Gross Anatomy

by Mara Altman

  “But see, the vulva epitomizes female power and that power is seen as threatening to patriarchal control,” Caputi said.

  In essence, she was telling me that my own repulsion of camel toe went way beyond what I thought was simply a fashion faux pas; my disapproval of it on myself and other women has roots—gnarly, ugly ones—in our culture. When we snicker at a woman’s vulva outline, we are actually in some weird, fucked-up way condemning and constraining our own gender.

  “Women have been taught or told to associate their vulva with vulnerability, silencing, and moments of powerlessness,” she said.

  “So what do we do now?” I asked.

  “What the tactic has often been is to take what they shame and realize they are shaming it because it’s a source of power and beauty—whether it be skin color or hair or a vulva—and reclaim it as something powerful and beautiful.”

  “So are you saying we should all go around with camel toes?”

  “Well, first off, I hate that name,” she said. “Let’s say instead ‘showing off the luscious labia’ or ‘the power of the labia.’” She told me that sporting the look would be brave and awesome, but even changing the terminology around it would be a good start.

  I visualized a scenario where I run into a woman’s eleventh toe on the street and then I attempt, in my mind, to see how I’d put Caputi’s new lexicon to work: “Excuse me, your wonderfully luscious labia are sticking out of your pants.”

  Something told me that while headed in the right direction, I didn’t get it quite right.

  Another fairy godmother of female genitalia is Rebecca Chalker, who is an outspoken critic of vaginal surgery. It was easy to find her: Just Google “anti labiaplasty” and go down the black hole. She’s the author of The Clitoral Truth: The Secret World at Your Fingertips, a book that more or less makes the case that the clitoris should win the Golden Globe for best piece of human anatomy. When we began speaking, I still had complicated feelings about the surgery—it seemed drastic and unnecessary, yet I appreciated that it helped many women feel better about themselves. Seeing that I was torn, I asked Chalker a question straight out of Alinsod’s playbook.

  “How can you say that this surgery is bad when it’s giving women a choice?”

  Chalker, it turns out, doesn’t believe that there is an actual choice. She thinks we have only the illusion of options. “Say I’m offering you a choice between two things: apples and oranges,” she said. “So if I go into the next room and I say, ‘Take your choice,’ but there is only a bowl of apples, what do you say?”

  “I say, ‘Where’s my oranges?’”

  “That’s the flaw,” she said. “That is the flaw of that argument. It’s not a choice! They aren’t offering women a choice; the choice is that their genitals are freaky.” Chalker went on to explain that the main problem is that women aren’t introduced to the diversity that can exist in their crotches. “We grow up with Barbies!” she said. “We only see the versions in porn and magazines.”

  She pointed me to a study published in BJOG: An International Journal of Obstetrics & Gynaecology, which measured the range in size of women’s genitals. The study was conducted in 2005 and is one of the first to research female genital variation. Meanwhile, the first article of this nature on men was published in the 1800s—before telephones were common in modern American households.

  The study showed a vast range of normal. For example, in the sample size of fifty vulvas, women’s inner lips measured up to four inches long. In other words, normal healthy inner lips can exceed the length of a toiletpaper roll.

  “But there’s no honoring the diversity of women’s genitals,” Chalker lamented.

  Both women, Caputi and Chalker, mentioned the importance of not blaming or judging women for getting the surgery, but rather blaming our culture, which gives us little space to be who we are.

  Caputi said it best: “I would never be against someone making a choice to do something that makes them feel empowered or feel good about themselves, but I would rather work toward a world where women are not so systematically shamed about their bodies, where we don’t have such fear and loathing in particular of female sexuality and anything including large labia that smack of female power.”

  I’m usually not all about the patriarchy keeping us down, but I surprised myself with this one; I was basically on the phone with one hand up in the air as if she were delivering a sermon.

