by Becky Siame
On behalf of every overweight person, I ask you, “normal”-size and skinny people, to show the same respect to an overweight person as you would someone your own size. We don’t deserve or ask for special treatment. We just want to be accepted—the “we” that’s underneath all that fat, the “we” with great sense of humors and high intelligence and the same interests and likes and dislikes which you have.
It is unthinkable to deny minorities a job because of their race, or take away a woman’s right to vote, or eject a handicapped person from a venue because their wheelchair gets in the way. So why is it acceptable to discriminate against a fat person? AmandaE, are you listening? Good. Because I’ve lost weight and I’m still losing weight. And when I can fit into your clothes, I won’t be shopping at your stores unless you offer less bigotry and more tolerance.
I march along the sidewalk down Trafalgar Street, head held high. Sands and Riyaan march next to me, proud to be a part of my plan - my plan to stand up for myself.
Truthfully, it is Sands’ plan. The shame of what happened at the AmandaE store still burns in my soul. But that is about to change. Today, we are going back to the scene of the crime, back to where I was disgraced. I am over forty-five kilos lighter - still unable to fit into their clothes, but I’m getting there. And they’re going to know it. They can insult me, but getting away with it is another matter.
We pause outside the door. “Are you ready?” asks Riyaan, giving my hand a squeeze.
The sight of the store and the memory of what happened here start my stomach churning. “What if they laugh at me again? What if I give them hell and they still treat me like crap? What if no matter what I say, it won’t make a difference?” I hesitate.
“Bella,” Sands’ voice is stern, “You can do this.”
My spirit is fortified by her words. I stand taller and take a deep breath. “I can do this,” I echo, pushing aside the attack of nerves. “No one disrespects me because of my weight. Let’s go.”
I push open the door, flanked by my comrades in figurative arms. The battlefield looks almost the same as the last time I saw it, with a newer selection of overpriced clothing on display. Twenty percent-off banners hang from the ceiling while upbeat music pumps through the invisible stereo speakers. The store is crowded with shoppers, a captive audience.
“Welcome to AmandaE. Is there anything I can help you find?” a young salesgirl directs the question at Sands, hardly glancing at me.
“No, thank you,” Sands replies coolly.
Riyaan gives the store the once-over with his best sneer. “I’ve seen a better selection at Clothes Mart.”
We breeze past her, heading straight for the check-out counter in the back. There are two lines of ladies waiting to make their purchases, so it’s a few minutes before we’re helped. “I must speak with your manager, please,” I say to the harried clerk.
She picks up the phone and makes an announcement over the intercom. “Manager to the checkout counter, manager to the checkout counter.”
“Thank you,” I smile broadly. Perhaps, too broadly. The clerk looks a little worried as she rushes to help the next person in line as we step aside. Within a minute, an older woman comes out from behind the partition behind the counter. The clerk points to us; the manager turns in our direction and the blood drains from her face. She recognises me, even though I am almost half the size of when she saw me last.
“May I help you?” she asks without an effort at pretending politeness.
My moment of triumph has come. “Really?” I ask in mock amazement. My voice is loud; everyone in the store can hear me. “Do you mean you really want to help me? Because the last time I was here, I was asked to leave. You said you hoped I wouldn’t come back because, how did you phrase it? Your store doesn’t cater to my demographic? What exactly did you mean by “my” demographic?”
The manager glances at the staring customers. “Perhaps there’s been a misunderstanding…”
“Oh no, I understood you perfectly well,” I assure her, gathering momentum and courage. “Your store doesn’t cater to fat girls, correct? Despite the fact you carry shoes which a fat girl can wear, as well as accessories, jewelry, and purses…” I mentally tick off the list in my head from my semi-memorised speech, “which can be worn or carried by a fat girl, you and the other clerk, whom I evidently embarrassed by my lack of anorexia, made it clear that you didn’t want my money spent in your store. Now isn’t that strange?” I turn to Riyaan and Sands - they nod in agreement - and then to the lines of customers. “A store that doesn’t want a customer’s money: doesn’t that defeat the purpose of operating a store?”
