Unsure of what it means to be a woman, a teenager looks at one end of the spectrum and sees images of women too beautiful to touch. On the other end she sees tough, determined, often single moms who take care of their own, the women in her community, whom society barely notices. PNS commentator Gabrielle Turner is a first-year college student in San Francisco who writes for YO! (Youth Outlook), a newspaper by and about young people produced by Pacific News Service.

At times I feel as if I am walking an invisible fence. At any moment I might fall off to one side or the other and lose my personality forever. Right now I am unsure of what it is to be a woman. And it seems I have nowhere to turn for answers.

When I look at the television, I see images of women too beautiful to touch. These women are delicate and feminine and don't seem to have a care in the world. Their legs look so thin that I wonder how they support their bodies. Yet their smiles earn them thousands of dollars. I never see these women with a frown or a worried look on their faces. I wonder if they have any problems.

At the other end of the spectrum I see the women of my own culture, the women I grew up with. I admire these tough, determined women, many of whom are single parents and sole providers, for keeping themselves and their families together. I am in love with the image of the strong woman who takes care of her own.

This woman does not look dainty or feminine, but has the signs of hard work and worry etched on her face. I don't admire her pain, but rather the living proof that she has made it through hardship.

The only problem is that I am an American, part of a society that does not value these women. While a model who is killed makes the front page of the newspaper, a poor woman or working mother doesn't even merit a mention in the obituary column, and the death of a prostitute doesn't even raise an eyebrow. In a society where celebrities and models rule, those who don't fit that image are thought of as discardable. This makes me even more confused, because I don't want to be forgotten or dismissed when I die. I want people to remember me.

Why do I take all this so personally? I am fat--or heavy, or overweight, or whatever the hell you want to call it. Because of this I have been treated like I was nothing, unworthy of kindness or care. I've had friends who loved my personality and sought my advice, but couldn't get over the fact that I was fat. There were always the seemingly innocent remarks about losing weight, the little put-downs here and there. And then there were the times I was told I was an embarrassment to be seen with.

When I realize that my physical appearance is keeping people from really listening to me or taking me seriously, I start to feel oppressed. Then I start thinking about the larger forms of this oppression. As a woman, I make less than my male counterpart in a white or blue collar job. With the exception of a few company vice presidents here and there, I see that the average American woman can make more money modeling or stripping than she could in a job where she used her mind instead of her body. Everywhere I turn I hear that a woman is only as good as she looks. Everywhere I turn I see more young girls hurting or even killing themselves in an effort to starve themselves into the ""ideal" woman.

Then I want to run back to the safety of my own culture--a culture where strong women are revered and appreciated. But this culture is disappearing as it gives in to the American ideal. No longer is the African American woman with the few extra pounds considered a pretty lady--now she's seen as lazy and ignorant. Even a culture that used to pride itself on its full-hipped women can fall victim to the American ideal of skin and bones.

The sad thing is, I don't know how to resolve this in my own life. I can rant and rave all day about the oppression of women, but at the end of the day, people will still judge me. They will criticize my weight and my face. They will look at my braces and laugh. And I will keep trying to change myself to fit their standards. I don't condone my own efforts to conform, but there are too many closed doors when I look the way I do.

By focusing on how women look instead of how we feel and think, society belittles our problems and silences our voices. By making us objects of beauty, it takes away our spirits and our souls.