Interpreting Modesty
Culture as a Burn Survivor
I grew up in a very conservative environment: independent,
fundamental Baptist churches (and don’t you forget it!), Christian schools,
church camps, and mission trips. As a young female desperately trying to be a
good Christian girl, I could spout modesty rules and truths that had been
ingrained from attending summer camps in sweltering Louisiana where culottes were
the fashion, from mission trips where denim skirts were next to godliness, and
from watching modelesque girls in cardigans being lifted up as paradigms of
morality. I knew that girls (we were never called women, always girls or young
ladies) had to cover the three Bs (boobs, bellies, and butts) because men
(always men, never boys) could not help themselves. They would lust, and it
would be our faults. I did not want to be a licked cupcake or a chewed piece of
gum, so I strove to cover, cover, cover because I did not want to cheat my
future husband by having another lust after me. After all, if a male found me
attractive, it was that same as if I had slept with him. These were the lessons
I was taught from childhood before I could understand what lust and sex were.
The summer before high school on my way to attend a
Christian camp, I was in a tragic accident. Four innocent teens died, and I was
left severely injured. Battery acid burns covered my left hand, chest, and
stomach. Fast forward a few months, I’m mostly healed (physically, at least),
but my breasts are badly scarred. If I wear a shirt which fits the definition
of modesty: no cleavage, my scars may still be visible. People will stare
because that is what people do: they stare at deformities. It didn’t help that
I’ve had C-cups since middle school. I was taught that it was sinful for me to
have people, especially those with a penis, stare at my breasts. Now, I cannot
escape it.
I felt ugly because of my scars. I mastered layering clothes
in order to hide my scars. I would cover my left hand in a jacket or hiding it
behind my back. In the middle of high school, I had an epiphany. If I was so
ugly and scarred, I did not have to worry about being modest. Since modesty is
based on a how a man finds a girl attractive (note the use of “man” and “girl”),
I was in the clear because no man would find me attractive.
This went beyond just my scars. In American culture, breasts
are highly sexualized. For many people, breasts serve only to titillate men.
(As someone who breastfeed a child, breasts are not purely sexual. There is not
nothing sexy about engorgement and sore, bleeding nipples.) As a female, I was
supposed to find my sexiness in my curves (then, hide the sexiness because, you
know, men can’t help themselves). With my scarred breasts, I just knew that no
man would ever find me attractive. I didn’t have to worry about being lusted
after (because lust and finding someone attractive are the same thing, right,
conservative Christians?) I was shamed for having breasts and shamed again for
having scarred breasts. This led to a rebellion of wearing cleavage-happy
shirts. I just swung from an extreme of being objectified and forced to cover
to objectifying myself and being uncovered. Neither extreme was healthy.
Modesty culture was incredibly harmful to me as a burn
survivor. It taught me that I was worthless and ugly because it based my
attractiveness on men’s perspective. Because my breasts were considered sexual “stumbling
blocks” (I hate that term), once they were scarred, I had no sexuality, no attractiveness,
no prettiness. I was floundering in a conundrum: I shouldn’t invite men to
stare at my breasts because I would be sinning; however, no man would want me
because my breasts were ugly.
Two ideas freed me from insecurity-driven anxiety (which
came from fearing men would lust after my breasts and from fearing people
staring at my scars). 1) My scars symbolize strength. I am a badass. I am
tough. My scars tell a story. Go ahead, ask me about them. They will tell you I
survived, through the grace of God, extreme suffering and difficult trials. 2)
I am not responsible for other people’s morality. A man lusting after me,
especially when I was underage, is not my problem. He is responsible for his
thoughts and his actions. (Obviously, I try to dress appropriate for the
occasion. I don’t wear bikinis to church.) I can’t live my life in constant
fear that I am a “stumbling block” (a term I believe has been misinterpreted,
but that’s another post for another time). It was a painful journey to get to
where I am now, confident and at peace.
