The Crop of the Top

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Every time I pop the squeezable sunscreen’s cap open the smell hits me and I am instantly transported back to my childhoods spent poolside. I wish someone would write a stirring memoir where The Coronado Club of Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque, New Mexico was the main setting. Where it served as additional character, because… what a place. It’s difficult for me to know if my young mind inflated the place to be this oasis, or if it truly was one. The Coronado Club opened in 1950 and served as the social hub for families living on base. Nearly fifty years later it still retained some of its regal vibes. The ghosts of live bands lingered in the ballroom, the vastness of the space left me in awe of all the mysteries it might hold. In the 90s by the time I hit the scene, the carpeted deck was a bit on the worn side. The faded umbrellas for patio furniture had also probably seen better days, but the pool, oh the pool was magnificent.

There was a level of freedom I experienced for the first time in my life there. The freedom of swimming, floating in a body of water, losing track of time. I swear I would just jump in and Mama would be waving from the fence to me and my brother that it was time to go. I’m sure hours had passed, but time didn’t really work the same in the water, it felt like seconds at best. For the swimmers amongst us, we know this all too well, because a sprint can be over in 20 seconds or less. And a swim clock only ticks through seconds never accumulating more than 60 before it starts over again. The hand gliding so smoothly, so quickly for the few seconds rest before you’re off again on the 25s. There was also freedom when Mama would drop us off at the pool and come back for us later. Time away from parental surveillance, a buzzing electricity of possibility at the snack bar window seeing what our coins could buy us. Slushies and long tongues of Laffy Taffy were our go-tos. There was also the freedom of imagination, whether diving for our pool toys resting on the tiles below the surface, sitting cross-legged and having a tea party down there, or simply hanging onto the side of the pool and looking at the lifeguards towering over and imagining their lives. These cool adults, tanned, muscled, donning red suits and sunglasses, a whistle hanging on a red cord around each guard’s neck. They were stoic sentinels on the stand, every once in a while whistling a quick sharp burst to tell a kid to walk on the deck. Or yelling instructions to kids to stop hanging on the lane lanes. But off the stands they would congregate in the shade laughing with one another. Completely transformed beyond their high towered perches, no longer burdened by the charge of keeping us all safe in the water. I loved looking at them.

And then I grew up a bit and became part of their ranks. The Coronado Club had an outdoor pool which was perfect for a New Mexico summer, but in the high desert the winter was rough enough to make swimming outside rather unpleasant. Nothing like here, in Minnesota, where an outdoor body of water changes form to ice. But cold enough nonetheless to inspire the popping up of a dome over the pool so that the amenities could still be accessed by the air force base residents and employees of the national labs on base, which is how our family accessed the pool. It was under the dome where I interviewed with the Head Guard to discuss joining the crew of lifeguards for the following summer. In the chlorinated humidity, it was also where I experienced my first instance of workplace sexual harassment. Where the Head Guard appraised my appearance, took stock of my body and lewdly suggested that my 16 year old self would be nice to look at all summer by him and the patrons coming to spend time at the pool. I laughed uncomfortably knowing I had not yet been hired. All these years later I still blame myself for wearing that tight denim dress. As if wearing that dress invited him to comment on my body. As if not wearing that dress would have protected me.

Dressing my body was a constant struggle and negotiation between myself and my Mama. I know it was done out of love and a desire to protect me, but at the time it felt like unbearable and unnecessary control. I wanted to express myself through my clothes and so much of my desire to wear particular styles or to look a particular way did not pass Mama’s vibe check. She wouldn’t even say no, just emit the guttural um em to signify no as I tried on clothes while shopping with her. Even making my own money and having limited freedom to go to the mall with friends would result in me having to return purchases. Mama didn’t want me looking like a whore. As someone not even remotely interested in sex work at the time I couldn’t fathom how thin the line was for her between appropriately dressed and asking for trouble. Skirts and shorts had to be a particular length which was rough growing up in the 90s where showing one’s bra under one’s spaghetti strap tank was fashion. I wasn’t allowed to wear a bikini, midriffs were a no go for sure. And in the midst of not having the choice to bare my bod in safe and body positive ways I, along with most of us socialized as young girls and women often do, began to have shame about body parts that never saw the light of day. This confluence of control about what I was able to wear and never having the opportunity to wear a crop top meant I had negative thoughts about my own ability to even pull such a thing off if ever given the chance. Around 17 or 18 my mom finally authorized the purchase of a sporty Speedo two piece bathing suit. The top was in a sports bra style, racer back, the bottoms— full coverage briefs. I liked wearing it under a drag suit (not to be confused with the increasingly popular and also increasingly maligned performance art by the same name) and would relish the feeling of the cool pool water on my stomach when I’d bravely strip off my top suit at the end of practice to float and cool down. I also remember running right for my towel when I’d get out of the pool and onto the deck, worried about who might see my exposed midriff and what they would surely think about my fat stomach. (Dear reader, my stomach was the flattest it’s ever been.)

And even if it was fat, what harm would come from anyone laying eyes on that part of me? What if my Mama’s shame wouldn’t have been mapped onto my body? What if I could have been like the little girls freely splashing in the kiddie pool who I'd come to teach in swim lessons later, feeling free and comfortable in their two piece suits before they could talk? Doubtful that all my body image problems be solved by that one change in the timeline, but surely something good could have come out of it. I don’t hold this against my Mama but rather the world we live in which sexualizes girls and women’s bodies in all clothes. And oh what a journey I’ve been on with this vessel, to get to the point where I am freer that I’ve ever felt in this body, getting to dress this body however I wish. Getting to love instead of disown or shame my body for existing as it is. I relish the opportunity to recognize the ways that my body shifts and changes over time and instead of bemoaning it, I'm finding ways to embrace and be grateful for it.

