Beauty, Disrupted

by Carre Otis

  “Whatever the case, what I have on obviously doesn’t fit. Shall we try to see what does, or should I just get on the next plane home?” My anger was rising. I was furious, after all the years and all the dues paid, to be in a fitting where I was treated like a newcomer or a twelve-year-old. I wasn’t up for being belittled.

  The stylist continued to huff and sigh her way through clothing options as outfit after outfit proved to be too snug. She was obviously upset, and I was, too—less because of the size than because of the way I was being treated. Finally we decided on several colorful bikinis, a wrap dress, and a few sarongs.

  “If we have to, we’ll just shoot close-ups,” the stylist muttered under her breath, piling extra hats and oversize sunglasses into the bag.

  Needless to say, by the time we started the shoot, I felt less than fabulous. The day went from bad to worse, and again my self-esteem was challenged. I knew I was recovering, but I still had my triggers. Being on a shoot and having it made evident that my size was unacceptable was definitely one of them.

  “Carré, can you angle your hips to the side?” the photographer yelled to me over the waves crashing between us. I angled them and tried to deliver a natural smile. He scratched his head. “How about lifting the sarong just in front of your hips?” he tried again. And I did just that, angling and hiding myself as best I could. I wanted to cry. I wanted to throw the fucking sarong at him and walk away.

  He lowered his camera and turned to the stylist, saying something I couldn’t hear. I was done. I couldn’t take any more.

  Boldly, I walked over to him and simply said, “Hey, if this isn’t working for you, let’s call it a day. No one needs to be this uncomfortable.” I looked him in the eye. I’d been doing this too long to pretend that everything was okay. “If you’re not happy, just say it. Let’s not go crazy trying to make it work if it’s not gonna happen.” I waited.

  “No, no.” He shook his head. “You’re great, Carré. Let’s just try something else. . . . Um . . . how about some head shots under the tree in the shade. Okay?” I wished he could just have left it alone. I wished I could walk away.

  We worked for a while longer, and then as the sun began to set, much to my relief, we called it a day at last. I needed to get Jeffrey on the phone. I needed some support. As I walked back toward the hotel, I stopped in the lobby and ran into an old photographer friend of mine.

  “Hi, Pamela!” I said, grabbing her by the shoulders and giving her a hug.

  “Carré! Great to see you! What are you doing here?” She looked me over quickly.

  “I’m working, Pam. And you?”

  She laughed and shrugged her shoulders. “I’m working, too, but I just got a call from another client that the girl they hired is too fat. They wanted to see if I had an extra model to lend them.” She looked around, and as I put two and two together, I casually asked her, “Who’s the client?”

  “O magazine. Why? Who are you working for?” she said, clearly not understanding.

  I looked her in the eye. “O magazine.”

  We both stood there in silence, staring at one another. And in an instant she realized her mistake.

  “Oh, God, Carré!” She quickly clamped a hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry! What an ass!”

  I shrugged and turned away. “Don’t worry about it, Pamela. Good luck.”

  I was crushed, but also pissed off. First of all, I wasn’t fat. Second of all, why couldn’t they have come to me and said something instead of sneaking around and making it uncomfortable for everyone? I was sick of it. Sick of being put in this position. Back in my room, I packed my bag and cried. Really wept. I just couldn’t keep it up anymore.

  The job was over, and it was their choice if they wanted to reshoot it all with a skinnier girl. I could no longer be what I wasn’t. I was done.

  Back in Malibu, Jeffrey called in to check on me. He had received a call from O informing him that they wouldn’t be running the pictures. They said I looked too heavy.

  “Are you fucking kidding me, Jeff? I mean, it’s O magazine! As in Oprah Winfrey! I mean, who are her readers? Isn’t it an older audience? It’s still me! They know me and my story. If they had wanted a seventeen-year-old or someone a size two, why did they bring me out there in the first place?” I was furious.

  “I know, Carré. It’s ridiculous,” Jeffrey responded. I knew he was as frustrated as I was.

