My Body: a review

I like this book. I’m not sure what internalized misogyny prompted me to dismiss the merits of Emily Ratajkowski’s writing before even reading My Body. Being a girl is so invisibly complicated, and if someone ever overlooks, dismisses, or forgets about that, this book will sober them up while thrusting them into more chaos. I think it’s a perfectly structured collection of essays, and obviously, feminism is about choice, but given how nebulous and difficult free will already is, there are no clear sides to take for what is feminist or anti-feminist. Instead of gripping clarity, Em Rata brings us her messy experiences out of chronological order but clearer than ever in their components and moments. It’s meant to be incongruent. These are concepts that may never be reconciled harmoniously that we will always grapple with.

Here’s a quote.

As I showed him a charcoal nude of mine, he suggested, “Why not draw a woman with a waist so small she falls over and cannot stand up?” He advised me either to “play into the stereotypes of the beauty standard or to show its oppression.” I didn’t want to believe that it was so stark, that those were my only two options.

Emily Ratajkowski. 29.6 million followers on Instagram. 5 ft 7 in. She has been living a very public life as a model, to entertain men, to entertain herself, which is which even. Did she earn her beauty? Beauty is an accomplishment yet it is not, and paraphrasing her grandfather, it’s inappropriate to just say thank you when being told beautiful. What have you done? Nothing. You’ve done nothing. She was paid 25K just to spend a day at the Super Bowl accompanying a rich dude. She washed bitter coffee down her stomach when she felt tired and lightheaded. You’ve done nothing. Nothing?

For most of my life, I thought of myself as savvy, a hustler. I understood that I had a commodifiable asset, something the world valued, and I was proud to have built a life and career off my body. All women are objectified and sexualized to some degree, I figured, so I might as well do it on my own terms. I thought that there was power in my ability to choose to do so.

But in other, less overt ways, I’ve felt objectified and limited by my position in the world as a so-called sex symbol. I’ve capitalized on my body within the confines of a cis-hetero, capitalist, patriarchal world, one in which beauty and sex appeal are valued solely through the satisfaction of the male gaze. Whatever influence and status I’ve gained were only granted to me because I appealed to men. My position brought me in close proximity to wealth and power and brought me some autonomy, but it hasn’t resulted in true empowerment. That’s something I’ve gained only now, having written these essays and given voice to what I’ve thought and experienced.

We pit women against other women, even as women ourselves, in this game. At points, Em Rata wanted to stand up and scream, that she hated this, that she hated women who compare themselves to other women, and that she’s #notlikeothergirls, but it ends up being a fucked up competition anyway. “Hot or not”, “who wore it better”, “sure she’s pretty, but she’s not a beauty”. The concept of comparing, assessing, ranking, and defining the natural process of aging as a decrease in value, all of it so cold and invisible. And somehow, some part of it is professional, because models’ jobs come with expectations.

There are so many challenges to being a woman that I cannot even begin to explain in conversation, but at the same time, as Emily explains, there is a sense of power that comes with sexuality. But is it real power if the person has no autonomy over how her body is perceived, but can only lean into what others want from her? I could neatly tuck arguments away instead of picking at them, because the complexity to this experience. Questioning the split-second longer stares when walking down the street, blankly feeling self-conscious, or doubting the rush from a strange mix of shame and attention, sometimes earnestly trying to distinguish genuine compliments from catcalls, and wondering if I’m just a piece of ass.

Is the power of wearing something derived from defiance or conformity? Does it gives me control in actively choosing to show my skin and be vulnerable to the world, or does it strip me of control, because there is nothing left to hide? Why is it, that people take a woman more or less seriously, or doubt her capacity and capability, depending on how much effort she puts into manicuring her appearance, digitally or IRL? These imbalances and challenges are not clear and quantified, much more dynamic than the heuristics of hardships we bring up when thinking about stereotypical challenges of being a girl, such as a boy saying, “oh you can’t throw a ball or play league because you’re a girl, silly.” These play into the mess of experiences, but this overarching experience of being a woman is also much more nuanced, and cannot be boiled down to obvious incidents. Being gawked at with a smirk, again again again, and feeling objectified but also wanting to be appreciated, and learning to be smart, play the system, and capitalize off of your own body, but feeling out of control when doing so. Get into it, yuh.

Facing the reality of the dynamics at play would have meant admitting how limited my power really was — how limited any woman’s power is when she survives and even succeeds in the world as a thing to be looked at.

I so desperately craved men’s validation that I accepted it even when it came wrapped in disrespect. I was those girls in that room, waiting, trading my body and measuring my self-worth in a value system that revolves around men and their desire.

What, ultimately, is true empowerment? Being wanted by someone? Being the object of their captured attention?