Class Introduction

Hi.

I’m Rebecca and not to take up too much time –

• 31/Female/Rural Colorado

• 5’5”, 170lbs

• Brunette, green eyes, American, white

• Left handed

• Sagittarius

• Drugs sometimes, drinking sometimes

• Unsure about kids

• Size L pants, size M tops, 36D

• 36 on the ACT

• Educated, raised upper class

• History of diabetes in the family.

So. That’s probably what you need to know.

but also –

My face has that puffy sharpness of a soft-looking chair that meets your sitting bottom with a thud. It holds 3 scars: one next to my left eye (brother), one underneath my nose (handlebars), and one on the bottom of my chin (asphalt). White women in their 60s like to tell me my skin is beautiful, and look at me with regret. My skin, it’s pale, persistently sun-stained, and translucent enough that you can see my inner thoughts slipping beneath the surface. Easily, you could cast me as the Irish barmaid, German receptionist, English barista. Serving, a smile masking, and from blushed lips, I’ll make a guess at what you want to hear. My eyes are marbles held in place by sockets folding in on themselves. The web of wrinkles from my eyes to my temples draw in strangers to ask me for directions (I don’t live here). My hair is red, smoothed waves, a miracle from my childhood frizz ball. An avalanche of a nose sits in the middle. My walk wants to own its space, but gets nervous. At times, you’ll still catch me sliding my feet across the floor, afraid of what will happen if my sole leaves the earth. My feet are wide, curling along the edges, trained from years of squishing into shoes too narrow. I directed my ire at my hips and thighs in the early Naughts, and fought their distinct plushness with the firm command of a helicopter parent. In the 2010s, they were the source of envy, lust and greed. It took a long time for me to take my eyes off of them and the two legs that love to kiss between each step below, to the frigid horizons around me. My body leaves a firm imprint on grass and yoga mats. They remember I was there, long after I forget.

Bagels and Friends both have holes in their faces

I’m sad how few faces I can describe with the type of detail I can describe, say, the bacon egg and cheese bagel sammy from my favorite New York deli. When I can tell you the salt consistency of a bagel over the curve of a friends chin, somethings wrong. Because I’m not looking. I’m consuming. And not just the bagel, but my friends time, energy, essence. Categorizing, rather than savoring.

Why?

The above (above) piece I wrote for a class on portraits — capturing the portrait in writing. For one of the first classes, we had to come in with examples of portraits of characters from books, as well as write a self-portrait. It was difficult to find examples, and I added to list a quickly found, superficial portrait from a Lucia Berlin short story. I wish I had spent more time, even then, finding a description that really spoke to me. That saw a character the way I’d like to be seen.

For my own piece, my self-commodification came to mind, how on various apps, applications and when introducing myself to others, I hit the highlight notes, the things that are digestible, quick to categorize, easy to decide whether you’d like to pick me up and play and put me back on the shelf.

There’s a worldview here to break.

Where have I distilled myself to fit the mold of others easy-consumption?

Where have I been told to look away for it is rude to see someone and really look?

Isn’t that all we want - for our details to be seen and remembered.