  “I’m going to write her a letter. I mean, I need to tell her that she hired someone who calls a size-eight woman fat. That’s bullshit. And I’m sure that Oprah wouldn’t stand for it if she knew. She’s always been part of the solution, not part of the problem. How could this happen?” My anger was on the rise, but something interesting was happening simultaneously. I was exercising my voice. I had something to say about this. And I wasn’t going to let it go. Whether the incident was occurring on the tail of my nearly two-decade-long career and I’d just had enough or whether it was the sheer fact that I was just seeing why I’d put myself through hell on a twenty-year diet, I was livid and super motivated to do something about it.

  I followed through on what I’d said to Jeffrey. I wrote the letter to Oprah. And, in a way I had never done before in my entire life, I stood up and stood out. I told her what had happened and how I felt. I knew damn well I wasn’t the only woman or the only model to have dealt with this kind of hostility and judgment. But I was going to use whatever influence I had to address the issue for us all. I was prepared for the photos not to run. The last I’d heard from our contact at O, everything had been reshot with another model. Truthfully, I didn’t expect my letter to actually get to Oprah, nor did I expect to receive a response. But it was important for me to act, to take charge, to use my voice to be heard so as to help others.

  Much to my surprise, a few weeks later the phone rang and the voice on the other end asked, “Is Carré Otis available?”

  “Yes. Speaking,” I said.

  “I have Ms. Winfrey on the line for you. Hold one moment.”

  I gasped. I’d never imagined I would actually speak with her. I sat down, gathering my composure, recalling all the points in my letter that must have stood out.

  “Carré.” A booming voice sounded over the receiver. What a force; I felt it immediately.

  “Yes. Hello, Oprah. Thanks for getting back to me. I assume you’re calling regarding my letter.”

  “Well, I am. I wanted to clear up any confusion that you might have.” She got right to the point. “You said in your letter that someone on my staff said you were too fat on the shoot for us to run the pictures. Who in fact said that, Carré?”

  I tried to answer her questions just as directly. I told her that it was the stylist assigned to the shoot that day, and that the person who called to let us know that the photos would not be running had also implied that it was because I was too heavy. I took a breath and waited, then continued. I let her know that I found it hard to believe a woman with her history of battling weight would want only one body type in her magazine. That if anyone was willing to incorporate the shape of a real woman in a magazine surely it was her. Again, I waited and a silence hung heavy between us. I can only imagine that this news came as a big disappointment to her, too.

  “I think there has been some miscommunication here, Carré,” Oprah said.

  “Really?” I asked. I was clearly just beginning to air my long-held frustrations with the industry because I then proceeded to tell her that I thought it was very unfortunate that within this industry, if you exceed a certain age and size, that is grounds for termination. To me that’s discrimination. And of all the publications out there, I wished it hadn’t been hers. I knew I was challenging her, but why not? This mattered.

  There was a pause. “We will be running the pictures, Carré. And I do apologize for what happened. Obviously, I was unaware of what went on.” Oprah was brisk but sincere. She wished me the best as she ended the conversation.

  I was glad that O was going to run t
he pictures, but happier still to have the call from Oprah. The pictures were less important than being heard. What I felt best about was that Oprah had given me the opportunity to speak my piece. I’d found my voice and used it. Excitement percolated within me. From here on, I would be silent no more.

  NEPAL

  One summer afternoon in 2001, a small group of friends gathered at my home, and as we all laughed and joked, I overheard a tall blond woman say she was going on a trip to Nepal.

  “Really?” I asked. “What will you be doing there?”

  Nancy Rivard was an ex-model, six feet tall, and a genuine, kindhearted soul. I was impressed with her and even more impressed as she told her story. She ran a foundation that focused on bringing toys and other aid to kids around the world. She had worked with and been inspired by the celebrated doctor and clown Patch Adams and called her organization the International Toy Bank.

  I was struck by her work and drawn to the idea of traveling to Nepal. It was somewhere I had always dreamed of going. The Buddha himself had been born there, and I felt connected to Nepal in a deep, almost inexplicable way. Talking to Nancy, I realized how badly I wanted to go. I felt as if I had to go. And this seemed the perfect opportunity.

