I know this girl, she wrote. I lived with her. She’s a disgusting fat slob who did nothing but stuff her face all day long. I can’t believe she graduated! Seeing the name and (false) sentiments of this girl whom I couldn’t stand to begin with filled me with rage. And I couldn’t believe she still despised me so many years later. But it was a lesson I needed to learn. Some people are deeply committed to hating me, and by extension, my ideals and contributions. I couldn’t waste any time on people like her, I told myself, but I was still afraid that more of the same would be directed my way by the end of the night.
When I pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant two hours later, Buddy, Boo Boo, and Heather met me outside. We were all overflowing with nervous energy and giddy to the gills. They led me inside, where my dad, true to form, was giving a speech to the hundred people in attendance.
“I don’t really know what to say,” I stammered. “I have so many feelings that I can’t name because I have absolutely no context for this situation, but thank you so much for supporting me and for being here.” Within minutes a glass of champagne was shoved in my hand and we were all seated to watch the show.
All the nervousness I’d had about it was gone in an instant. That was me on the screen! I looked like me. I sounded like me. There was Todd! My mother was hilarious!
“Why is this the funniest show on TV?” Heather shouted.
“I don’t know!” I yelled back through happy tears.
I went to the bathroom and called my brother, who was watching the show during work while he bartended.
“Hunter!” I said when he picked up. And then we both just screamed.
Watching My Big Fat Fabulous Life for the first time! (2015).
With all the people I love the most at the premiere party for My Big Fat Fabulous Life (2015).
I learned the next day that 1.3 million people had tuned in to the premiere of my show in the United States. By the time four episodes had aired, we were renewed for season two. A month later I went to London for the premiere of the show, called Whitney: Fat Girl Dancing in the UK. When I arrived in my posh Covent Garden hotel room, I was hit with a wave of gratitude. What was my life becoming? Was that genuine Frida Kahlo art on the walls? How had I gotten so lucky?
I visited the BBC for an interview, as well as a morning program called Lorraine (the British Oprah, I’m told). Both of them were how all my interviews had always been: upbeat and positive. But the next day I endured a horrific interview by Eamonn Holmes on Sky News. I was scheduled to appear on the program to discuss the premiere, and the producer prepped me for the same kind of interview I’d been giving for a year. I would explain how my Fat Girl Dancing videos led to a TV show and what I hoped the show would accomplish: to portray the life of a fat woman who is neither miserable nor specifically on a weight-loss journey, humanizing other fat people along the way. But as soon as the cameras started rolling on the live interview, it was nothing like what I had expected.
“Some people at home, they see you and you’re dancing, but they might be saying, ‘Who’re you kidding?’ Do you really think this is the kind of advertisement you should be giving to young people?”
It was only eight A.M. and I was jet-lagged, but I knew my message backward and forward. It’s not something I needed to be coached on, and no media training could prepare me more than my own experiences. While I was shocked at Eamonn’s line of questioning, I handled it with grace and ease, remaining positive and assertive throughout. Eamonn tried to couch his questions by pointing out that his own weight is often ridiculed in the media. When it was over, and I watched it, the title at the bottom of the screen didn’t say anything about my show but instead read, Obesity Debate and Big, Fat, and Fabulous? Question mark. My PR person was horrified and apologized over and over. I told her it was okay but that it had caught me off guard since that was in no way the kind of interview I had prepped for. I was a little shaken. Shortly afterward, Huffington Post UK published an article titled, “Whitney Thore Hits Back in Obesity Debate.”
More than a year later I saw Eamonn Holmes interviewing Megan, one of my British friends in the body-positive community, whom I’d met through Instagram. Recovered from anorexia, Megan is conventionally beautiful and amazing, and every bit as radical as I am in her commitment to unapologetic self-love, but Eamonn treated us completely differently. He was sympathetic to Megan throughout her interview and made several inappropriate comments about how attractive he found her, while she was—get this—dancing in her underwear, for the express purpose of celebrating how her fat jiggled. So basically, doing the exact same thing that I do on the Internet but with fewer articles of clothing. Eamonn’s hypocrisy was maddening.
When I got back to the U.S., I traveled to New York to appear on The View. My brother met me there and he stayed in my dressing room while I went to Hair and Makeup. I thought about how happy I was to be able to spend time with Hunter and how much our relationship had grown once I’d started loving myself. I’ve always told Hunter that he was my hero and we were becoming closer than we’d ever been as adults. As I was getting my hair curled, Whoopi Goldberg came in and casually sat in the chair beside me. Oh my God! I thought. Seriously, what is my life right now? It was Rosie O’Donnell’s last day hosting, and she greeted me enthusiastically, telling me her best friend was a big fan. Rosie asked if I would make her a video, and of course I obliged. She held my hands in hers and told me about her weight-loss surgery and how it changed her life. She asked her assistant to give me her card and said that if I wanted to talk to her doctor or needed any help, to call her. I told her that I wasn’t particularly interested in weight-loss surgery but I appreciated her kindness and perspective. When the interview was over, Hunter met me offstage for a hug. “I know you always say that I’m your hero, but honestly, you’re mine,” he said.
