I realized, sometime in the past few weeks, that in reading a book a week, I didn’t just have to read books that were mass published and distributed–that I could read books that come from within my communities. Attention: People With Body Parts is my first such book. It’s a series of letters written by different people to different parts of their body, collected by my acquaintance, current Oberlin College student, Lexie Bean. It was lovely to think, for a week, about bodies. I have always felt a little more disconnected from my body than I want to be and it’s nice to be given the opportunity to pay attention to my own body and to others’ bodies and discover new and interesting things.

In lieu of my traditional reflection, I thought I’d write a few letters of my own.

To that one spot on the back of my neck, just at the base:

How many people know that you love to be touched? Not many. Not even my lovers, really, have ever known that; you’ve never been able to articulate your desire in a way that they and I can understand, can act on. But how can I blame you for that? You’re just a dumb patch of skin–the fault is mine.

How many people know you love to be touched? That when I see the girl I think is beautiful you silently cry out for her to tuck her head into the nook between my chin and shoulder, for her hair to compress down against my cheek, and for her to rest there, so close to you.

I used to imagine I would get a tattoo on you–something discreet, almost natural, just a small and simple heart, almost a mole or a birthmark, so lovers would know where to plant their kisses. You want to be kissed and touched. Even now, writing this in public, I feel you calling out for closeness, but there is no one near enough just lately to heed the call.

I wonder what it is that makes you so special, why you want so much. You’re just a patch of skin. There are others too: the space around my upper arm, just where my t-shirt usually covers. Lovers and friends caressing it have sent me into hypnotic paralyzed states. But do they know? Perhaps it is just that it is so infrequently touched, that you are so infrequently touched, tucked into that discreet corner of my being, hidden by my hair. Perhaps it is just that you and the rest of the places where I am touched the least are crying out with longing,–a desire to be known by another.

Love,

My hair,

You and I have a long and tumultuous history. I never really cared much for you when we were young. You were cut short in the traditional Chinese way and it never really felt right. It felt nerdy, if I’m honest. I didn’t want to be the nerd, but I always was, and you weren’t helping. Some mornings I’d wake up with you sticking out in every direction. I’d try to tame you with water and careful patting, but often you’d continue to misbehave and I’d just go to school like that, looking like a dork.

It wasn’t until high school that I learned to love you. Sometime between my first high school girlfriend and my last I decided to change myself. I grew you out. I thought, I’ll just try this, see if it’s good. And, man, were you ever good. When you started growing long, I felt like a whole new being. I started to think of myself as attractive, maybe even (could it be?) cool. One of my friends said to me, “I like your new hair. It seems fits your personality much better.” So, kudos. It took us sixteen years, but we finally figured out how to work together.

I have to admit, though, I started to worry a bit. I think you’ve changed me. I think, when people first meet me, they see me differently when I’m with you. For a long time I said that I was going to cut you all off–not because I don’t love you, don’t get me wrong, I love you, I do, but–just to try something new. But in the end, I didn’t have the guts. I’ve been with you for so long that I’m not sure who I’d be without you. Would I revert back to that dorky, lonely middle-school kid? How would people see me? Would they think I was (heaven forbid) conforming to real-world expectations, sacrificing you for my career and a little more normalcy? Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe we’re codependent. But you’re a part of me, body and soul, and I can’t let you go lightly.

With admiration,

Dear facial hair,

It’s really time we had a talk–just to clear the air. I think you know that I’m not always pleased with your behavior. I let you grow out, only to discover that the best you can do is a few raggedy wispy strands and a thin coating of fuzz. Does it make me feel like less of a man? I like to think that was never a way that I thought–in fact it disgusts me now–but if I am honest, it used to bother me. When all my friends were passing by puberty, I felt like I–the beardless wonder–was still a preteen. At the same time my eyebrows horrified me. I don’t even remember why–someone must have made some offhand comment about my bushy eyebrows and I spent years being self-conscious about what I perceived to be a terrible unibrow. I considered shaving the space between my eyes, right down to my nose.

I don’t really care these days, thankfully. My eyebrows have never given me any trouble and I’ve come to appreciate how low-maintenance you are, facial hair. I can let you go for weeks without even looking unshaven, until someone goes in for a closer inspection.

Still, just once and a while, it’d be fun to do something a little more interesting with our face, eh? Decorate a little bit? Maybe you could just grow out a little on special occasions? I’m not trying to pressure you into anything, just give it some thought, OK?

Yours,

I’ll close this reflection, not with a letter of my own, but with a poem from Margaret Atwood, which is sort of a letter to sort of a body part. Perhaps the connection is tenuous, but this poem has been stuck in my head all week, as I’ve been reading this book. Her poem does includes physicality, but it is not about physicality–the physicality is a vehicle for emotion. Still, as my favorite piece from Lexie’s book says, “physical pain can hurt so much that it causes psychological damage. Or maybe, at their extremes, the two are inseparable, the same thing.” This poem is about that connection between the physical and emotional:

The Woman Who Could Not Live With Her Faulty Heart

I do not mean the symbol
of love, a candy shape
to decorate cakes with,
the heart that is supposed
to belong or break;

I mean this lump of muscle
that contracts like a flayed biceps,
purple-blue, with its skin of suet,
its skin of gristle, this isolate,
this caved hermit, unshelled
turtle, this one lungful of blood,
no happy plateful.

All hearts float in their own
deep oceans of no light,
wetblack and glimmering,
their four mouths gulping like fish.
Hearts are said to pound:
this is to be expected, the heart’s
regular struggle against being drowned.

But most hearts say, I want, I want,
I want, I want. My heart
is more duplicitious,
though no twin as I once thought.
It says, I want, I don’t want, I
want, and then a pause.
It forces me to listen,

and at night it is the infra-red
third eye that remains open
while the other two are sleeping
but refuses to say what it has seen.

It is a constant pestering
in my ears, a caught moth, limping drum,
a child’s fist beating
itself against the bedsprings:
I want, I don’t want.
How can one live with such a heart?

Long ago I gave up singing
to it, it will never be satisfied or lulled.
One night I will say to it:
Heart, be still,
and it will.