The manager turns red from anger and shame. The other clerks speedily check out the customers who gawk at the unfolding drama. An older woman shakes her head and tsk-tsks in the direction of the manager.
“But that’s not the real reason I’m here,” I continue. “I just wanted to let you know that what you did to me was disgraceful and despicable. You may never know what it’s like to be overweight, but let me tell you something: being overweight does not make you less of a person. And some skinny snob like you who has no qualms about insulting a fat person has got a whole load of bad karma coming after her. Ever heard of the Golden Rule? Maybe you should find out what it is and practice it until you get it right.”
By now I am shaking with rage and exhilaration. I turn and stride confidently down the centre aisle toward the door, Sands and Riyaan at my heels. When I reach the door, I remember the final portion of my speech. I turn back. “And by the way,” I call, “I will be writing letters to the editors of the Nelson Post and Nelson Courier, informing them of your conduct.” I lift my hand and wave. “Have a nice day!”
•
“Did you see her face?” Riyaan shrieks with laughter as we celebrate at Café Crave.
“I bet she wanted to crawl into a hole and die on the spot,” Sands agrees. “I know I would have if I were her.”
I exhale, relieved. “That was amazing! And a full audience, too. Seriously, if you would have told me to do that a couple months ago, I couldn’t have done it. But I’m so glad you convinced me to, Sands,” I beam at her. “And you know what? I’m not going to write a letter to the editor of those newspapers.”
“But I thought that was your part of the plan,” asks Sands.
I shake my head. “I have a better idea. I’m going to write an editorial for their public opinion pages.”
Riyaan clanks his coffee cup against mine in a toast. “Watch out, world: my girl Bella’s on the move.”
“That’s right,” I nod. “That way, instead of it just seeming like a letter from a disgruntled customer complaining about service, an article is more professional and can address the bigger issue, no pun intended, of discrimination against bigger people on the whole, and not just at AmandaE.”
Sands nods. “Bella, you are finally you.”
“Hmm?” I ask.
She holds out her hands as if presenting me. “I always knew you were inside there, under all that fat you were hiding behind.”
“Sands!” Riyaan exclaims. “That’s rude. Gosh, my mum is rubbing off on you. Not cool.”
Now she holds up her hands in caution. “Hear me out. Remember me saying that you hid behind your weight and sabotaged relationships because you were scared of not being accepted? How you used rejection as a defence mechanism and how you needed to love yourself and accept that you were a wonderful woman deserving of the best?”
“Yeah, I do,” I nod.
“Now look at you,” she says. “Instead of playing the part of the ‘betrayed, abandoned, insulted’ overweight divorcee - your words, not mine - you are a strong, confident lady who doesn’t reject good things, i.e. Jae. You’re a fighter. You’ve come out of hiding because now you know you deserve the best.”
“You’re right,” I say, musing over her words. I have come a long way in a short period. I am a different person.
Riyaan nods. “Yeah, you’
re kinda like Cat.”
“What?” Sands and I say in unison.
Riyaan waves over our shoulders. We turn to see Cat coming in the door. “She hid her true self for years and now that she’s come out of hiding, she can have the best. If she’ll allow me to help her, that is.”
Sands and I glance at one another and smile. It is good to see Riyaan accepting his crazy mother. “Give her some time, Riyaan,” I say. “Sometimes it takes a while to accept the best.”
Riyaan tears up. “I know, I know. That’s why I’ve drawn up some goals for Cat to work toward to help her return to regular society. I just hope she agrees to them.” He wipes his eyes as Cat sits next to him. “How are you today?” he inquires.
Cat looks at each of us. “Why is everyone smiling? I don’t trust it when everyone’s happy.”
“Goals!” I snap my fingers, suddenly brightening.
Sands looks at me sideways. “What is this, a football match?”
