Does My Body Offend You?

My body is a gift from my parents. The temple of my soul, my mind, my heart. My body is pride a portrait of my land, a love song. My body is not yours to judge. It is not yours to decide. Not yours to criticize. It's mine, mine alone, and no one else's.

I can’t go to school like this,” I protest, waving my hands in front of my bare chest in an exaggerated gesture. “They’re just breasts, Malena. Everyone has them.

These are the bodies we were born into. The bodies given to us by our mamis and our abuelas. What is so wrong with these bodies?

Mi cuerpo es un regalo de mis padres. El templo de mi alma, mi mente, mi corazón. Mi cuerpo es orgullo, un retrato de mi tierra, una canción de amor. Mi cuerpo no es tuyo para juzgar. No es tuyo para decidir. Ni tuyo para criticar. Es mío, solo mío, y de nadie más.

I want to hurl the question at Dr. Hardaway. At Doris the secretary. At Nurse Hopkins. And at every other woman who’s ever made me feel like there’s something wrong with me because of the shape of my body. They should know better. “It’s perfect,” I reply.