Embracing Fat
I remember my momma, my inquisitive eyes on her body, dark skin, folding, moving, warm. She often had coffee on her breath and smelled of ginger. Her body was comfort and home to me. It is a selfish way in which we view the bodies that birth us. We see them as something we once belonged to, something we are entitled to. I remember when I realized the place that was home, safety and softness to me was not mine and my view of her body was not the only way that body was seen. I remember when I heard the descriptor word FAT used derogatorily. It was from the voice of the home I knew. That word FAT the way she said it as if it expressed everything about her FAAAATTTTTT. It was not just a description of the way she looked. She was defined by it, owned by it. The soft touches, the warm embraces, the pump of her heartbeat in my ear, her breath on my cheek, the tickle of her hair as it combined with mine and the cushion of her chest, were my understandings of her body. I realized when she looked in the mirror she didn’t see those things. I realized when she left the house, others did not view her with the utter profound love I had for her, all of her.
I was in a cute red and white striped bathing suit that tied around the neck. It was new to me but probably a hand me down, all of my clothes were hand-me-downs or thrifted. I was excited about that bathing suit. I envisioned how I would look in it. I was going to look like Raye, Sailor Mars, my strong fem role model. I did not look like Sailor Mars when I looked in the mirror. At the age of 11 I was so aware of my body. I had just started menstruating that year and my body was feeling foreign and unrecognizable. The parts that stuck out (a round tummy and big bum) were off putting. I was not Sailor Mars. I saw my mom’s face so lovingly behind me admiring me in the mirror. I knew it was admiring, could tell she was not feeling the self-conscious feelings I was at the sight of me, but my body mimicked hers. So, I mimicked what to do with a body like that “I’m so FAAAAATTTTT.” I grabbed at my stomach and then again at my butt. My mom showed signs of sadness and it made me feel more righteous and correct, at least I knew young and it was something to be sad about.
I remember I was a tall kid at 11. I was, or close to, the height I am now 5’2”. I stopped growing. I was tall, massive if you will, for a kid in grade 5 or 6. That was also the age I played soccer. I was a good soccer player but developed a complex around my height and weight. I was homeschooled through elementary, so I played league soccer. I limited my aggression in league soccer due to my body insecurities. I did better in church soccer because I could rival the boys. I was aggressive, strong, and my height and weight meant nothing because well . . .there were guys so they had their own toxic masculinity to deal with and were not going to admit I was intimidating. In community league though I heard the players talking, “just say she stepped on your hand”. Players would scream when I approached (I think it was a tactic) but it all just fed into this mentality I was too tall and too big to be playing girls. I viewed myself as this monstrous being crushing dainty girls. I downplayed my abilities, aggression and I really felt my anxiety come to fruition as time and time again I let my team down due to thinking the worst and therefore playing worse than I could.
I was jealous of girls like Brianne (We got Silver in Division 5 in City finales because of Brianne!) Brianne was small and fierce; she was aggressive and powered through. I was long legged, could run for any given time but was too polite. I wanted to be Brianne and was more like Brianne when I played mix gender but when I played solely girls, I was over aware of my body.
There was a point where I was forced to play my younger sibling’s team because my team was doing so horribly. That was my nightmare. My younger sibling has always been better than me at sports and this just fed into my inferiority, lumbering, giant mentality. Not only was I terrified of crushing girls my age, now I had to worry about little whip demons with something to prove. I also remember being kind to girls that were kind to me! They complimented me on how I looked so I just let the ball slip by because I was so self-conscious and needing female approval!
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When I played mixed gender, I felt I had to represent and often times if/when I hurt someone a “sorry” and then keep playing was in order. The guys would bulldoze then apologize and I felt entitled to the same when playing in that atmosphere. It was in these scrimmage matches I was able to score goals. In my community league soccer I never scored a goal, that along with swimming with dolphins, was only an unattainable goal I wrote in colourful gel pens in my Lisa Frank notebook.
Soccer was so important to me during elementary. It was through soccer I started learning segregation of gender, realized my body made me an outcast, and while I was outgoing in situations I felt comfortable, it was very easy for me to recede into quiet, polite, and terrified when I was segregated into gender.
I am envious of the being on the soccer field competing nongendered during my church scrimmages. (Literally the only thing I miss from church). Willing to take on those guys who had to play by the same rules as me. Different rules apply as you get older. The gender rules get more strict and heavy handed. (especially in the church). All of a sudden, because adults tell you, co-anything is prohibited. You are told your body (especially for AFAB people) is provocative. Your goal as an AFAB person is to be beautiful. What was beautiful in the late 90’s early 2000’s for an AFAB person? SKINNY.
I don’t believe my story is unique. I know I’m not the first AFAB person to deal with body issues and fatphobia. I was 15 when I started Weight Watchers with my mom and my two siblings. Since then, I have been on diets, exercise kicks, low income eating and utterly despising myself in the mirror no matter what weight I’ve been. I have compulsively weighed myself. I have yelled at myself in the mirror and pinched the fat around my waist so many times. I have actively puked after eating, and actively chosen not to eat.
One time in my early twenties, when I was on Weight Watchers, I chewed only sugary gumballs at a party, that had an array of snacks, because I believed they had no calories. Later I announced this to my family triumphantly. This triumph quickly dissolved into me hyperventilating, as they told me I had consumed calories by even chewing on anything sugary and we had to search in the garbage for a gumball wrapper to soothe this attack. They were only 5 calories each so if I only drank veggies for the next few days I wouldn’t stray away from my calorie count for the week. (don’t ask how many gumballs I chewed).
People felt entitled to tell me all the things I was doing wrong. They told me how and what to eat. “If you puree your food then it digests faster.” I was told what clothes I should wear so I seemed skinnier than I was. “Vertical lines, honey, those horizontal ones pronounce your waste.” My exercising was scrutinized. “You really should do some cardio to burn fat, weights will make you put on muscle.” Morality was tied to my weight. I must have been lazy, unhealthy or not doing the right things to look the way I do. When I talk about loving myself, my whole self and use fat as a descriptor people try to make me feel better. “You’re not fat!” Pity in their eyes like I had sad something so devastating and self depreciating about myself cause I used the appropriate descriptor.
I now am the heaviest I have ever been. I do not count calories. I buy clothing that fits my body (fat tax is a thing). I follow fat models, activists and athletes. I am vocal about advocacy for fat people and the stereotypes that surround us. Yet, I work in a very digital setting. A world where I don’t have to be bodily present. When we have an event, I don’t forget those glances. The shock is palatable when they realize the person who has been speaking up, getting things done and making a name for themself is a fat, fem-presenting, nonbinary person. Guess what . . . I’m fucking here. I’m willing to go toe to toe and I might just accidentally step on your foot but I am deserving of a place regardless of my weight.
