this name too

Living in Liberia (or, at least, somewhere not too far off its coast) has changed my perspective in so many ways. I've gained a broader understanding of war. Of poverty. Of forgiveness. And, interestingly enough, of body image.

I grew up in North America. New Jersey, to be precise, a stone's throw away from the bustling metropolitan streets of New York. Before coming to live on a ship in West Africa, I spent every single day of this life of mine being bombarded from every side by images and advertising. Rail-thin girls, the kind that look like they would break in a strong wind, peered back at me from the pages of magazines and gazed down on me as I drove under the billboards they adorned. I was taught, although never aloud, that being skinny and having long, straight hair and perfect skin are the tickets to happiness.

I, unfortunately, grew up in a body that was too big. I was taller than all the girls (and most of the boys) in my class. My teeth jutted out at odd angles and my eyes squinted behind thick, plastic-rimmed glasses. (As an aside, I don't regret the glasses. If not for their orange-framed glory, I might not have formed one of the most important friendships of my life. Yes, Audrey, little kids can wear them and they were real.) Once I hit puberty, things only got worse. I started to fill out as my knobby knees and sharp elbows were gradually covered in a layer of (gasp) fat.

I spent years hating my body. I wanted to be beautiful, and if I was reading the signs right, I wasn't. Nothing in my culture told me that I was desirable or lovely or worth looking at. I don't write this to prompt my family to leave me gushing comments about how cute I was or, worse, how I had such shining inner beauty. Truth be told, I was a homely kid, and there are plenty of photos to prove it. (What you can't see in photos is supreme social awkwardness. Thankfully.)

You grow out of self-loathing, eventually. At least I hope you do. I did. I realized that my height was an advantage; you didn't see me needing a stool at my patient's bedsides just to reach my IV pumps. The extra padding on my body honestly just means that I can sit longer without getting uncomfortable. But there's always been a voice in the back of my head, reminding me that I'm just fooling myself. That I don't really look right and I never will.

And then I came to Liberia, and my paradigm shifted. Here, people don't make the choice to starve themselves in order to be thin; there often just isn't food to put on the table. The billboards lining the streets remind people to wash their hands after using the toilet, that the president is working to bring electricity to the country and that you should always report rape immediately. Newspapers and magazines are torn up to wrap the loaves of bread that sell on street corners for 10LD apiece.

I realized recently that quite a few of my translators on the ward have taken to calling me Beauty. I couldn't figure out why, seeing as how it's never been a word I associate with myself. Somewhere in the middle of my shift tonight, I wandered over to the kitchen to get hot water for my tea and found six or seven of them crammed in there, laughing and talking as they washed the plates from dinner. I exchanged greetings with all present, made my tea and was about to walk back to the ward when Judy, a short, round, perpetually-grinning woman called out Bye-bye Beauty! I turned back. Why you call me Beauty? I wanted to know.

Her smile got wider. You beautiful because you speak our English. You not just speaking the American English. That how we know you are beautiful. I gave her a hug and turned to leave, when she shouted after me. Hey Beauty. You know why you beautiful? Because you got a fine African shape! The kitchen erupted into shouts of laughter and hearty assent. Three or four of the ladies reached out to pat me on the backside and the lone man present nodded his head in solemn agreement.

For the first time in my life, I'm being told that my body is not too big. That, in fact, it's perfect and healthy and beautiful. And when I go back to my own world and my own culture, I'll take this name, too. Beauty.