Naked Little Sisters

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Naked Little Sisters




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One of my goals as a mother has been to teach my children to be comfortable with their bodies. It was easy when they were little. They saw no need to lock bathroom doors or hide while they were changing. Clothes were nothing more than an obstacle to their play that they would seize any opportunity to slip out of. And I let them.
Whether we were in the house, in the backyard, or even the park, my kids were the ones running about with no shoes, no shirts, and no sermons (from me). My approval didn’t stop other parents from shaking their heads or clucking their tongues, but their contempt was not noticed by my children or internalized by me. As long as my kids were within my eyesight and were wearing some sort of bottom covering, we were doing just fine.
Things changed as they got older. By the time my boys were 8 and 6, they were locking bathroom doors and making sure to always wear shirts, even in the backyard. And I let them. Because, although it saddened me a bit to see how quickly societal norms had squelched their free spirits, ultimately what I wanted them to learn was that they were in charge of their bodies. And if, for whatever reason, they wanted to keep them completely covered, that was their choice, too.
Then my daughter came along. Like her brothers before her, she was happiest when she was barefooted and naked-bellied. Unlike them, however, she didn’t outgrow it… at least not yet. She will be 7 next week and I still have to remind her that she NEEDS to wear a shirt for school. Her favorite thing is to roll around in the grass with nothing more than underwear—which she wears begrudgingly. She says the world feels more real when she can feel it with all of her skin and that being naked(ish) is like being a “wild, free fairy.”
And so I let her. Certainly she needs to wear clothes at school and when we’re out in the world, but at home, in our backyard, she is free to dress in a way that makes her feel comfortable.
The problem is that her comfort has been making my 10-year-old son uncomfortable. Yesterday my daughter came downstairs in her underwear and sat down to eat breakfast. My son’s eyes narrowed and his shoulders tensed up.
“Make her put clothes on, Mom. She’s too old. It’s gross! I can’t eat with her next to me like that.”
I told him that he could sit somewhere else if he wanted to and tried to change the subject to something less contentious. As my daughter and I chatted about an upcoming trip, I noticed that my son had grown quiet. His eyes glistened with the tears he was trying desperately to hold back. I came closer and put my hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it away.
“She’s too old to be naked all the time. It makes me uncomfortable. Please make her get dressed.”
My daughter’s fiery temper immediately kicked in. “I can dress however I want! It’s my body!”
He was sad and she was angry and I was unsure as to how to handle the situation. I let him take his bagel into the living room while I thought it through some more.
The thing is, I want my son to feel good at home. He’s a shy, sensitive kid and he really values having a place where he can be comfortable. Part of me wanted to just insist that my daughter start wearing clothes outside of her bedroom. But then I thought about what it’s like to be a teenage girl, and a young woman… and even a middle-aged one. About how we are hit with a constant barrage of expectations and judgments about how we should look and talk and dress.
Yes, my son was uncomfortable with how his sister was dressed, and yes, his discomfort makes me sad, but he won’t be the last man to feel that way. One day, there will be an older man on a train who believes her shirt is too revealing, a boyfriend who thinks her dress is too frumpy, and a predator who finds her jeans too tempting. People will recoil from the fire in her eyes and the knots in her hair and the passion in her voice. They will move away from her loud laughter and quick tears and sporadic leaps of joy.
And that will be their choice. Just as it was my son’s choice to eat breakfast in the other room. But if I start telling my daughter now that her brother has the right to choose what clothes she wears, what will be the next right that she relinquishes to an uncomfortable male?
I had a long talk with my son after breakfast. We talked about how sometimes I let him wear shorts on days that I’m wearing a down coat because it’s his body and he experiences things differently than I do. I told him that it’s important to respect other people’s clothing choices, even if he doesn’t always understand them. I reminded him about the time he saw me being cat-called by a man using vulgar words and how badly that made me feel.
“It’s not the same, Mom. That guy liked that you were wearing a short skirt. I hate when my sister doesn’t wear enough clothes.”
He’s right. It’s not the same. And yet, on some level, it is. They’re both judgments made on a female’s choice of clothes. Once girls begin to internalize those voices, they often lose their own.
My daughter will continue to dress in her underwear for breakfast if she feels like it. And no one will say a damn thing about it. Because I won’t let them.
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Melinda Matthews