“No,” I say. “I can’t believe I forgot about my goals.” I grab my purse and dig through it, pushing the monstrous bunch of keys out of the way to reach the bottom. My purse always seems bigger when I can’t find what I’m looking for. My fingers eventually close around a folded piece of paper. “Ta-da!” I announce, holding the paper aloft. “My nine month goals. I’ve got to mark one off -well,” I unfold the paper and look at Sands’ handwriting, “one and a half.” I dig through my purse again for a pen and mark through the last goal and the first half of the first goal. “Just two and a half to go. Not bad for a few months’ work. And best of all is that I’m not doing this to show up Tiresa and Mika anymore. I’m doing it because, as you said,” I nod to Sands, “I deserve the best.”
Bella’s 9 MONTH GOALS
1. To lose weight and achieve the perfect body
2. To embark on a successful career
3. To be financially stable
4. To find a good man
•
It’s Friday afternoon and Jae, the kids, and I are singing, “Bingo” at the top of our lungs. We’re cruising along the highway, on our way to Nelson Parks National Forest for a three-day weekend at Go 4 It, and we’ve been singing non-stop since we left Nelson.
“Okay, that’s enough singing for now,” I turn in my seat and laugh breathlessly at the kids when we finish the song.
“Aw, Mum, one more song,” Abe begs.
“Nope,” I shake my head. They reach for their game devices; Abe also puts in earbuds and turns on his iPod.
I turn back around and smile to myself that I can turn around in a vehicle. Will I ever get used to being smaller? I hope not. The sensations of buying smaller clothes, of not having my hips overhang chairs, and not having to squeeze through narrow aisles feels great.
“Ms White, how are you?” Jae is finally able to ask now that the kids are quiet.
“I am doing great,” I reply.
“Oh? What’s up?” Jae asks, placing his hand on my leg.
A shiver of excitement runs through me, but turns into a shudder of anxiety. Do I mention the AmandaE incident to Jae, who was there but doesn’t know I know he was there? How will he react? I may find out why he was there, which means one less secret about him. Yet I had been so insulted, so humiliated - did I want him in on my secret? We are dating, though. If there is a good time to share secrets, it’s now.
“Well,” I start, “I took care of an issue which has bothered me for a few months now, and it feels great to get it off my chest.”
“What was it?” he inquires.
I sigh, unsure of his reaction and hesitant to bring up the humiliating scene which he witnessed. “Remember a few months ago when Riyaan started boycotting that store where I was treated rudely?”
“And Cat wanted to set their dumpster on fire,” Jae nods.
“Which she never did, by the way. Anyway, the whole reason I went into AmandaE was to avoid running into someone. But while I was in there, the salespeople treated me like garbage because of my weight. So I went back last week and gave the manager a piece of my mind, and then I wrote an editorial and submitted it to the Post and Courier. I got a call from both op-ed editors and they said they were printing it in both Sunday editions. Isn’t that exciting? I haven’t had anything published since college. But I still need to write to the president of AmandaE, as you suggested, but I’ve been so busy this past week, I haven’t had a chance to. I’m thinking of sending them a copy of the editorial after it comes out along with a letter of complaint.”
Jae keeps his eyes on the road. His next words surprise me. “I wish you had told me about this earlier.”
“Why?” I ask. “What could you do?”
His hand suddenly feels very light on my leg. “I may have been able to help sort it out.”
Now that is surprising. Just what is his connection with AmandaE stores? “It’s okay. I don’t need a man fighting my battles for me. This is one I need to fight alone.”
“Fight your battles?” he echoes. “Is this a battle?”
“Well, yes, it is,” I defend. “They discriminated against me because of my weight and I’m not letting them get away with it. The ultimate goal of my article is to raise awareness of the prejudice, which obese people face. I’m not calling for a boycott of AmandaE stores or anything like that. I just refuse to shop there until they issue an apology and show some compassion and tolerance for all people.”
“So if the president apologises, you’ll be satisfied?” Jae asks, sounding skeptical.
