Wanting to stop myself but unable, I call up my own bodily and social (are they different?) shame as a pre-teen overdeveloped black girl taking ballet classes in Cincinnati, Ohio with a room full of impossibly thin white girls. I was ridiculed everyday in ways that made clear to me that my body was neither acceptable or of any value. And then, immediately, after replaying this memory, I feel doubly shamed. How could I allow myself to conjure up this personal history - so inconsequential and narcissistic in relation to the tragedy of repeatedly being physically pulled into shame literally from the inside out. My shame, in comparison, is nothing and yet I can not stop it from coming to mind. I wonder if my petty, privileged experience brings me closer to Anarcha or just creates more distance.
- Aimee Meredith Cox