As the snippet of intro music begins to fade, I assume my best radio voice, which isn’t half bad, by the way. “Welcome back to the Fat Majority with your host, Gabby Medeiros.”
I like to think I have the radio manner of Rachel Maddow, a hero of mine. She started her radio career at another local station, WHMP, before moving on to Air America and MSNBC. Her success gives me hope that my little show could some day catapult itself to the national stage.
I’ve got a few things to talk about. I brought my notebook containing seven bullet points I want to touch upon during the show. When I first started The Fat Majority a year and a half ago, I thought it would be hard to come up with material to fill the entire show. How wrong I was. Just by keeping my eye on a couple of internet news sites, I always manage to dig up a few articles about fat politics, fat people, and fat discrimination. Being the opinionated and verbose person that I am, I can take a short piece about fat discrimination and expound on it for forty-five minutes. Other times, I just toss the notebook aside and wing it.
Before I can launch into my next monologue, I see a red light flashing on the telephone next to me on the desk. The phone doesn’t ring here in the studio. That would flub up the show. Our phone blinks rather than ringing.
“It appears we have a caller,” I say as I press the button. “Hello caller, you’re on the air with Gabby Medeiros. What’s on your mind?” There is a brief moment of dead air. “Hello? Caller?” I say.
“Oh. Hi. Am I on?” says a female voice.
“That’s right,” I reply. “This is 103.5 WBYT-LR, your community radio station. What’s your two cents?”
“Oh, sorry. I thought I’d be talking to a call screener or something. I didn’t know.”
“Nope. Not on Valley Liberated Radio. No call screeners. All calls are answered directly by the host.”
“Oh, okay,” she chuckles nervously. “I just called because I wanted to say thank you. I mean it. Sincerely.”
“Thank me? Thank me for what?”
“For everything you do. I just started listening to your show in the past few weeks. I accidentally found your show on the drive home from work. I have to say, when I first tuned in, I just couldn’t believe it. A show about bigger people! I was really floored, I mean—”
“A show about bigger people?” I interrupt.
“Yes. And…” she trails off. I can tell she’s nervous, the way she’s talking. “…I’ve always been heavy. You know? And when I heard you talk about all of these things…in our lives…I just…”
“Sure,” I reply. The poor thing is so freaked out to be on the air, she’s having a hard time forming her thoughts into words. She’s not the first. “Just one thing. This show isn’t about bigger people. And it isn’t about heavy people. This is a show about fat people. Are you a fat person?” There is a moment of stunned silence. “Hello? Are you there? I asked you if you’re fat. Is that such a difficult question?”
“No!” she sputters.
“No? No, it’s not a difficult question, or no you’re not fat?”
“No, it’s not difficult,” she replies, exasperated.
“Okay then,” I reply. “Then let’s hear it. Are you fat?”
“No! I’m not fat!” she exclaims.
I’m rattling her but there is a method to my madness. I’m trying to impart in her an important lesson I’ve learned from my years in the fat power movement. I hope she grasps it before she hangs up.
“So then, if you’re not fat, you must be a skinny bitch. Is that correct?”
Skinny bitch is my word for anyone who isn’t fat. I toss it around with wild abandon. Don’t misunderstand—I don’t reject people who weigh less than I do. If anything, I use the term tongue-in-cheek. When I say that body diversity is part of nature’s plan, I mean it. Just as some people were meant to be fat, others were meant to be skinny.
“No,” she replies.
“It’s okay if you are,” I say. “Skinny bitches can listen to this program too, if they’d like. If they want to be fat allies, to educate themselves on fat issues. If you’re a skinny bitch, I won’t hold it against you. So, are you?”
“No, I’m not skinny. But I’m not fat either. I hate that word.”
I knew it. That was the point I’d been driving at since she called. “Okay,” I say.
“Look, I’ve always been heavy,” the caller explains. “All my life. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t struggling with my weight.”
“Struggle no longer,” I say.
“I know, I know,” she mutters. “That’s the message I’ve been getting from The Fat Majority—that it’s okay to be a bigger girl. It’s not the end of the world.”