  “Having choice isn’t enough,” she continued. “You also need access, access to a safe and healthy culture that tells you, ‘You are okay, Mother Nature made you, and you are beautiful.’”

  * * *

  A few days later, I received an email in my inbox. A man by the name of Nick Karras explained that he’d heard that I was investigating vulvas. Apparently, the world of pussy preservationists was quite small and word had spread like herpes in a freshman dorm. “You should definitely come over and check out the Petals Project,” he wrote. He said he had thirteen years’ worth of research to share.

  My interest was piqued. The following week, I showed up at Karras’s home. The sixty-five-year-old greeted me at the door wearing beige cargo shorts, a blue plaid button-down, and bare feet. He escorted me to a brightly lit back room, which was sparsely furnished; only two high-back chairs faced the wall. On that wall, there were twenty-four framed photographs, each a tasteful close-up of a vulva in sepia tones.

  Karras reached his hand out toward them. “That’s a portal to the other side,” he said. “That is where the souls come through. It’s just so powerful. It’s the core of femininity. It’s everything. That’s why there’s a lot of issues around it, because it’s such a powerful part of being a woman.”

  We sat in the chairs and stared at the folds of skin that make up our most private part. In total, Karras has taken 268 photos, and he assured me that each was different from the last. “There can’t be a beauty standard, do you see?” he said. “Each one is entirely unique.”

  There were chubby ones, tiny ones, wavy ones, dark and light ones. One in particular caught my eye: the labia like a big undulating scarf tumbled freely between two legs.

  Though he’s been called a pervert by art institutions and blocked from showing his work in gallery openings, some academics were enlightened enough to use Karras’s photographs in a study. Dutch researchers found that college-age women who were exposed to these photographs had higher self-image scores than the women who were not. Seeing the diversity inherent in each of us made them feel better about themselves.

  Karras and I spoke for almost two hours. Our conversation went all over the place—from his past relationships, to nudist colonies, to how butterflies choose their mates—but the thing that really stuck with me was his opinion on meaty vaginas. What women are paying thousands of dollars to change, he celebrates by calling them well hung or endowed, the terminology usually attributed to men. “You know, I personally like larger,” he said. “There is more to play with.”

  “And that’s a good thing?”

  “Oh my God, that’s over-the-top cool,” he said. He put his hand on his chin, as if he were in Athens giving a philosophical treatise down by the agora. “Not that I’m not saying that a small petite one isn’t fun also,” he said, “but I notice that it’s really cool if the woman really likes it and is flaunting it—it’s like a man who’s flaunting, like a man swinging it around. He likes his big nuts. And women who have the big labes and really like them, oh my God, there is something to that.”

  * * *

  Not many days later, while I was walking up the street to get some tacos for lunch, I spotted a homeless man walking toward me, but just before passing on my left, he stopped and pointed at my stretch pants. I was really into these pants; a smattering of bold and vibrant spring flowers crawled up and down my legs upon a background of crushed brown fuzzy fabric. Some might call the pair flamboyant. Since this guy was kind of stylish himself in his bright green albeit grease-stained and holey polo, I suspected h
e was about to compliment me on the loveliness and colorfulness of my getup. Just as I was saying, “Thank you,” accepting what I saw as his inevitable compliment, he instead lifted his left leg and pointed at his own pants this time. “Camel,” he said. He cleared his throat before continuing. “Have you heard of camel toe?” I must have been putting camel toe vibes out into the universe, because never had the toe been such a large slice of my life’s pie chart. It was almost like when you’ve gone thirty-five years without hearing the word haberdashery and then as soon as you do, it seems like the word is everywhere, even your five-year-old nephew is singing it over and over again to the tune of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” Except that I’d heard of camel toe before and instead of my nephew singing about it I was standing on a street corner engaged with a homeless man who was judging the way my pants formed to my lower lips.

  As I took in the situation, the dude giggled, put his leg down, and then quietly continued on his way.

