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!

A Man or Malaria

There are just some things that you are born into. For me, it is bad skin. Eczema has always plagued me from enormous breakouts to a mild symptom…eczema has always had me in a chokehold. In the growth of my womanly being I have realized that in the midst of certain breakouts I manage to avoid men. I can always do a sexy in a turtleneck top but if it ever came down to shedding down to some laciest threads I didn’t want to explain the bumps and scars on my skin. It’s not fun pillow talk. You always want your skin to be a landscape for fingers to wander, not a lesson in Braille writing.

These moments in my life had me working on all natural diets, Crisco mud baths, oatmeal injections, whatever drug I could find to cure my eczema breakouts…and always a tube of horticozone cream on standby. I can give more remedies then that doctor on Oprah; I am an expert of treatments of eczema, legal and illegal forms. Men don’t understand how important that moment is of nakedness, full exposure…the ability to see every lump, flop, bump, bruise, excess or not enough of…so whatever possible a woman will endure that just to have a flaw free exposure striptease.

In Africa, me and my eczema has become one. (Read more…)