I’m really taken aback by his tone and attitude. He must be more connected with the stores than I suspect. “I guess so,” I say. “Is there something wrong? Something you want to tell me?” Like why you were at the store and why you aren’t saying you were there and heard everything?
Jae doesn’t reply right away. He seems deep in thought. “No, it’s just that . . . being in business, an accusation of discrimination can be really bad. Not that I condone how you were treated. It’s just that, well, why didn’t you tell me about this before?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I wasn’t trying to keep it from you. I guess maybe because I had Riyaan and Sands supporting me that, well, I didn’t feel compelled to tell you about it. There are things in your life which you don’t feel compelled to tell me about, isn’t there?” There’s your opening, Jae. I can’t make it any easier for you to spill the beans.
Jae sighs and seems to recover. He pats my leg. “Never mind. I’m glad you stuck up for yourself. But I am willing to fight battles with you, if you ever need a knight in shining armour. Or at least a squire or pageboy.”
I don’t push the issue. Jae is uncomfortable about something and I don’t want to ruin the weekend. Instead, I try to look on the positive side. “I can always use a handsome knight,” I reply. “And thank you for wanting to stick up for me.”
Jae smiles at me and my heart melts. “Did you bring your sketch book?” he asks, changing the subject.
“Yes, sir,” I reply, patting the bag at my feet. “I am ready to draw while you three get adventurous.” I still wasn’t up for a lot of physical activity, but I did need to sketch some new caricatures for my blog.
“Good,” Jae nods. “We’re going to have a fun weekend.””Agreed,” I smile. At least we agree on that.
•
For the rest of the weekend, Jae seems somewhat reserved. On the outside, he smiles and laughs and seems to enjoy taking Abe and Fi on what they call “wild adventures” while I watch from the sidelines or stay at the store chatting up Chuck. But there is something wrong, I can tell. He barely talks to me.
It’s no big deal, one half of my brain insists, but the other half doesn’t buy it. What if he is having second thoughts about our relationship and wants to break up? My fragile heart can’t handle that.
On the drive home Monday afternoon he turns to me. “Bella,” he says, checking the rear view mirror. The kids are engrossed in their games and music in the back seat. “I should tell you something
.”
“What’s that?” I ask, with a sinking heart. He sounds so serious. Just then my phone rings. I grab it out of my purse, inadvertently tossing my keys onto the floor of the Jeep with a loud jangle. “Hang on-not a number I recognize. Wonder who it is. Hello?” I say.
Jae turns back to the road while I talk. His shoulders a slump. Something is dreadfully wrong.
As I listen to the voice at the other end of the phone I flash a huge grin at Jae. It’s great news. After a final goodbye, I clap my phone shut and pump a fist in the air. “Yes!” I squeal.
“What is it?” He inquires.
“I can’t believe it. That was Channel 11. They’re affiliated with the Post and they say their message boards are flooded with people wanting to know more about my editorial, and so they want to interview me on TV this Thursday during their morning program. Can you believe it?”
“Really?” Jae asks, dumbfounded.
“I can’t believe it. My little editorial gets in the paper and now I’m going on television? This is incredible.”
“What are they going to ask you?” Jae asks.
“They’re going to send me some talking points. They want to know more about what happened at the store and my fight against obesity discrimination. I can’t wait to tell the gang. Oh my, what should I wear? No loud patterns, right? Maybe my red top? Though it’s baggy now. I need to go shopping. But not at AmandaE, ha-ha. Jae, this is so exciting!” I grip his arm in delight and lean over to kiss him on the cheek.
“It is exciting,” Jae agrees tonelessly. “I’m happy your column got so many readers.” I am so excited it more than makes up for his lack of enthusiasm.
I practically dance in my seat. “Do you mind stopping at a grocery store on the way to my house? I want to pick up both papers. I hope they haven’t sold out. I can’t believe it! I haven’t published anything since college-well, aside from my blog for all its twenty-four followers. But I mean be really published. I hope they used the cartoon I sent with the article. Jae, this is fantastic.”