Unbound

I was 8 years old and ran into the kitchen where my mother was cooking.  My feet were cramping in exquisite pain.  “Take those off right now!” ordered my mother. 

My feet had been bound for the first time.  My toes were squished together, my feet having lost a third of its length.  My grandmother had wrapped my feet in bandages.  “Your feet are getting so large,” she exclaimed.  “Just like a man’s feet.  So ugly!”  Some of my schoolmates had their feet bound, and they complained bitterly of the pain.  Most had begun with the binding years ago, younger than I was when grandmother first got a hold of me.  My mother knew what going on, but was powerless to say anything as grandmother held the power in the family.

When my mother told me to take the bindings off she told me that from then on when I was near my grandmother, that I was to slow down and move very slowly.  “Her eyes are failing her now and she won’t be able to tell whether or not your feet are bound.”  And so I tried to do so whenever I was close to her.  I can’t imagine now how she didn’t know, but I never had to have my feet bound again.  Maybe my father intervened in some way. 

When Mao Tse Tung and the communists took over, foot binding was made illegal.  I may disagree with many of their practices, but I wholehearted agree with having foot binding banished. 

Listening to my mother tell this story turned my stomach.  Apparently this practice was instituted to increase women’s perceived attractiveness and enhanced their chances of marrying up in class.  As barbaric as foot binding may seem nowadays, I wonder how many other similar cultural practices to painfully enhance one’s sense of physical beauty still exist today in our society.