There were brief moments here or there when my stomach would see the light of the sun. Like when it was so unbearably hot during cross country practice and we would strip off our shirts and tuck them into our shorts. Tails flapping behind us with every step as we initiated our personal air conditioning by running through hot, dry air allowing our sweat to cool us. Of course running as teens in sports bras again, was an invitation to others around us to gawk, honk and comment. High school champion athletes enduring cat calls from passing vehicles; we feigned safety because there were many of us. Though none of us safe from the psychological reminder that to be runners in public meant our bodies were open for comment. As I’ve entered my current decade I am finally at a place where as long as I’m not in front of my parents I can calmly and with confidence share my midriff with the sun. I can wear pants ripped to shreds if I want. I no longer run for my towel to cover my body if I’m in a two piece, or sometimes topless in the comfort of our rural estate. I don’t overtly sexualize my body and I demand others don’t either. I turn comments back onto those voicing negative opinions, refusing to carry the burden of their shame or their desire to control others’ bodies.

I can’t say I’m 100% there yet, when I don crop tops I pair them with high waisted pants. Or sometimes find myself tugging the shirt down or the pants up to close the gap between. But the more I move toward the discomfort, the more my nervous system knows the sky won’t fall because I showed my stomach off at the super market today. Sheer shirts, mesh tops, crops, are all part of my body’s queer lexicon and help me feel the most aligned in my gender identity and presentation. I’ve worked hard to reconcile my own fatphobia to get there. I am continuing to learn how to brush off the voices that have and continue to judge my body at all its sizes. My nervous system is so delicate, so fraught, so tired, I need not be a part of what stresses me. Body love and gratitude feels like a warm hug I can give to myself. The self-hate sickens me, amplifies my chronic pain, kicks me into a spiral of panic and dismay. I’m refusing to do that to myself anymore, lessening the harm as I catch myself thinking negative thoughts about my body. Crop tops, tying my button ups, shorts, tank tops, swim suits… can put me into this state, so I embrace it now instead of fear it. Having access to being fully embodied is necessary for my creative practice. Being as embodied as I can has required me to show up differently for my body. I am the lifeguard constantly surveilling, not my body, but rather the thoughts that emerge about it. I am the lifeguard whistling to interrupt the negative thoughts. I am the lifeguard calmly watching to make sure I am not in need of a rescue from myself.

Vaimo didn’t grow up learning to swim with a lifeguard keeping watch, wearing sunscreen, or even going to the pool. I’ve been instructing her on how to apply sunscreen like lifeguards do, rubbing lotion under straps, moving fabric aside to ensure if any part of the suit moves the skin won’t be burned. My fair skinned and red-haired friend HM taught me best on how to ensure she wouldn’t get burnt by the searing New Mexican sun on the stand. I like to believe we chose each other as sunscreen pals because we both knew the other could be trusted to do the job right. The physical distance between me and the Coronado Club is vast. But the psychic distance of the Coronado Club is intertwined in my being. The memories of that place are embedded with my coming of age, first loves, navigating teen years of yearning for more, pushing and fighting against the confines of rules that did and didn’t make sense all at the same time...learning, growing, coaching, caring, swimming. So many many lessons there for me to continue to unwind. All that from sunscreen…each and every time.

Artist Offerings

Safe passage to our new femme ancestor who transitioned last week, read about the legend Minnie Bruce Pratt as honored by Julie R. Enszer

Creative Ritual

Lots of behind the scenes art business administration happening this summer. I have finalized with the Art and Culture Department of CLUES the opening for my show Off the Rails featuring some of the paintings from my Roots series to be held August 17th 6-9pm save the date!. I am so excited to exhibit the work in St. Paul, MN and am working with staff to connect the Mexican immigrant stories of my ancestors to Kansas to the stories of those creating roots in Minnesota. I'm also officially on the roster of Artist Career Consultants for Springboard for the Arts. Book a session with me for your dreaming and scheming pleasure, Minnesota-based artists get at least one session free per year to meet with any ACC! In the studio, I've been making slow and steady progress on my next quilted interior painting. Small works remain available in my online shop. Works also for sale at Calendula Gallery in St. Paul with events happening there all the time, don't miss out! Also, you can join me in Matfield Green, KS September 9th. I'm excited to share that I've been working with folks to also host a picnic to follow my talk to honor and celebrate the 100 year anniversary of the bunkhouse! Painting, writing, and living the artist life during this glorious Minnesota summer, I hope you too are finding reasons to apply sunscreen if you're in the northern hemisphere. 

Questions to ponder

What smells can transport you somewhere else? 
What might your internal lifeguard be watching for you? 
When have you felt most free? 
What associations emerge when you think of bodies of water, pools or otherwise? 

Thanks for journeying with me. I hope, as always, that you take what you need and leave the rest for someone else, or for another time. 

-KCF

The Art of KCF Newsletter is a fiscal year 2023 recipient of a Creative Support for Individuals grant from the Minnesota State Arts Board. This activity is made possible by the voters of Minnesota through a grant from the Minnesota State Arts Board, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund.