Belonging in the Body

The lawns were crusted in silver frost when my mother and I left the house to go power-walking at five in the morning. We crunched across people’s front lawns, leaving footprints upon the grass. She walked hard and fast, as if using her body to smash glass. She pummelled the chilled darkness, leading with her skull, her fists pumping like machinery. The route that took us up town was my favourite. We streamed along the glowing ribbon of shop windows on Tutanekai Street in Rotorua. She wanted to transform her body in the darkness. I loved her, and joined her there.

I grew up with women, mostly single working mums, who performed never-ending tasks to make safe and happy homes for their kids. But these women could not or would not be at home in their bodies. They were always trying to change their bodies, because health and happiness were things you found within the lines of a thin body. And that kind of body, that kind of happiness, had to be fought for.

I remember two types of Sunday afternoon as a kid. One had me and my little sister Kylie holed up in our bedroom for hours playing . Every