Interpreting Modesty Culture as a Burn Survivor

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.