I’m going to have to tread lightly on this delicate flower. I can tell that she, like millions of other fat people, has been bruised and battered by the fatphobic world she inhabits. She’s been broken down and shoved aside. Her self-worth has been so thoroughly decimated that she will require years of personal growth to ever feel whole again. The long road of healing stretches out before her. For the time being, I’ll explain my idea to her as nicely as possible.
“Well, caller—do you have a name?”
“Emily.”
“Emily. Let me ask you a question, Emily. You mentioned that you hate the word ‘fat’. I’ve even noticed that you substitute other words for it; inaccurately, I might add. Words like ‘big’ and ‘heavy’. So tell me, why do you hate the f-word so much?”
I hear a sob. Then there’s a sniffle. She’s crying. “I hate that word,” she whines. “I hate it because it hurts. I’ve been called that word all my life. Fat pig. Fatso. Fatty.”
“And those were insults. They cut you.”
“Deeply,” she replies.
“Emily, where do you live?” I ask.
“I live in Hadley. Why?”
“Hadley!” I exclaim. “That’s right across the river from Northampton. Are you familiar with Northampton?”
“Sure,” she replies. She’s still sobbing a little. “I go to NoHo all the time. Great restaurants.”
“Very true, my fat sister. I love the food here. And are you familiar with the lesbian scene here in Northampton?”
She pauses, seemingly embarrassed. “I know about it,” she says. “I’m not into that.” Pause. Sniffle. “What I mean to say is that I like men.”
“Right. Me too. Men are wonderful creatures. I love them.” The City of Northampton has one of the most vibrant lesbian scenes in the country. It’s known far and wide as a Sapphic paradise. “The only reason I’m asking is because I wanted to know if you’ve ever heard of a group called Dykes on Bikes.”
“I think so,” she replies. “Is that some kind of motorcycle group?”
“Yes. It’s a motorcycle club for lesbians. And why do you suppose they call themselves Dykes on Bikes?”
“I have no idea.”
“They’re reclaiming the word,” I say. “They’re taking it back. They’re taking a word that was commonly understood as a slur and expropriating it as a term of empowerment. It’s like they’re saying ‘No, there’s nothing wrong with being a dyke.’ It’s not an insult. And that’s what I want to do with the word ‘fat’. Fat is not a four letter word. It can be spoken aloud. I’m fat and I’m completely okay with it. Can you understand where I’m coming from?”
She sniffles. “Yeah. Sort of.”
“Are you ready to call yourself fat?”
“I—I’m not sure.”
I’m glad she can’t see me because I’m rolling my eyes. “Go ahead and do it. It feels good. See, I can do it. My name is Gabby Medeiros and I’m fat. I’ve been fat since I can remember and there’s nothing wrong with that because fat people can lead happy, fulfilling lives. Fat people have worth. Fat people have talents. Fat people have ideas.”
“Okay.”
“Can you do that for me? Just tell me that you’re fat. G’head.”
For a moment, I don’t think that Emily is ready to make the
leap. Maybe she just isn’t there yet. And then she surprises me.
“I’m fat,” she whispers into the phone.
“I can barely hear you,” I reply. “Sound off. Tell the whole Pioneer Valley what you just told me.”
“I’m fat,” she says with considerably more oomph.
I’m proud of Emily. Damned proud. I want to give her a hug. “I’m so glad to hear you say that. Now, is that what you called about today?”
“Yes. I just wanted to thank you. I’m really happy that there’s a show out there like yours. You understand what it’s like.”
“To be fat?”
“Yes. To be fat.”
“Well, Emily, thanks for calling. And remember that your self-worth is not determined by a number on a scale.”
“I know,” she says softly. “I know.”
I press the red button again and let her go. I love this gig.
* * *
Emily’s predicament is not unique. Plenty of fat people are uncomfortable calling themselves fat. At one time in my life I was too. I used all the standard euphemisms that fat people use to describe themselves—large, big, heavy, overweight. None of these words is entirely accurate, and none provides the naked honesty of that short, one syllable word that we all hate.
Fat.
