on beauty
“Beauty was not simply something to behold; it was something one could do. The Bluest Eye was my effort to say something about that; to say something about why she had not, or possibly ever would have, the experience of what she possessed and also why she prayed for so radical an altercation. Implicit in her desire was racial self-loathing. And twenty years later I was still wondering how one learns that. Who told her? Who made her feel that it was better to be a freak than what she was? Who had looked at her and found her so wanting, so small a weight on the beauty scale? The novel pecks away at the gaze that condemned her.” -Toni Morrison
I want to expand upon the gaze that Morrison refers to. Pecola Breedlove is “her,” a young black girl whom the community has exiled and pitied because they believe she is ugly. Because we never have a first-person narration from Pecola, the descriptions that we do get from others create Pecola’s image in our minds. The other characters comment on her body, her lips, her hair, and how she dresses. The backstory of Pecola’s parents is included and we even find out what they think of their daughter. It’s terrible. There is not one person who sees Pecola as whole or deserving of respect, and we hear that she goes about her entire life without knowing love and affection.
I know The Bluest Eye is (or was) a commonly used novel in academic settings but I read this for my own pleasure and felt deeply connected to Pecola. I thought a lot about the intersection between beauty and space. Let me explain:
We judge whether we are beautiful or not by the spaces we are in. I have felt less than beautiful in frat houses, or little diners in Northern Minnesota because I know in that space, who I am, all of me, does not fit into what is considered beautiful. In the realm of basketball, I am short and have thick, wide thighs. Even in sport, I realize that I am not the ideal “basketball player.”
Yet, I have also been in spaces where who I am is absolutely perfect and acceptable and desirable–like walking around Southeast DC and walking through the African Art Museum. And I can feel that love. I feel beautiful. I am interested in how we know this? How do we know when we are less than beautiful in these different spaces? It’s not written on the walls or given to us like a wifi password, but we feel it. We feel our bones stiffen up a bit as we minimize our body to protect ourselves. We feel it in our faces because our cheeks warm up out of anxiety, out of recognizing the gaze is on us and how we're the opposite of everything desirable in that space. And then, the most peculiar thing happens. We start to wish for different. “I wish my thighs were smaller,” “I wish my hair was longer,” “I wish I was a little taller,” and in Pecola’s case: “I wish my eyes were blue,” a very peculiar thing to wish as a small dark skinned girl. Do you see how beauty sends us down this path? It is this particular thinking about beauty that hurts us. Especially women & girls.
I now call you back to Morrison’s quote that began this post:
“Beauty was not simply something to behold; it was something one could do.”
So, what are beautiful actions one can do? I can name a few. It’s beautiful when your roommate makes food and puts some on a plate for you. It is beautiful when you’re sharing an umbrella with someone and they point it more towards you, even if it means their left shoulder is now exposed to the raindrops. It is beautiful when someone says, “I’ve been thinking about you.” When someone prays for you. Smiles at you when you walk by them.
After reading this novel I have just a bit more hope that we can teach our daughters and sisters and nieces and the young ones that look up to us that beauty comes out to the world not just in how they present themselves, but when they do beautiful things. We can’t lose sight of that.
