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I would draw myself naked in more ways than one. I would begin with a pencil outline; rounded head, bulky arms, wide hips, and heavy thighs. Next, I’d blend a skin tone; a dark one very much like warm honey on a summer day. Then it would start to look like me.

Next would be the hair; it would have to be short and sweet. I would use quarter of the pencil for jet-black hair. Then I’ll begin to draw the eyes, almond eyes in a dark shade of brown; the left slightly bigger than the right. Then it would start to be me. I’ll pause to add a tear to each eye for all the times I’ve cried over a love that has never been.

Next would be the nose and the lips. I would draw the lips in a sinful shade of coral to remember how language can be so powerful but can divide at the same time. Then she’ll start to be me.

Next I would draw the shoulders; broad ones to remember times of courage in the center of adversity. Then I would draw the hands and the fingers. These would have to be tapered with short nails. For in my entire life, I could never grow my nails long enough.

Next would be the breasts. This is where it would start to hurt. For one day, a man I loved dared to measure my worth based on the cup size I wore. I would draw them big and rounded to remember the times I was proud of being a woman. I would draw them big and rounded to remember that I would always have the power of sustaining life.

Next would be the belly button. I would draw it big and rounded with a mother’s face in the center to remember that mothers sprang forth from mothers themselves. To remember that women were born out of the bond of shared dreams and experiences.

Next would be the genitals. I would use rapid light strokes to celebrate womanhood, sexuality and individuality. I would use quick strokes to remember that I was once powerless in a city bright with people.  Then it would really start to hurt. I would use brisk strokes to remember a daybreak which would forever be my Vietnam. To remember that it should have been easy like what society taught us but was not easy enough. I would use gentle strokes to remember that someday life will spring forth from me.

Next would be the thighs and the legs. Here I would use quick, heavy strokes to remember the times they carried me to places I’ve never been.

Next would be the feet. I would draw them in a bright shade of scarlet. For all the times that I ran when nothing else matters but losing rejection and gaining acceptance. For all the times I pedaled on the bicycle when nothing else matters but having small thighs. I would use light strokes to illuminate their gracefulness and remember the times I danced the tango with this boy when nothing else mattered but one-two-three-and-four-five-six-seven-and eight.

Then I would frame it and hang it in a place I would pass at least once a day. I would look at it and admit that parts of me are beautiful. I would look at it and remember. And then somehow, it would make me whole again. I would look at it and remember that I am indeed beautiful.