and I’m pretty sure it’s accurate—has to do with the family who lives across the street from me. They have four sons and one daughter, all of them good-looking and athletic and popular, and one of them, Johnny, is in my grade. He’s a jock, and we’re not really friends, but we’ve known each other since we were babies. I know he would never be openly mean to me, and I bet he wouldn’t let his friends make fun of me, either.

  That’s the first reason, I think—but even at age eleven, I can recognize that the other reason no one makes fun of me has to do with me.

  I used to be quiet and meek, shy and awkward. But somehow, throughout the course of the year, I have gotten stronger. I’m not scared anymore. At the start of sixth grade, I was so worried about life with a back brace that I set myself up for all the worst-case scenarios: the teasing, the squeaking, the bruising, the poking, even the asking of truly absurd questions like “Do you have a spine?”

  But you know what? A lot of those things happened—and I got through all of them OK.

  Somehow, I even found it within me to laugh most of them off—and at some point, I didn’t even have to try anymore. Now laughing it off is just my go-to response, and who wants to make fun of someone who doesn’t even mind being made fun of? As it turns out, no one.

  So, yes, my brace is a bit of a joke—but now it’s a joke that’s funny to me, too. It makes for a great percussion instrument when we’re trying to keep the beat in choir, and balls literally bounce right off me in dodgeball. The squeaking in homeroom is a guaranteed laugh on boring days, and eventually, to everyone else’s jealousy, I do get out of having to take gym.

  In seventh grade, my orthopedist will tell me that the brace isn’t working, and I need to undergo major spinal surgery to correct my scoliosis. I won’t miss wearing the brace—but I still cry the day my mom tries to throw it away, long after I have healed. Wearing that brace taught me more about myself than I ever could have imagined, and I’m surprised to find that saying goodbye to it almost feels like losing a friend.

  Somehow, when I wasn’t looking, the tough outer shell I wore around my body translated into a tough outer shell around my personality, too.

  I became stronger. I gained a better sense of humor. I found my confidence, which is something most people don’t find at age eleven, if ever. And while I never became popular, I did learn how to stand up straight and tall, both figuratively and literally—and I have my year in a back brace to thank for all of it.

  Two Tools for Powerful Relaxation

  by Kelly Jensen

  In stressful situations, our bodies operate in fight, flight, or freeze mode, assessing what’s happening and determining whether it’s safe or dangerous for us. This instinct comes from the sympathetic nervous system and has been part of our makeup for as long as humans have been around. But sometimes it can overtake our brains, as well as our bodies, leading to unnecessary stress, anxiety, and physical discomfort.

  Fortunately, through the parasympathetic nervous system, our bodies have another response mode, called “rest and digest.” Learning how to tap into and cultivate this mode is one of the many ways to practice self-care, to de-stress, to reduce anxiety, and to reconnect with your body and mind.

  Here are two techniques to try.

  1. Alternate Nostril Breathing

  Our breath is our power. It helps keep us alive. Often, when we’re stressed, our breath grows choppy or inconsistent, but we can play with our breathing to ease our minds and bodies into rest-and-digest mode.

  Find a comfortable position—seated, lying down, kneeling, or any other position that allows you to drop your shoulders and find a tall spine. Bring one of your hands to your nose and take three deep inhales and exhales. When you take your fourth inhale, close off your right nostril and exhale from your left nostril. Then inhale through the left nostril, close it off with your fingers, then exhale through the right nostril. Inhale through the right nostril, close it off, and then exhale through the left. You might choose to close your eyes as you continue this pattern of breathing for up to three minutes.

  This type of breathing helps ground us in our bodies, since we have to really focus on our breath. That focus helps us tap into the parasympathetic nervous system.

  2. Get Upside Down

  No, you don’t need to do handstands or headstands. Any way you can get your legs above your head will bring the benefits of reverse blood and oxygen flow. This reversal taps into the rest-and-digest mode.

  For those without physical limitations, one of the safest and easiest ways to do this is to use a wall. Sit on the floor with one hip pressed flush to a wall and your legs straight out—the leg whose hip is against the wall will also be against the wall. Bend your knees, then allow your elbows to support you as you lower your back to the floor and bring both legs up the wall. Your torso will be perpendicular to the wall, and your legs will be against it. Stay here as long as you’d like, keeping your arms anywhere that feels comfortable. If this doesn’t feel great on your back, you can slide a blanket or a pillow under your sacrum or beneath your head. Another option is to drape your legs over the seat of a chair, with your back on the floor.

