by Fullamusu Bangura
Somewhere in the gap between sixth and seventh grade, my titties made a dramatic entry into the world, earning me the nickname “Implants” from a friend. Older boys who never talked to me suddenly became intimately familiar with the curves of my body, with childhood games turning into bra-snapping and National Grab Ass Day. Outside of the classroom, men stopped their cars to harass me and followed me down neighborhood blocks after school. Every mirror session became a site for scrutiny, with me trying to figure out how I could minimize the changes and just go back to living as my normal self. Existing in my body was a particular kind of hell and the more it developed, the more determined I became to shrink myself into invisibility. I walked with my shoulders high to my ears hoping if I raised them high enough, they would cover me entirely. My dedication extended to oversized tees and flared jeans, leading to a very serious talk with a concerned older cousin about the fact that I “dressed like a grandma.”
I continued this disappearing act until college when the Freshman Fifteen hit and I couldn’t hide anymore. My jeans wore tighter around my hips and my guy friends started looking at me differently. That Thanksgiving break, my mom gasped when I walked in the door and urged me to go to the gym. In my seminars, I learned all the language to liberate myself but still found myself bound to my own body. Instead, I got angry. I punched boys who grabbed me at parties and was front row chanting at Take Back The Night events. It was easy for me to understand that no one had the right to claim my body but less easy to believe it. I judged myself for craving sex and convinced myself that things would be fine if I kept my number of sexual partners under some arbitrary threshold instead of just allowing myself to enjoy the freedom of college.
After graduation and somewhere in between a whirlwind year that involved psych meds, weekly therapy and dropping out of grad school, I discovered Megan Thee Stallion’s “Stalli Freestyle” and became, in a word, obsessed. While her sharp lyricism is what drew me in, I was especially fixated on her Instagram Live moments where Megan, usually in her kitchen listening to music, completely enthralled me in the joy of her own body’s movement. I watched her grin as she turned her back to the camera and clapped her cheeks at an unseen audience. And then there’s the athleticism of her live performances, personally one of the most awe-inspiring qualities of Meg’s star power. I have watched dozens of clips of Megan on stage and am always amazed by how much she trusts her body. Every time she drops it low it is with the utmost confidence that her body got her, gravity be damned. To me, it is peak self-love. The complete faith in yourself and all you have to offer.
391.4k Likes, 5,219 Comments - Hot Girl Meg (@theestallion) on Instagram: "Megan thee Mack 😛"
Watching Megan taught me the beautiful intimacy in knowing every inch of your body, and there’s something really special about having found her when I did. In the span of my musical lineage with her I have been in my lowest points of depression, came out to my family, and explored new ways to define my romantic relationship. I gained twenty pounds and stopped starving myself under the guise of healthy eating. I started doing yoga and weightlifting. I twerked on stage with Big Freedia and wore a wire bra and thong in front of thousands of people at Notting Hill Carnival. I had lots of sex. I tattooed, pierced, and adorned my body with whatever made me feel more beautiful and more like myself. I rediscovered birthmarks and scars in the mirror, remembering the stories that formed them.
Perhaps the most humbling part of this journey into body acknowledgement is the realization that no matter how much ownership you claim of your own body, people will overstep and try to find ways to possess you. There is an eeriness to how we know nothing of our own bodies but want to claim the bodies of others, whether through fatphobia, slut-shaming, or the hyper-fixation on other’s aesthetic choices. I see this with overly aggressive men catcalling me in the streets and the audience of Megan’s shows, grabbing her body without permission or starting arguments about whether or not she has surgically altered her body. Above all, I’ve learned that human existence is so much less exhausting when a body isn’t just baggage you're carrying around.
For the past month, I’ve been practicing my “stallion knees,” Megan’s unofficial signature dance move. Every day after work, I’ll put on music, claim any given space in my living room, lower my body closer and closer to the ground, and trust that I will make it back up again. To say I’ve mastered it would be a lie but to admit that I’ve grown to love the process of falling, getting back up, then falling again would be closer to the truth. Each time, my body feels lighter and more like an entity I have known for a lifetime. Each time, she feels freer.