Siliziwe Mapalala 

Creative Nonfiction Contest Second Runner Up

For as long as I can remember, as a child I was always the tall, big black girl. The narrative was that I was a big child, and somehow it was implied, though not explicitly, that this was wrong. I guess this may be that I was raised in a society where children were ‘meant to be seen, not heard’ - implying that children should not take up space. This was tricky for me because when I entered a room, I could not be missed. I had, and continue to have,  a large presence. Both figuratively as well as physically. And boy, did I get persecuted for it.

I was constantly compared to my younger, slimmer cousin who my family considered to be conventionally beautiful. Me, well, I was okay. My response to this covert feedback is that I began to make myself small in all ways possible. Imagine, the tallest kid in the room (relatively) trying to make themselves as small as a grain of sand. I would stay out of the way of grown ups, and when my presence was required I would make myself useful. As a highly opinionated individual, I learned to suppress my opinions so as to not cause conflict, and I would humble myself if my parents chastised me for anything. All this because I occupied a body those around me disapproved of.

What I have just described is the norm when it comes to how we engage with children, now add to this experience the fact that I was also raised in a fundamentalist Christian home, where femininity in women is emphasised. As a teenager, I had to wear conservative skirts and dresses since pants were strictly forbidden. I remember how I had numerous pairs of heels as a 16 year old when my peers would have the latest kicks. All this is hilarious considering how as a child you would find me playing in the streets, dressed in shorts or jeans, usually barefoot or wearing sneakers. I would climb trees and jump over my neighbour’s wall, cutting myself on rusty jungle gyms, then come home five shades darker. The sun was my best friend.

The initial conflict was that I needed to fit myself into this definition of femininity, even though I myself was an exuberant child.  I had to be shorter and slimmer than my male counterparts, I had to be quiet and not cheeky, and I had to dress as effeminate as possible. And through all of that, it left me feeling like an imposter for the majority of my teenage years.

Another impact of growing up in a fundamentalist space is that it robbed me of my connection to my culture and heritage. As a Xhosa child, I did not grow up being taught the ways of my ancestors, and instead was taught about Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. I had to substitute my heritage with that of a Jewish nation that I had no proximity to, learning the patriarchal ways that would save my soul and make sure I land up in heaven. But had I known better, I would have known then already that the body I inhabited was not erroneous, but that this was the body that had been passed down to me over generations. My wide hips, thick thighs and gravity defying ass were no mistake, what was a mistake was the clothing stores not making clothes for my body. But alas, it was not yet the time for young me to discover this beauty.

I spent many years feeling lost when it came to my identity; I spent my youth hating my beautiful body, and convinced I was going to hell because I struggled to live the values taught to me by my church. Luckily, the Lesbian Gods had my back, and a number of events took place which shaped how I now view the world, and helped me start to heal from the hurt I inflicted on myself.

For one, I questioned my identity. In 2013 I met my life partner, in the concrete passages of a medical aid call centre. Meeting my now wife made everything make sense - as someone who grew up fundamentally  Christian, it was just assumed (and in fact I too assumed) that I would one day marry a man and have children. Then out of nowhere, this graceful awe inspiring woman with natural swag and self confidence made me want to inhabit the world fully as myself. That is what she did for me. In falling in love with her, I fell in love with me. 

Secondly, in 2020 I fell ill. While the world was dealing with Covid, I got diagnosed with a rare autoimmune condition which had been attacking my muscles and skin. A short period before my diagnosis, I went from enjoying yoga practice twice a week, to not being able to hold a downward dog position for more than a minute. This event completely changed how I viewed my body, as well as my mental health. I had to ask myself tough questions around my work and the exorbitant stress it put me under, and the anxiety it had created in my life. I see my body differently too, as a vessel which needs to keep me going at least until my 90s. I stopped asking myself whether I was conventionally beautiful, and started asking myself whether I am taking care of my body, and even more so, am I showing gratitude for this body that I am in that has carried me to this point, and will continue to carry me forward? Now I celebrate every completed hike, every downward dog, and every lap I swim. Of course every now and again I will look in the mirror a bit too long, and question why this fupa has to fup, but I am no longer apologetic about my body and the space I take up in the world.

Thirdly, I also came to a realisation that my body is my heritage in physical form. This body was handed down to me by my parents, and theirs from their parents, and so on. I not only have my father’s wit, but his wide smile, round face, and cute button nose. I not only have my mother’s gentle air, but her height, broad shoulders, wide hips, and beautiful calves. How could I look at what I inherited with disdain?

Lastly, writing helped me find my voice. I struggled to assert myself in many spaces, a curse carried with me from childhood, and my outlet has always been writing. I have learned to articulate my thoughts better, thanks to this gift and practice, and I now gaslight myself less. Writing helped me heal when I went through a devastating breakup with my parents due to my sexuality, and it gave me the strength to make a brave (some may say stupid) decision to leave a secure but toxic workplace. It is with this craft that I can create beautiful things. The girl who once made herself small can now write big things.

I am still on my healing journey, but I am extremely proud of the growth I have made, and I am grateful for the grace that those around me have bestowed on me. The relationship with my body is still in its infancy, I am still learning how to take care of it as it needs me to,  and not how society tells me to, and I still get it wrong sometimes but luckily my body is forgiving. I’m also in the process of rediscovering my personal style, as I have entered a new chapter in my life where I would like how I dress to fully reflect who I now am - a confident queer woman who celebrates her form.

I am also practising gratitude, especially thanking my ancestors for walking with me each day. My mental health takes priority as I continue to write and create, as it is a practice that brings me joy. Most importantly, I continue to love, illuminating queer love and how beautiful it is, in a world where queerness is bastardised. I hope for those reading this, that you too begin a journey of healing, whether that be of mental health, learning to love yourself, loving your body or finding your voice.