  First I looked toward the man ambling off into the distance, and then down at my own crotch. I didn’t see anything too overt, but spotted what may have been construed as the two digits of an ungulate. For a moment, I contemplated taking action—some sort of excavation work—but instead I shrugged my shoulders and continued up the street.

  13

  You’re So Vein

  My day was not going particularly well. It was a Friday afternoon in 2009 and my landlady at the time, a seventy-year-old with a white curly fro who wore nothing but ankle-length nighties, stood just outside the window of my Greenpoint, Brooklyn, apartment, belting my name in her thick Polish accent. “Mara! Mara!”

  She had upended my garbage onto the sidewalk and was busy classifying each scrap. “This,” she yelled, holding up a milk carton, “not recycling. No!”

  This tiny woman with outsize energy had escaped communist-era Poland and now put all that vigor and passion for survival into making sure I didn’t screw up trash collection. Suddenly, she was on her hands and knees, inching toward a floss segment. “What is this?” she said. “Cannot put here. Cannot!”

  The commotion caused a small crowd of furry-faced and flannel-bedecked hipsters to circle and eye my refuse. One tub of empty hummus would have been okay, but nine was making me reflect on my life choices.

  Also, I couldn’t focus on my work; each time I would settle back at my desk, she’d yell, “Mara!” again. One such time, I found her holding up a plastic tampon wrapper—apparently those can’t be recycled, either. I was just trying to help the planet, but she was looking at me as if I were the second coming of Stalin.

  For a day like that—a crap one with large doses of humiliation and negative levels of productivity—I’d developed a ritual to turn things around: blood donation.

  At that point, I had been donating blood for ten years, since I was seventeen. No matter what was going on in my life—a breakup, a failed exam, a fiery-hot razor burn—it always made me feel better. It managed to retroactively trivialize my own troubles, because it put everything into perspective. It was a way to focus on the big picture. Suddenly, I’d be dealing in the real stuff, the life-and-death stuff.

  Plus, most people, to save lives, have to go to medical school for eons and take out exorbitant student loans, but I just lay on a cushioned platform for fifteen minutes and ate Oreos. I’d feel accomplished even though I had done absolutely nothing. It was a lazy way to be a really good person.

  When I felt low, giving blood also gave me a little ego boost. I would exit the bloodmobile with a bright red bandage wrapped around my arm. Friends and random people like the bodega clerk would eye the bandage and ask, “What happened? Are you okay?”

  I’d shrug like it was no big deal, but I’d feel a tiny flash of moral superiority. “I’m fine. I just gave blood, that’s all.”

  If you’re careful and don’t take a shower, the bandage will stay on for up to two days.

  * * *

  On this day, I found out that the bloodmobile—a standard RV retrofitted into a medical clinic—was parked on the corner of Bedford and North Seventh in Williamsburg. After the twenty-minute walk from my apartment, its loud, humming generator muted the car horns and cacophonous conversations from the pedestrians just outside.

  Once I signed in, I sped through the usual rigmarole—the questionnaire, the short interview, and the hemoglobin check. Everything was still going according to plan. My angst would be minimized and resolved in no time.

  Next, a phlebotomist had me lie down on a pleather bed. Some people don’t like to look, but I’m a watcher; I always inspect every aspect of the draw. She wrapped a large rubber band tightly around my biceps and then placed a foam ball into my hand. She told me to squeeze it as she located a vein. “Ah, you’ve got a great one right here,” she said, fingering the underside of my elbow.

  I took it as a compliment—I always do—even though I’m pretty sure that nurses use that line on everyone.

  The nurse punctured my arm and then taped the needle down while my blood made its way through a translucent tube and into a plastic pouch tacked to the side of the bed.

  There really were so many things to love about giving blood. While helping humanity, I was also on a mini diet that worked in a matter of minutes. A pint of blood, after all, is at least one pound. It must be acknowledged here that my stance is not widely accepted: “Giving blood should not be thought of as a weight loss tool,” wrote Carol Ochs, a health reporter with the Associated Press.

