Normally people find term papers to be quite the bore. Normally people find a biography assignment to be tedious and uninteresting. Normally people find 560 pages of said biography to be daunting and just plain wrong. Normally. I think I've proven myself enough to say that I'm not very normal.
The Secret Life of Marilyn Monroe by J. Randy Taraborrelli was my personal choice for our "American Influences" term paper for my history class. It was either her or Ernest Hemmingway. I was beat to punch for the famous writer and left with Marilyn.
It sounds like I didn't much care about the woman. That wouldn't be true. Sure, I never paid much mind to her, really. I'm no fanatic. I recognized her beauty and her permanent place in the entertainment hall of fame but that was mostly it. However, realizing the influence she still seemed to hold when I watched a recent Chanel No. 5 commercial, I thought it could be worth while to unveil what was behind those bedroom eyes and that platinum hair.
Chanel No. 5 Commercial feat. Marilyn Monroe:
I, of course, wasn't completely aloof when it came to Marilyn. Most know that she had a troublesome life as so many other stars of her day (and, I guess, of any day) had lived. She sparked my interest. Being the investigative spirit that I am I felt that flicker of curiosity; What made this "mortal goddess" who she was?
I found out not only who she was, where she came from, what she dealt with but also I learned a lot about myself, society and culture within the biography of her life.
photo by Milton Greene
She remains very misunderstood to this day. I was shocked by a post I saw on Facebook one day that was discussing Marilyn Monroe and her body image. The photo at the top of the post was of her, lying in bed, tangled in sheets, exposing much of her body to the camera. She was curvaceous; very curvaceous. I could only guess it was a photo taken during the years when she was at a normal, more healthy weight. She, indeed, was not fat, but rather quite voluptuous in the photo. And the comments were practically endless. The main point of the post was to show how Marilyn, known to be one of the most physically attractive women to have lived under the scrutiny of the public's judgmental eye, was not "skinny" or "boney" or "depraved looking" as we commonly assess the ideal female form today in the media. However, rather than the commentary being about how beautiful she was, even being so rounded, it focused much more on her sex life and how "overweight" she was. Commentators screamed "slut," "whore," "ugly," "fat," and how much they wouldn't "do" her. Of course there were some who still stuck to Miss Monroe's side, saying that she was beautiful no matter what, and no one could argue with that fact; or that even though times had changed both body types were still beautiful and every woman was different.
But what I saw to be a recurring theme was the complete underestimation of her for who she was. To probably 97% of the people (either for or against her) she was simply the blonde movie star sex symbol of the 50s who still seemed to be famous because of the way she looked and acted. They weren't even remotely concerned with the fact that the woman they were arguing over wasn't even real.
Norma Jean Baker was living inside the body of the figment and persona that was Marilyn Monroe. Norma Jean was a trembling little foster girl, with cobalt eyes and auburn hair, always searching for a place to belong and always struggling to keep the voices out of her head. She was constantly being suffocated by the pressure that Marilyn drove her under. She was always alive but barely. The two women battled for the rights to the same body. The world would see Marilyn: sex symbol, goddess of the screen. Norma Jean would take over behind the scenes, guzzling bottles of pills to muffle out the incessant noise in her hear and to make her mood match the smile her duel self always seemed to portray. Both women were struggling for existence, yet they both had different reasons to push on. One would survive for herself, the other would survive for the world. Both would crumble under the loss of a mind too overwhelmed. The beauty was never enough, the attention was never enough, the love was never enough, the fame was never enough; it was all utterly futile. She had dreamed from the start of a place to belong. She dreamed of being loved because she never really had much of it to begin with.
Another photo by Milton Greene, May 1956
Having a mentally disabled mother and no true father, Norma Jean would seek acceptance anywhere she could find it. As a young girl she learned to utilize any asset she had to gain attention. It began with tantrums which didn't last too long (however, control over her emotions would always be a major factor in her life) and, when she realized that wasn't really working, soon it grew to deception and cunning. She realized she could use her beauty and mix in a learned charm to grab hold of people and make them listen; make them pay attention. This would be the spark that would ignite the fire of a big dream. She watched Jean Harlow on the silver screen in wonder. She was locked in on her along with so many others. This one woman was seemingly loved by all. She wanted that. She craved that. She had to have that.