  Nancy and I plotted our journey and decided to team up with Airline Ambassadors, which was headed by a former flight attendant who used her connections with the airlines to deliver much-needed medical supplies to remote areas across the globe. Airline Ambassadors has been around for thirty-five years and still does amazing work.

  As I booked my tickets and packed my bags, I was beside myself with excitement. I had never traveled the world for myself. My trips had always been for jobs, and though I’d flown to some of the most amazing spots on the planet, rarely did I have the time to explore them beyond the airport and my hotel room. But now something in me was awakening to all that I might have missed. Surviving my heart surgery had opened me up to experiencing the world in ways I hadn’t quite experienced it before. For the first time, I really understood my own mortality; for the first time, I had a deep sense of spiritual purpose. I sensed that my further survival depended on embracing that purpose. And I knew that making this trip to Nepal was part of doing just that.

  After a layover at the airport hotel in Bangkok, I finally arrived in Kathmandu nearly two days after I’d departed LAX. Exhausted, I made my way through customs and out toward the smoggy and chaotic street to meet my driver. A young man wearing a bandanna waved a sign with my name on it, and as soon as I signaled that I was who he was looking for, he ran in my direction and grabbed my backpack.

  “Otis, Otis, this way, Ms. . . . Please . . . to the car. My car. Come, come.” He waved and smiled broadly. Happily, I followed along.

  “The group waits, Ms. Otis. For you. At the hotel.” The young man seemed unbearably excited, and in my daze I couldn’t help but laugh. I could barely understand a word he said but realized it didn’t matter at all. Like most Nepalese, he was unbelievably animated. That enthusiasm needed no translation.

  We zigzagged through the crowded streets, rushing ahead, then braking sharply as our car approached cows and trucks that randomly stopped in the middle of the road. The flow of traffic made no sense. Most pedestrians wore masks to protect them from the intolerable pollution. But through the late-afternoon haze, something in the distance caught my eye. I strained to see beyond the buildings around me. I gasped. Dominating the skyline, an enormous dome rose up, and the fading light captured it in a fiery glow. I pointed and patted my driver’s shoulder desperately. “What . . . what is that?” I cried.

  “Ah!” He smiled. “Boudhanath stupa!” And there it was. I had heard of it, dreamed of it, and seen pictures of it. I had been taught the symbolism of stupas; From above they look like a mandala, or a diagram of the Buddhist cosmos. They represent the enlightened, awakened mind and the path to realization. Each stupa is a spiritual monument that contains at the very least holy relics; merely gazing at one is said to bring wakefulness.

  And for some odd reason, I began to weep, overcome with emotion, relief, and a sense of security and ease. The sensation was similar to what I’d felt the first time I met my friend and teacher Tsultrim Allione. Everything was coming together and making sense. I was enveloped by the profound knowledge that I was exactly where I was supposed to be on my journey. I felt the certainty that had eluded me for so many years.

  As we passed through the crazy streets of Kathmandu, I felt as if I knew what would be around each corner. It was all strangely familiar to me—the faces, the smells, the clothing and colors. I was remembering something but couldn’t put my finger on it. It was like searching for that word that’s resting right on the tip of your tongue. It’s there, so close, just within reach. I looked around in awe.

  “You must stop at the stupa,” I begged my young driver, Raja. “I need to circumambulate it once!” He nodded in understanding. It is one of the great pilgrimage spots on this planet, with millions flocking to it every year from every faith and all walks of life. I, too, needed to express my gratitude.

  Raja stopped just outside the enormous square that housed the sacred site. I slipped out of the car and into the flow of foot traffic around the stupa. Walking shoulder to shoulder with Tibetan refugees of every age, I felt as if I were being swept up into a current and pulled along by an immense collective energy. As I moved clockwise, my right hand reached out to turn the countless prayer wheels that were embedded in the walls. A murmured chant droned beautifully and ceaselessly, like the trickle of a stream bubbling away: Om Mani Pedme Hung, the six-syllable mantra of the bodhisattva of compassion.

  Incense and the smell of butter lamps lit as offerings filled the air. In that last light of my first day in Kathmandu, I climbed up onto the great dome itself and sat, folding my legs under me, looking out at the ancient yet familiar city. The sounds, the songs, the language all coalesced, triggering again some faint memory within me. I was able to drop into samadhi, a quiet meditation holding me still, allowing me to open and dissolve.