  After ten minutes, the pouch reached capacity. The nurse unearthed the needle and bandaged the wound, and then I stood up for my favorite part of the donation experience—the free and unlimited cookies. But when I reached the snack box, something was amiss. My brain had embarked on a solo sojourn. I became light-headed and dizzy. Voices became muffled, and a dark, fuzzy cloud fogged my eyes. I’ll never forget how everything disappeared—I could no longer see the bags of trail mix I’d reached out to grab. I raised my hand, a deeply ingrained impulse apparently, to ask a question about my state, but it was too late.

  A minute later, I woke up facedown in the narrow aisle surrounded by a puddle of urine and two irritated phlebotomists. I had passed out and peed myself on the floor of my once beloved bloodmobile.

  That is the only time in my life I can recall regretting sweatpants as an outfit choice. In that context, their main quality changed from “comfortable” to “absorbent.”

  In my opinion, the nurses should have called a rescue helicopter and a trauma therapist, but instead they asked me to rest for only a few minutes before sending me on my way. I must not have been thinking properly, because I showed up unannounced at Dave’s apartment. At that point, Dave and I had been dating for a very short time. I didn’t even know that he loathed celery yet, but there I was at his door in my light gray sweatpants, a color, it turns out, that makes pee stains look as conspicuous as a hickey planted on a pale neck. He looked me up and down. He did not break up with me. He even let me inside. It was one of those harrowing moments in life. I’m pretty sure it all happened in slow motion.

  I passed the night with a deep and abiding migraine.

  * * *

  Fifty-six days later, which was the first day I was eligible to donate again, I got a call from the blood bank to set up an appointment. Once you donate, the blood bankers are on your veins like bill collectors are on a late payment. Usually, I’d be delighted. They needed me! No one else needed me. I didn’t have a pet or a kid. I worked as a freelancer. The majority of my days consisted of waiting for emails. Sometimes, I’d wait so long for an email that I’d send an email to myself just to be sure that my email was still functioning. The email, without fail, would land in my inbox a second after I pressed Send. Sad story, but true: Each time, for a moment, I would forget that I’d just sent an email to myself and actually get excited at the ding.

  But this time, after I’d fainted, I wasn’t in the least bit flattered when they called. I shouted, “No!” and hung up the phone. During the ne
xt several months, these blood bankers sweet-talked me. “But you have O positive and we really need O positive,” one said, trying to seduce me.

  But donating blood, I’d decided, was pure evil.

  Over the next several years, I had bad days—a killed article, a bad review, a fight with a friend—but I wouldn’t dare give blood again. To feel better, I resorted to other healing activities like retail therapy and emotional eating.

  * * *

  It’s now been seven years since that wretched day. In the interim, Dave and I got married—which should count as a win to women everywhere who have shown up for a date drenched in their own urine—but I still haven’t stepped foot into a blood bank again.

  I’ve stayed away because fainting is, for lack of a more sophisticated adjective, scary. One minute I was chilling like a boss up on my high horse, about to chow on some cookies, and the next minute I was on the floor being stared at with pity by strangers. My brain shut down mid-thought like a phone dropping a call. I lost control of my body, even the ability to control one of my most basic functions.

  My reaction to fainting isn’t unprecedented. In fact, no one I’ve met thus far has enjoyed spontaneously powering off. I was in the sauna with a friend when he fainted. First his eyes rolled backward and then his body crumpled to the floor. When he awoke a few moments later—still lying on the tile and gazing up toward the ceiling—the first thing he said was, “Did everyone see my balls?”

  Fainting makes us vulnerable. While those around you are present, for you, those moments of unconsciousness will be forever unaccounted for. After two years, that same friend is still fixated on those few seconds. Whenever I see him, he always asks me the same exact question: “But really, did you see my balls?”