It’s a wonderful story. Here’s the intro:
At age six, I ran away with my sister to escape the Rwandan massacre. We spent seven years as refugees. What do you want me to do about it? Cry?
It’s all about luck:
After a few months, Claire broke down — of course she did. This life wasn’t going to lead anywhere anyway, and marriage (however personally problematic) was a lottery ticket out.
Her sister got married to get a chance to live a better life, aka she was attractive enough to have someone take care of her.
I don’t mean to be rude or judgmental or anything. It’s just survival. But it says something though: we’re bodies too. We’re bodies first, despite the intellectual tendency to make believe that mind and soul are independent from the envelope.
Ta-nehisi Coates has a book coming out focusing on the pain inflicted to black bodies. Look at how much bodies are important and determine so much: Clemantine and her sister are gorgeous and that’s what made them escape a probably terrible future. I was a cute baby, probably not screaming too much and people, multiple people wanted to save my orphan ass. I remember being struck reading about Simone Veil, a great and beloved French minister who survived Auschwitz and who said a bit annoyed by all the praise she got for surviving: “you know, I didn’t do anything. I was a kid. A beautiful little girl and that’s what saved me.”
The body. What women spend so much time and money to paint in the morning. The body, taller on heels which creates all kinds of social behaviors. Our abundant society that makes lean bodies more attractive than plump ones. The body, photoshopped in every single ad, that we still try to match regardless. The body, that trans people are not happy with because it doesn’t connect with who they are. How come smart and public people are pretty much always good-looking if not drop dead beautiful or handsome?
The body might not be everything. But it’s a lot.