  I found Raja waiting in the car in the same spot where he had dropped me off. He nodded and smiled. “Good, Otis? Ms.? Good?” he inquired.

  I grinned back. “Most excellent, Raja. Most excellent.”

  We laughed. There is an unspoken kinship with those on a spiritual path. In Nepal that path and that devotion are part of the fabric of everyday life. Whatever God you pray to, you’re connected with all those who walk a true spiritual journey. For me it has always resulted in the feeling of having an extended family.

  We made our way to the hotel in Thamel, a busy central section of the city. As I grabbed my backpack and slipped Raja a few American dollars, he smiled in thanks and ran toward the hotel doors to hold them open for me. I soon connected with my small group of dedicated travel companions, and that night they laid out the itinerary for the days to come.

  Our plan was to stay in Kathmandu for a day, then catch a flight out to Lukla. We would go by foot through the region, stopping with our donated supplies at various drop-off points throughout the Himalayas. As far as we knew, there were only small stations that served as primary-care centers. There were rarely local doctors in these remote areas and few if any clean supplies. The majority of our donations were basics, but as statistics have shown, the basics in deprived regions can save many lives.

  As we flew out of the polluted and busy capital and into the Himalayas, the change in scenery was marked. The vast expanses, sheer mountain drops, and wilderness of a kind I’d never seen before were awe-inspiring. Once we arrived in Lukla, I was able, despite my jet lag, to keep up with the group on the climb to Namche Bazaar. Namche is the main trading center in the Kumbhu region, sitting at an altitude of 11,286 feet. It is considered the gateway to the high Himalayas, and depending on the weather one can often glimpse Everest towering in the distance. We would be going higher still and would take a day in Namche Bazaar to acclimate to the altitude. Our final destination was going to be Tengboche Monas
tery. And as luck would have it, we were set to arrive there on the twenty-eighth of September. My thirty-third birthday.

  It’s not an exaggeration to say that every step of the way I felt blessed, joyous, eager, and alert. On one single-track trail that climbed alongside a throbbing river, I crossed one of the traditional hanging bridges and purposefully swayed side to side. The water raged in torrents beneath me, its roar deafening. Laughing, I looked up and to my amazement rested my eyes on the impressive Mount Everest through the parting clouds. It was breathtaking. I was reminded how tiny I was and how tiny my life was in comparison to the great expanse of nature surrounding me. There was a constant sense of surrender and peace as I walked along the craggy mountain trails. With each step I looked back at my life with a new perspective. It dawned on me how fixated we in the West are on ourselves. What was so important to me in the days before coming on this journey seemed so trivial now. As I began to laugh, Nancy gave me a gentle push from behind. “What, Carré?” she asked, laughing, too.

  “Nothing. And everything.” I smiled. “It’s all perfect.” I couldn’t explain what was happening. I hadn’t been this happy in years. And the joy was emerging in the simplest of situations. Imagine that.

  As night began to fall, a chill swept through the air. A cold front was moving in, and in the Himalayas it happened fast. Although this was only the end of September, it was not unusual to experience some snowfall. Shivering, I pulled my hood up over my ears and zipped up tight. My body felt achy, and I was relieved to arrive at our stopping point. I could think of only one thing as I found an empty bed and unrolled my sleeping bag. I needed to rest.

  After just an hour of sleep, I woke with the dire need to get to a bathroom at once. I wasn’t sure if I was going to throw up or crap myself, but I needed to move fast. Running down the hall, I threw myself into the bathroom and began vomiting violently. My body contracted involuntarily with each heave, and I could feel a fever beginning to rage. As disgusting as the bathroom was, I clung to the toilet bowl the entire night. I had never been so sick. I cried and trembled, and at one point I could hear some of my group gather around me, offering a wet rag, a sip of water. I just shook my head and purged. No one could help. Raja brought my sleeping bag to wrap around me. Sunrise found me asleep at last, curled up on the floor of the teahouse bathroom.