  Electric-wheelchair users can do something similar by elevating their legs above their heart. Those with physical limitations who can comfortably recline may receive the same benefits by putting their hips up on pillows or by draping their legs over either the back or the arms of a couch. Keeping your legs straight isn’t the goal; elevating your legs above your heart is, so find the right support and make adjustments that best suit your body.

  My Perreo de Shame Playlist

  by Lilliam Rivera

  Because I’m feeling cute, I enter Forever 21 in search of cheap sunglasses to complete my look. I skim the rack of clothes, not really out to spend much money but feeling good that I can if I want to. Then the song plays on the speakers, the one I memorized the lyrics to. You know the one. That song. This song reminds me of the me I used to be back in the day. It transports me to a specific time and place. I start to feel a bit unsettled, unmoored, as if the lyrics are changing the chemical components inside me. I locate a mirror to try to find the remnants of the girl I used to be, the girl who spent her high school years avoiding mirrors at all costs, the shy flaca who hid behind baggy clothes and hair that covered most of her face. How did I go from feeling invisible to being the person I’m staring at right now?

  I hum the melody of the song and bounce my head to the beat. Music can be a type of time travel. Soon I’m thinking of other songs that conjure up a visceral remix of reggaeton and humiliation. But they aren’t all tunes full of sad memories. No. They also recall powerful revelations of sexuality and fierceness.

  It’s time to take back the playlist and set the story straight, to reveal how I came to love my Boricua body. Go ahead—turn the volume on high.

  Ella Le Gusta la Gasolina

  I am ten years old, sitting in the living room. The plastic cover on the couch sticks to my thighs. The rotating fan only circulates hot air. I drink my SunnyD, hoping the aspirin-tasting drink will quench my thirst. (It doesn’t.) The television is tuned to El Show de Iris Chacón. Iris Chacón is known as La Bomba de Puerto Rico and has bodacious curves. She moves her hips so fast, making everything jiggle and rotate in a mesmerizing rhythm. I love Iris because I think she’s funny when she performs in her skits. My father loves her for being a bomba. I look down at my nonexistent breasts and curves. I glance at Mami, who is a Latina Audrey Hepburn, petite and slender.

  Papi claps after Iris finishes her dance number. “You want to be like her when you grow up?” he asks. “No, you are going to be a go
od girl.”

  He’s laughing at me and I join him, although I’m not sure what we are actually laughing about. I want to be like Iris Chacón, but Papi thinks she’s bad, so I stop.

  Listen to El General y Muévelo

  I’m thirteen and it’s a Saturday. I don’t have to get up early, so I stay in bed until my stomach growls. My brothers are already awake. They are watching cartoons and eating cornflakes. I do the same because it’s a Saturday and the agenda is there is no agenda. I fix myself a bowl and join my two brothers.

  Mami enters with a laundry basket full of clothes. “Go put something on,” she says to me. Only to me.

  I glance over to my brothers, who are only a couple of years younger. My brothers both wear the exact same thing: a tank top with pajama shorts. I am wearing a long, oversized T-shirt that reaches my knees.

  “I told you to go change into your clothes,” Mami says.

  “Why? Why do I have to change?” I ask.

  And Mami gets annoyed with me and snaps back, “Go put on some pants.”

  My brothers laugh because they don’t have to do a damn thing but I have to cover myself, and I don’t understand how my legs can be such a problem in my own home. From then on my clothes start to expand. Extra-large T-shirts. Baggy pants. Hoodies. My body has developed, and with the change, something sinister enters the room. I conceal the evil with clothes that don’t fit. A camouflage can sometimes feel like a security blanket.

  Tego Says, “I’m Mas Monster”

  The doctor asks me to bend down and touch my toes. They take various X-rays. The doctor explains to Mami there’s a curvature in my back and it’s called scoliosis. I immediately think of Judy Blume’s novel Deenie, and I’m pissed off. Deenie in the book is white, so I just assumed a crooked back could happen only to white people. I didn’t know scoliosis was a universal thing, a condition anyone could get. I feel Judy Blume has duped me.