ALEXA

Picture day.

Grey, white, and pink plaid skirt. 

A white button-up, a black v-neck sweater. A pink tie. 

Picture day. Finally, it was one of the few days we’d be out of our uniforms. 

I bought this outfit specifically for this occasion. I laid it out the night before,
ecstatic for my morning reveal. Moments out of my uniform were intoxicating. 

One of the few moments of expression, though truthfully, I had no idea who I was.
But today was different. Today, it finally felt like I was figuring out the person I was. 

Expressing myself through something other than the uniform I was expected to wear every day. 

That’s why this outfit that I had carefully picked out, meant so much.

As I eagerly went to bed excited for school the next morning, I wondered what everyone would think and say about my outfit. I couldn’t wait to find out.
That morning, I studied myself in the mirror, 

made sure every hair was in place, straightened my tie, and I was off. 

The morning went on as usual. We all complimented one another, excited to see
the outfits everyone had picked out for themselves on Picture Day, 

out of uniform, out of our daily routine. 

I was on cloud nine.

I heard the giggles come from the back of the classroom. Notes passed back and forth. 

I looked towards a friend for an idea of what was going on.
She just shrugged her shoulders, as clueless as I was. Class ended. We filled the halls.
I found my way to the group of gigglers, determined to be in on the joke.
Though when I approached them, no one spoke up. 

Instead, they exchanged looks with each other and the giggling continued. 

Eventually, one boy asked, "do you really want to know?" 

Still clueless and desperate to be in on the laughter, I confidently said, “of course.” 

There was a pause, another exchange of looks, and finally,

"We were all wondering what you used to stuff your bra with."

I froze. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of me, as laughter erupted among the boys. 

I had no idea what to say. All I could think was how much I wished I was in my uniform. 

I sat in class, silently holding back tears, but my face said it all. 

One of the gigglers came up to me and asked if I needed a tissue. 

Thinking this was a moment of empathy, I gratefully nodded yes. 

He grabbed the tissue box and turned around,
"Oh, it doesn't look like there’s any left. Maybe grab one from your shirt?"
An eruption of laughter. "Oh wait, I found one on the floor." 

He picked up a tissue and placed it on my desk, "must have fallen out." 

Thankfully class began, and everyone was forced back to their seats.

In a class of thirty, nothing was a secret. 

These jokes had even trickled down to the grade below and it felt inescapable. 

I walked into the bathroom, finally finding a moment of silence. A second for myself.

 It didn’t last long. 

Two of my friends walked in, "how are you?" 

I was crushed. I tried to mask it, expressing my confusion as to why they would ask me that. 

I knew exactly what they were referring to but I didn’t want them to know that. 

I didn’t want anyone to know. 

After a few minutes, one of them finally spoke. "Well, I mean, they do look bigger." 

In that moment, I realized that the place I went to to escape all the ridicule, wasn’t even safe. 

Speaking to my friends wasn’t safe. I couldn't get away from it. I just wanted to hide; 

I couldn’t wait for the day to be over. After that, the rest was a blur. 

I counted the minutes until I could put on my jacket, hide my body, and run out of those doors.

Everything changed after that Picture Day. 

The jokes about me stuffing my bra eventually dwindled, but the pain never did.

That day opened a new door. That day I realized, there was nothing that would stop others from commenting on my appearance, my outfits, my body. 

Nineteen years later, I still think about my seventh-grade Picture Day. 

Countless mornings checking myself in the mirror, wondering what others would think of the clothes I chose to wear. No longer if they were stylish or cute, it didn’t matter anymore. 

Instead, I thought about how they might make my chest, stomach, or legs look. 

Regardless of the time that has passed, the years that I’ve grown, 

I'm reminded of that moment each time I catch a glimpse of that photo - 

the moment I began to see myself, and my body, as nothing more than how women are seen:

as an object.

Society has conditioned us to see ourselves as objects,

and to normalize others commenting on our bodies as if that sentiment is true. 

I wish I could tell my seventh-grade self that I’m more than my body, 

that I’m more than just an object. 

But with how society operates, could I even say that now? 

I can’t imagine how many young girls have felt the way I did, and continue to, 

regardless of how much time passes.

And quite honestly, it doesn't matter how many years go by.

Until society changes, until women are not objectified by how our bodies look and defined because of it,

the way women and young girls see themselves, never will.