Hello, my name is Jes’ka Washington and I am a size 14.  I am a thick girl and in Southern states, that is pronounced “GUURLLL” like I need a little extra gravy with my name to get the full figure of my essence. Based upon American statistics…I am just like majority of the women in the country…average of size 12-18, but if you look for our legs, chest, thighs, or any other body part that makes you crave for chicken we are not noticed or seen. 

I can get over the misrepresentation on television…the American standard for beauty, but the continuous deletion of my thick existence has caused a serious decline in my shopping efforts.  Being limited in a 300 store mall to a choice of 3 places for me that cater to my size, I have loss the yearning of spending cash in the efforts to find the “perfect outfit”.  Shopping for the perfect outfit is having to take a “no rocks, straight up shot” of self-esteem. 

The obstruction of reality is the window-shopping lie.  These are all the outfits on the manican that are gorgeous and drape wonderfully and when you walk in, you realize that they are all size 2.  Then at the rack, the largest they usually go to is an 8.  You know you a thick girl when you know your position on the rack is one of Rosa Park’s…the back of the rack.  You don’t even spend time rummaging through the front because you know it won’t fit.

So in order to feel loved or catered too…you head to Lane Bryant or Ashley Stewart and even there, they sell a lie.  Because the outfit is perfect on the “big girl” manican, but if you ever walk around the manican…THE OUTFIT IS PINNED UP IN THE BACK.  So basically, in my shopping routines, it is a chore to find outfits that fit and do so like the designer intended.  My curves always move things around a bit and my style comes off unlike any catwalk at Fashion Week.

So shopping through the streets of Monrovia, my fears increased because walking into my first store with African based fashion I realized my one of my fears has come to life.  No size tags.  No tags to identify the big girl clothes from the itty-bitty girl’s.  I mean, I have obviously hit and passed puberty. I can’t just put anything on and my biggest fear is ripping a pre-bought outfit during the trying on phase.  So, I am standing in the store, hands in my pocket, my heart neutralized determined not to be entranced by any clothing combination because I can’t be put in a position to have my heart, ego, and style stomped on.  I have made a determination that I would just hire a tailor to do any of my clothes and only she and I would know the measurements on that scale, a secret she must hold until death.

I am holding ground like Joan of Arc in battle, until my lovely boss notices an outfit that is “soooo me”.  She giggles like a schoolgirl and thrust it at me, looking at a chance to have that girlfriend shopping moment.  The storeowner claps her hands and the people start dragging out mirrors and accessories with me holding this outfit in my hand. I hiss at her…”Have you seen my chest…it won’t fit.” But by this time, the storeowner has pried the outfit from my finger putting it over my head, on top of the clothes I was wearing.

A perfect fit. 

A what?  Perfect fit. Perfect.  I looked in the mirror. I was beautiful.  An African princess.    And there wasn’t a need to suck in, tuck in, tighten, or girdle.  See here in Africa. I was the perfect size.  Shocking.  Another clothing selection was push at me, and another and they all fit. 

We went to another store and the same results.  Clothes fit.  They fit me. My unbeknown joy. It was my time to have the movie montage of the girl in the mirror stacking up a crazy number of outfits for the sheer joy of trying things on.  Here in Liberia, a girl is supposed to have curves.  Designers crave it and cater towards it and I will abuse that privilege to the upmost dollar.

I visited five stores and walked home with three outfits that didn’t come from the back of the rack, they were not a hidden secret in a society that refused to acknowledge my hips, thighs, chest or butt.  They were the display…the idea of a perfect beauty.

And I was the girl they fit…in a size 14. Today was a good day….Payday will be even better!

Who has the power?  It’s all in the hands of the one who holds the ________

There are a lot of reality checks you have to anticipate throughout your life as a woman.  Being an American woman, I have known the challenges that face you being a skirt in a boardroom, bedroom, schoolroom, really any room…but there was one room that I never felt oppressed in and was always prepared for fair or even better treatment in.  It is this one room where I realize the amazing infrastructure of the culture of male dominance here in Liberia.  How truly disregarded a female really is.  I know discrimination because of this room, and how hard it will be to fight the system that hovers over me. What room is this you may ask?

The restroom.

I knew that coming into Africa, I would have to understand that the male has a certain viewpoint of what and where a female should be.  Her place in society.  I knew that it would be a challenge because I am a direct opposite of this viewpoint and there would be disagreements and debates, but I wasn’t ready for this level of discrimination.  I mean haven’t felt inequality like this before.  I don’t have to read the newspapers to know this unfair system or take heed to the many billboards we drive by everyday that says “Don’t hit a woman, be nice.” I just have to walk into a restroom and realize that the sanctity of a woman’s needs don’t mean nothing here. 

About seventy percent of the bathrooms I walk into don’t have toilet paper.  The higher upscale I go the more likely I am to find something to dry a cooch but living with even middle class bathroom needs means that I got to do for myself.  Then even if there is toilet paper, it’s the kind that cuts and binds and not the pleasure of Charmin.  A public restroom rarely has soap, sanitizer, a fresh wiping cloth for hands, enough water for flushing,  just the minimum requirements of a stress free urine session.  My friend even took note on how if walking through the streets on a shopping spree, there isn’t an escape restroom available.  You pretty much have to know your whereabouts or a friend if you got to go on the run.  Liberia has no love for the ladies rooms and unlike Klymaxx’s old jam…”there will never be no meeting in the ladies room.”

Why is this?  Because the one in Liberia who holds the power is the one who holds the penis.  Because the owner can and will whip it out and pee anywhere at anytime, with no reservations.  In fact the men will stare at you like you are invading their privacy while they are peeing on the side of the road at a bus stop.  I mean there is some respect by the fertilization of the bushes and not just pissing on your feet…but they go when they want to go, where they want to.  Because of the ability to use God’s earth as a urinal at anytime it makes one a little insensitive to the power and pleasure of an enclosed contraption that encourages privacy and safe free wiping.

Translate as well as most of these men are the janitors in establishment and therefore the caretakers of the washroom, which means that they will give a wipe and go and call that a satisfying job while we as women know that doesn’t do the trick.  See men know the way of a drip dry experience…females don’t drip dry to well…but these are not conversations that are normally had so how would one know how to stock a bathroom for a female unless they were sensitive to a female’s needs.
But in the movement to encourage women growth and equality in the Liberian culture is a very big deal.  More women are enrolling in school, more are getting jobs in high positions, and more opportunities are presenting themselves for a woman to gain access towards making the female presence known in Liberia. 

How does this translate into the restrooms?  We now get air freshener.  No toilet paper, but air freshener.  This means there is reorganization towards our needs but it’s not all a practical solution at times.  But it’s a start. And every revolution needs a start…so I feel that my job here is not done until every restroom in Liberia is equip to cater to the needs and comfort of a coochie with the respect of what a coochie can do and what coochie actually does.  I ask my sisters to unite in this cause and demand toilet paper in every restroom in Liberia….and not any kind of toilet paper.  We have the right to be respected, catered to, loved and caressed, regarded as a sensitive individual.  We have the right to Charmin.

Thank you….