When all the whirlwind press died down and I was back in North Carolina gearing up to shoot season two of My Big Fat Fabulous Life, I decided to pass the time by swiping on Tinder some more. I’d met Peter there, after all. Late at night, in the darkness of my room, I came across a picture of a man with a huge beard and soft blue eyes holding a small Pomeranian. His Instagram handle was in his description, so I looked him up. His name was Lennie. He was an artist. I swiped right and saw immediately that we matched. Feeling ballsy, I messaged him straightaway. To avoid being too basic and mentioning his beard, as I’m sure every girl did, I tried a different approach.
I enjoy both your dog and your art, I typed.
He wrote back immediately, telling me he knew Buddy, so he’d heard of me. When the small talk petered out, I went to bed. The next day I’d all but forgotten about the exchange until a new Tinder message popped up.
I should draw you some body-positive animals saying puns. Like a beaver looking into a river saying, “Dam, I look good.”
This impressed me on multiple levels. He’d obviously done some homework on me. His mention of body-positivity let me know he was clued in to the most important thing in my life. And how had he found out I loved beavers? We exchanged numbers. Later that day a new number appeared on my phone.
Hi Whitney! It’s Lennie from Tinder.
Naturally, the thought crossed my mind that Lennie was texting simply to offer to give me artwork because he wanted me to share it with my considerable social network. It certainly would not have been the first time, so I was wary of his intentions. I tested the waters.
How much are you charging for the body-pos animals bringing the life-affirming puns? I inquired.
I’m not sure, he answered. Want to get together and discuss it?
Lennie planned a painting date for us a few days later. I consulted Peter, who was now just a friend. He was dubious.
It sounds like he could just want you to hock his artwork.
Yeah, you’re probably right, I agreed. I guess we’ll see!
The next evening, as I got ready, I incessantly texted Peter photos, out of nervousness. Before shower. Midsho
wer. After shower. After makeup. After blow-drying my hair.
Whoa. 8 texts in a row. Haha, he wrote. And then: Gorgeous. Slay, babe.
When Lennie and I met in person forty-five minutes later, we gave each other a nervous hug. We had barely had one conversation, and I’d never met someone from the Internet so soon. But I wasn’t in the business of wasting any time with these things. Lennie was on the quiet side, but conversation flowed naturally. At some point he laughed and said, “This is the best date I’ve ever been on.”
“So it is a date?” I teased playfully.
“Yeah, of course it is.”
The next day, he came over and brought me a small framed sketch of a vibrant butterfly with outstretched wings and a caption that read, Fuck, I’m beautiful. I recognized it because I’d liked a photo of it on his Instagram. Two weeks later, with all the ease and self-assurance in the world, I asked him to be my boyfriend.
And yes, after that, Lennie and I would have sex with the lights on. But I’d end up falling in love with him first.
10
FEMINISM IS MY FAVORITE F-WORD
On Valentine’s Day last year Cosmo published an article about me titled, “ ‘Fat Girl Dancing’ Whitney Thore Wants to Find a ‘Delicious, Feminist Man.’ ” Farther down in the article, I elaborate on what I’m looking for in a partner, saying, “Someone who is intelligent on a bigger scale, not just book-smart, but I need someone who thinks about life really critically. I need a man who is an unapologetic feminist. If he’s not, it’s just not going to work, and I need a guy that can make me laugh. I do love a beard, too, love a little tattoo or a piercing and all that. The physical attributes could be a lot of different things, but definitely I need a smart, critically thinking, open-minded, feminist, delicious man.”
In order to talk about feminism, and why it is so momentously important for every human being on this planet, we first have to get the definition straight. If you’ve listened to Beyoncé’s song “Flawless,” you’re already ahead of the game. As the voice of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie defines over the top of the music, “Feminist: a person who believes in the social, economic, and political equality of the sexes.” Of course, we could have consulted good ol’ Merriam-Webster’s for that clarification, but isn’t everything more fun with Beyoncé? (Answer: Yes. Duh.) So, from here on out, you must abandon all notions that feminists desire to rule over men, overtake them, or otherwise threaten, harm, or humiliate them, and instead operate with full understanding of the textbook definition that describes a simple wish for equality.
Having Lennie—a handsome, intelligent, bearded feminist artist—practically fall into my lap from Tinder, of all places, was surprising. And, based on the majority of my other Tinder experiences, I’m gonna venture to say it’s highly unlikely. The incredible truth is that Lennie must have read my Cosmo article and thought, “Hey, that’s ME!” and set out to find me, because he fits all my “requirements” to a T.
Now, it’s easy to understand why I want an intelligent man: so we can have thought-provoking discussions and he can help me do simple math problems without my calculator. (Naturally, Lennie has to overachieve; he’s in Mensa, for crying out loud!) No one would question why I wanted a man who could make me laugh, because laughing is fun, and it’s completely understandable that critically thinking and open-minded would make the list, because it’s 2016 and that’s what we do here. And delicious? That’s a given. Who doesn’t want that? But still, there’s the pesky issue of feminism. Fine, I’m a feminist, but why does my boyfriend have to be?