So began a journey into stardom for Norma Jean, soon to be renamed Marilyn Monroe before signing with 20th Century Fox. The two women would work hard to earn respect in their field of work and would eventually gain it after a long period of time. The hindrances would seem to have no affect, yet little by little, Marilyn and Norma Jean would be eaten alive.
Like the Facebook conversations that left my faith in humanity hanging by a string, society would take Marilyn as a surface player, making her who they wanted her to be, or never really understanding her. But, who's to say Marilyn wanted the world to know Norma? She had worked so hard at building up this creature of utter charm and physical divinity, why would she want anyone to know the feeble and frail being that existed underneath her skin?
You cannot hide who you really are. You can make a mask and wear it all you want but no matter what you will always be the person you were born as. You can throw a sheet over yourself, beat that person to a pulp and leave them there to bleed in order to be someone you think people would much rather know but the truth is that who you are never really dies.
We are human and we are imperfect and we are born as such. We lie, cheat, sin. We indulge, self-idolize, and blurr the lines. We are a depraved people. We are in need. We cannot find a perfect love that exists here on this earth that we think will save us from ourselves. We are frail, we are feeble, and frankly we are without any worldly hope.
Norma Jean reassured me of the dire necessity of a savior. We can reach all we want, try to grasp at a perfection we cannot attain on our own but we are chained to a body that is sick. Sure, we can look like Marilyn on the outside. It's all fun, it's all happiness, it's all good. But the reality lies underneath and it is one we cannot escape.
So I cling to Jesus. So I hold on to the hope that rests in him. So I make my choice to live for him because it is hardly any life at all when separated from him. He makes me whole, he makes me new. I find I have a reason to live. I'm seeing life through unveiled eyes. I run this race, heaven bound. Nobody said it'd be easy, but He said it would be worth it.
I can only hope that when people look at me they'll see someone different. Not a Marilyn Monroe different; not someone whose body and appeal is adored. My body is simply a vessel for my soul; a soul which I pray will only radiate with the redeemer's love. And people will judge me. And they can call me names. It won't really matter in the end what people say, though. The only opinion I want to care about is God's. And yes, I'll get caught up in all the hubbub. It's hard not to. And I, myself, can never be perfect in the sight of God and I will make mistakes and I will falter. But I will always know that I am covered in the blood of the spotless lamb so that through him I am made holy and blameless. What a merciful love, what a merciful God, who would die for me while I was sinning against him. I can breathe. I can smile. I can look forward and beyond because I know that I do belong. My heart rests in that; my joy rests in Him.
The Mask
Charles Baudelaire
Let us gaze at this gem of Florentine beauty;
In the undulation of this brawny body
Those divine sisters, Gracefulness and Strength, abound.
This woman, a truly miraculous marble,
Adorably slender, divinely robust,
Is made to be enthroned upon sumptuous beds
And to charm the leisure of a Pope or a Prince.
— And see that smile, voluptuous and delicate,
Where self-conceit displays its ecstasy;
That sly, lingering look, mocking and languorous;
That dainty face, framed in a veil of gauze,
Whose every feature says, with a triumphant air:
"Pleasure calls me and Love gives me a crown!"
To that being endowed with so much majesty
See what exciting charm is lent by prettiness!
Let us draw near, and walk around its loveliness.
O blasphemy of art! Fatal surprise!
That exquisite body, that promise of delight,
At the top turns into a two-headed monster!
Why no! it's but a mask, a lying ornament,
That visage enlivened by a dainty grimace,
And look, here is, atrociously shriveled,
The real, true head, the sincere countenance
Reversed and hidden by the lying face.
Poor glamorous beauty! the magnificent stream
Of your tears flows into my anguished heart;
Your falsehood makes me drunk and my soul slakes its thirst
At the flood from your eyes, which Suffering causes!
— But why is she weeping? She, the perfect beauty,
Who could put at her feet the conquered human race,
What secret malady gnaws at those sturdy flanks?
— She is weeping, fool, because she has lived!
And because she lives! But what she deplores
Most, what makes her shudder down to her knees,
Is that tomorrow, alas! she will still have to live!
Tomorrow, after tomorrow, always! — like us!
