By Aimee Mullins (as told to Corrie Pikul)
Aimee Mullins first entered the international media spotlight on prosthetic legs—breathtaking, one-of-a-kind racing prosthetics designed to replace the lower part of her limbs that were amputated when she was a baby. Her speed, poise, beauty and eloquence on and off the track captivated fans beyond the world of athletics, and after breaking several world records, she teamed up with collaborators in a wide range of fields, including fashion designer Alexander McQueen and performance artist Matthew Barney. She became known as an advocate, model and public speaker (her her three TED Talks have been viewed over 5 million times), and her image served as an aesthetic symbol of possibility and human potential. In this essay for SELF, she discusses the challenges of creating and maintaining an authentic self in a label-obsessed society that tries to put everyone—including boundary-breakers—in a box.
I grew up in America, the child of an immigrant father from Ireland. He was a plasterer (amongst other things), and the idea of getting an education and then using that education was paramount in our family. I loved art and acting from the age of three, but it was expected (and insisted upon!) that someone from a family like mine would be a doctor, lawyer or engineer—something with a steady paycheck. But my life took this fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants path. Thanks to an academic scholarship from the Department of Defense, I got to attend Georgetown University, which I wouldn’t have been able to afford even with student loans. While at college, my sports career took off, and I was sprinting at the Division 1 level (the first college athlete amputee to compete against non-amputees) and flying around the world, representing our country in sporting and speaking events. Then because of the revolutionary carbon-fiber prosthetic legs I wore in athletic competitions, I was being invited to speak at design conferences. I was asked to walk the runways with supermodels, doing fashion shoots with the best photographers in the world. All of that was because I was open to adventure and followed my curiosity into everything that challenged my comfort zone.
In interviews, people would ask, “What’s next?” And I’d say, “One day I’ll come back to my first love: acting.” Eventually I started thinking, when is that day going to come? One morning, after waking up with an adrenaline rush from a dream about missing out on what I wanted to do, my realization was that “someday” needed to be now. I sought training as an actor that very same afternoon, and a year later got cast in my first professional job (the young woman who hires super-sleuth Hercule Pirot in the TV adaptation of Agatha Christie’s Five Little Pigs.)
It became apparent to me that not every opportunity would move me forward on the path I envisioned. I’ve said no to reality shows that included participating in dance competitions and judging modeling contests, as well as similar projects that felt like I’d be taking steps away from what I wanted to do. I’ve turned down film, television and theater roles with people I hugely admire, because they weren’t coming to me as an actor, but as a novelty. My rule is, if they’re looking for a prop, meaning that the fact that I wear prosthetic legs is the defining aspect of this character, then I’m not going to do it. If it’s a character that’s like one I just did for an NBC show, where she’s a psychotic croupier from Las Vegas, and the role has nothing to do with her legs, then that’s interesting to me. It’s taken a little while for casting directors to stop seeing me as just someone who wears prosthetic legs. I love that I now get to play characters. That’s why I was drawn to acting in the first place: To not be Aimee Mullins. To stretch and push and pull myself to the farthest reaches of my emotional, intellectual and physical capacity.
With acting, I was cognizant from the beginning that I’m in this game for the long run. I’ve taken this long view with all of the other aspects of my other career, from sports to fashion to working with artists, scientists and engineers. I’ve been fortunate, and truly honored, to work with amazing photographers who took pains to photograph me as the individual that I am, and as part of that, we’ve talked about how the images will be used beyond that magazine or that project. We mutually decide if and when they can have a life elsewhere. The images by Nick Knight that are hanging in the Tate Modern—he gets asked every week for permission to reprint these in publications as divergent as the American Medical Association Newsletter to a Japanese robotics magazine. They always run these request by me because they understand that the context of the photograph matters to how you’re using the image. I’ll say yes to the AMA, but to the idea of my image being appropriated to support an article about owning a man-made robot, I’ll say, “Thank you, but no.”
When I first started modeling, I had situations where the shoot was heading in an exploitative direction; I was asked to pose in a way that I didn’t feel good about, where I could tell they wanted to get that shocking image. “Shocking” is not interesting to me. It’s easy and cheap. “Provocative” is a different story. I like to challenge assumptive notions, whether about beauty or body image or how we define and describe our identities.
These assumptive notions can be sneaky and pervasive. I recently did an interview with a magazine I really respect, where the journalist posited me as someone who has raised consciousness, and she said, “You’ve had a huge cultural impact on how people with prosthetics view their bodies, and also how able-bodied people view prosthetics and the people who wear them.” I thought to myself, “To whom are you referring with this umbrella term ‘able-bodied?’” I’ve met people who have 10 fingers and 10 toes yet are morbidly obese, and they are gravely limited in what they can do with their bodies. Are they able-bodied because they don’t have an obvious assistive medical device? I’ve known people with eating disorders that are hugely disabling to their bodily health, their peace of mind, their family dynamic—are they considered able-bodied? And, by this journalist’s presumption, I’m not? Outside of…I don’t know, perhaps ballet…there are few limitations on what I can physically do. My body is naturally athletic; my wearing prosthetic legs enables me to reveal the physical ability I intrinsically have. They are a conduit for what I can do, just like a pool cue is. The idea of how we describe ourselves and others—all of us—needs to evolve.
This isn’t about being politically correct; it’s about not being lazy with how we use language to describe other people. Just as we wouldn’t want to be described by our skin color when it’s irrelevant, let’s not use someone’s medical pathology to reduce them to an easy adjective. Even terms that are less stigmatizing like “differently-abled” are completely inappropriate when describing a person, unless you are their doctor reviewing their medical chart. Would you ever say, “This is my color-blind friend, Mike. He’s differently-abled. He can’t distinguish between colors, but he’s a really great guy!” It’s pretty clear that we’re all differently-abled. None of us need to be labeled that way.
Obviously some aspects of who I am—like the fact I wear prosthetics—are more evident than others, but that’s not a part of everything I do—and it shouldn’t have to be. I have a global modeling contract with L’Oréal Paris that I’m really excited about. It’s an amazing company and I truly believe in the transformative power of makeup. Also, to be able to sign a global beauty contract as a woman in her thirties (especially after being considered and then passed over for a major makeup contract when I was in my early twenties) whose beauty is determined more by experience than youth—that’s fantastic. And these L’Oréal ads feature my face close-up, just like any other woman with a beauty campaign.
The other day, a friend told me that she overheard a group of women talking about me, and one said, “You know, Aimee Mullins…” Another woman said, “She modeled for Alexander McQueen.” A third said, “I thought she was the one in those Matthew Barney art movies.” Someone else said, “Wasn’t she the first person to run on those iconic prosthetic legs?” It’s interesting to me when people don’t realize that the same person did all of these things; that they are all very different facets of the same career. I love how divergent my career has been, and I hope it stays that way, because that’s what keeps me excited, curious, and on the tips of my toes—carbon fiber, silicone, wood, glass…whichever toes I’m wearing that day.
Photo Credit: Jill Greenberg