A-ha! Perhaps the single most common misunderstanding about feminism, apart from its literal definition, is that it’s intended solely for women. This couldn’t be further from the truth, because, I assure you, the patriarchy (a system of society or government in which men hold the power and women are largely excluded from it) harms both girls and boys who grow into women and men with deeply rooted beliefs resulting from this system, who then go on to perpetuate it, and…you get it, the cycle continues. To eradicate this system and replace it with a more equal one, we need the unequivocal support of both sexes. “But wait,” you might say, “women have opportunities, right? What’s the holdup and why do I have to care?” Yes, women can vote (in the United States), and yes, women can technically apply for any job they want (in the United States), and sure, rape is a crime (in the United States), but things aren’t as rosy as they may seem.
Take a quick peek at these statistics: Did you know that in just about every state in the country, millennial women are more likely than millennial men to have a college degree, yet millennial women also have higher poverty rates and lower earnings than millennial men? Or that it’s likely that we won’t see equal pay for American women within our lifetime?*1 Or how about the fact that one out of every six American women has been the victim of an attempted or completed rape in her lifetime?*2 The need for inclusive feminism goes even further: Latina women make only 54 percent of what white men make,*3 83 percent of women with disabilities will be sexually assaulted in their lifetimes,*4 and black (and other women of color) are routinely characterized as angrier than their white counterparts. (May I remind you of the whole Taylor Swift–Nicki Minaj–Miley Cyrus VMA debacle?)
And, again, this is only in the United States. If you think the patriarchy isn’t alive and well, you need to think again—and start being a feminist ally so we can smash it together!
A while back I was scrolling through Instagram when I got a notification that I’d been tagged in a photo. When I clicked on it, my screen directed me to an image of a simple line graph, with “body weight” written vertically and “chances she’s a feminist” written horizontally. The red line showed an upward trend: the fatter a woman is, the more likely she is to be a feminist. There are plenty of offensive memes of some overweight, “unattractive” (by societal standards) woman wearing a This Is What a Feminist Looks Like T-shirt. Naturally, whoever tagged me in this—likely an Internet troll—intended for it to insult me, but all I could think initially was, “Well, you’re not completely wrong…” Pause. I am NOT reinforcing the belief that feminists are simply embittered ugly women in whom men have no interest (a shockingly common misconception), but I AM saying that my pilgrimage to the holy land of feminism was largely influenced by my weight. Lemme break down why.
Even back in high school, when I inhabited a conventionally attractive body, I still had a hint of feminism in me. I was always an independent thinker and I loathed what we now affectionately call “fuck boys.” I wrote a long letter to the editor of the school newspaper, calling out my school administration for punishing me for not wearing a bra. I felt empowered; my parents felt embarrassed. But it wasn’t until I gained weight that the spark of feminism took hold.
I have a lot of conservative middle-American fans struggling with their weight who blow sunshine and roses up my ass until the minute I mention being a feminist, and then WWIII kicks off. Cue all the comments from women saying things like, “I’m not a feminist, but…” and, “I’m so disappointed in you. Why do you hate men?” and, “Whitney, just because you can’t find a man doesn’t mean you have to hate them,” and one of my favorites (and by favorite I mean my least favorite), “I don’t believe in feminism. I believe in humanism.” Now cue the fathers of actual humanism rolling over in their graves. I’m always flabbergasted at women who seek out the body-positive movement only to renounce feminism in the process.
I’ve heard many people ask what feminism and “fat acceptance” have to do with each other. For my purposes, let’s say “fat acceptance” means that even people who exist in fat bodies or bodies that are not conventionally attractive still deserve basic human respect from others and that these bodies do not strip them of the right to feel worthy, valuable, or beautiful.
As a teenager, I wasn’t blind to the systematic sexualization of women in advertising, television, movies, and even in my real life, but I wasn’t as concerned with it because it was a system that m
ostly benefited me. A young, privileged girl submits to the system by offering up her appearance as collateral, and she receives positive attention and affirmation in return for her willingness to play the game. As long as she stays obsessed with her appearance, making it a top priority, society will cheer her on for this and dole out validation accordingly.
I didn’t realize at the time that fixating on my weight and appearance was a losing game, of course. No woman is ever thin enough, curvy enough, made-up enough, fresh-faced enough, innocent enough, or provocative enough, depending on what is trendy at any given time. Did you get that? Women’s bodies are trends—with one body type or aesthetic being dismissed in favor of another, over and over and over again. It’s a lose-lose situation that holds women to impossible standards and keeps them forever chasing their “best selves.”
When I was conventionally attractive, sure, guys labeled me a slut or turned around to call me fat if I rejected their advances, but they were still interested in me in one way or another. I had something they wanted, and that made me feel valuable to some degree. When I gained weight, I became either invisible to most men or I disgusted them. It became very clear: if a man didn’t want to sleep with me, I was of no use to him. And a man who disrespects a woman to whom he is not attracted makes it evident that he believes a woman’s sole purpose is to be an object of attraction and that conventional attractiveness (thinness) is the only marker of a worthy woman. A woman who does not fulfill her primary obligation of turning him on is therefore not worthy and has no value.
I Do It with the Lights On Page 19