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Melinda Matthews
Apr 16, 2018 7:07pm


Melinda Matthews
Apr 16, 2018 7:09pm


Melinda Matthews
Apr 16, 2018 7:05pm

The room is dim and grainy, littered with pill bottles, cluttered with magazines and reams of hospital paperwork. One bare-bulbed lamp provides our only source of light. I feel trapped inside a fetid, stagnant cave where stacks of books rise up and cobwebby filaments filter down as substitute stalagmites and stalactites.
My sister lies in her king-sized bed, as close to the edge as possible so the ordeal of swinging her legs around to sit upright is minimized. Her shrunken frame is practically swallowed up under the comforter and the five pillows propped around her.
She squirms, unable to find a comfortable position despite my multiple attempts to rearrange the pillows. She finally sighs exhaustedly, “I can’t stand the way my t-shirt keeps bunching up behind my back.”
“So take it off,” I reply, somewhat cheekily. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before.”
She ignores my attempt at light-heartedness, but allows me to help her remove her shirt. I stifle a shocked gasp when I see her body.
She’s skeletal, her hard-edged bones a sharp and startling counterpoint to the soft, loose folds of skin hanging like curtains from her arms and legs. Her thighs are the size of my calves.
I’m grateful for the semi-darkness that conceals my reaction, for her fogged illness that blurs her awareness.
“Wow,” I say, forcing myself to keep my tone light. “You need to start eating more, girl.”
She’s finally found an acceptable position on her back with three pillows behind her head, one tucked into her left side, and one propped under her knees.
I flip off the light and join her in the bed. The clammy stillness in the room presses down on my chest oppressively. I’m hot, sweaty, and tightly coiled. I want to run, flee, claw at my mental and physical constraints.
“A show of solidarity,” I joke to my sister, but I feel lighter and freer having shed at least one small constricting layer.
We lay side-by-side on our backs. I watch the rise and fall of her belly, thick and swollen with disease. It’s the only part of her body that’s remotely similar to mine these days. But while her bloat is the result of the war raging in her body, mine is due to menopause, a slowing metabolism, a thyroid gone haywire, and (I confess) a few too many cookies.
Even at this stage in our lives, we’re as alike yet as different as can be, my sister and me.
For our entire lives, we’ve traveled similar but disparate paths, beginning with shared childhood experiences that skewed our outlooks and distorted our perspectives.
While I can’t speak for my sister, judging from her lifelong actions, she, like me, has diverted way too much energy into seeking deliverance from the past. Our coping mechanisms, like everything else about us, have been twisted reflections of each other: our darkness and light, defiance and submission, courage and fear intertwined.
Tonight, as we lie together naked in her bed, I feel closer than ever to understanding my sister’s choices, her multi-faceted complexities. My newfound awareness is wordless, wrapped up in bare skin and stripped emotions.
I spend the night sleeping fitfully, constantly listening for the stop-start pattern of my sister’s ragged, irregular breathing, a mirror to the sputtering of my own worried heart.
And occasionally I reach out to touch my sister’s hand. I feel for her warmth, her essence—and reassurance that she hasn’t left me.
My sister succumbed to her illness on February 20, 2017, three months after I wrote this. Today marks a year since she died.
Author: Melinda Matthews
Image: Author’s Own
Editor: Catherine Monkman
Oh my….what a special piece. Thank you for sharing with us. My heart is full…and heavy…and grateful.
Thank you. I originally wrote this piece on my phone during the flight home from this visit. When the moments are that indelible, the words come pouring out.
Karen Shanley said it best, “my heart is full and heavy, and grateful.” Your voice is very good. I had a young mother, and watched her die. It’s been 31 years. You’re an inspiration. Thank you.
I’m sorry you lost your mother so young and that you had to witness it. It had to have shaped your life in countless ways. Thank you for reading and sharing.
I know what it’s like to lose a sister to a disease(hers was Cancer)..left a large hole in my heart..I was close to her and loved her more than words can say…still do…she left us in ’04….still get emotional on her birthday and on Christmas eve(when she passed)…..stay strong!! your love for your sister will carry you through as it has for me
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