When I hear people like Emily using the comforting words of denial, I catch a whiff of dishonesty. Comforting as these euphemisms may be, they are all lies, albeit little white lies that a lot of deeply scarred fat people need, or think they need, to get through the day.
Calling someone “overweight” lends credibility to the insurance industry’s arbitrary weight standards. To say that someone is “obese” is nothing more than saying, in Latin, that she overeats. (ob = over, Ēsus = past participle of eat). The idea that fat people are fat by voluntary, mutable habits—by eating too much, as the Latin suggests—is the primary myth of fatness that needs to dispelled.
I avoid using both of these words in favor of “fat”. We call fat people fat because that’s what defines us, and it’s okay. I’m a fat woman and I haven’t let it stop me. I own my own home. I have a job, a car, and a man I love. I’m living my life in the only body I have. Call me fat if you want. It’s an adjective, a description of a trait. Nothing more.
I still get a kick out of fat people who insist on calling the fat acceptance movement the “size acceptance movement”. As if we face insidious discrimination called “sizism”. Give me a break. We aren’t discriminated against because of our size. We’re discriminated against because we’re fat. Shaquille O’Neal, for example, is a man of great size—seven foot one and three hundred twenty five pounds. But he doesn’t encounter fatphobia because he’s not fat.
The irony of the term “size acceptance” is that it’s really not very accepting in and of itself. If a person is still beating around the bush with bullshit euphemisms, it’s obvious that she still doesn’t accept her own fatness. Until she does, she can’t really expect anyone else to be accepting either. Call a spade a spade. You’re fat, just like me!
Chapter Three:
Such a Gentleman
The light is still on in my house when I pull up the driveway which means that Denny’s still awake. He lives with me in a small ranch house in South Hadley.
I walk up the footpath to the door, crunching little chunks of salt under my feet. Denny must have salted the walk to take care of the ice. It’s good to have a man around to do stuff like that.
I let myself in and am immediately ambushed by Nutter. He misses me. I drop my purse on the kitchen table and find my way to the living room where I find Denny on the couch watching Jeopardy! He TiVos Jeopardy! every night. He always knows the right answers too. Or, should I say, the right questions? I’ve mentioned to him a few times that he should try out for the show, but he always hems and haws at the idea. I’d put him up against Ken Jennings any day of the week. Denny is a regular Jeopardy! whiz kid.
Denny’s hair is wet, so I know he’s taken a shower. He looks quite handsome in his old UConn Huskies sweats.
“Hey babe,” I say, standing in the doorway.
Denny pauses Alex Trebek and looks up. “Oh, hey,” he says. “How was the show tonight?”
“Great,” I smile. “Another one in the can.” I walk across the room and kiss him on the cheek. “I love my show. When I’m sitting behind the microphone, I feel so powerful.”
He nods. “I know. That’s great.”
Denny tolerates my show, but he doesn’t necessarily like it. He doesn’t have the same passion for the issues that I do. I’ve tried to cajole him on a few occasions to get involved in the fat acceptance movement but he never does. “I’m not political,” he always says. Why in the world a fat man would choose to remain on the sidelines in the world of politics is beyond me. We fat people have to fight for our rights. No one’s going to do it for us. I don’t understand Denny’s apathy. On the flip side, he doesn’t understand why I give up two nights a week to speak on the radio without even getting paid for it.
I run my hand through his wet hair to make it spiky. I like doing that. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “I should be. I’ve got to work in the morning.”
Denny drives a school bus. That’s his day job. He gets up at an ungodly hour every weekday morning. During the winter months, he has to get there even earlier just to warm the bus up and scrape the windshield and stuff. Consequently, he tries to get into bed early most nights.
“So why aren’t you?” I ask.
“Can’t,” he shrugs.
“Oh,” I say. Denny frequently has fits of insomnia. I should have known. “Can’t fall asleep?”
“Yeah,” says Denny. “I thought I’d catch a little Jeopardy! ”
I kiss him on the lips. “Sounds reasonable.”
“I brought something home for you,” he says.
My face lights up. Denny’s other job, besides driving he school bus, is as a cook at the Yarde House. That’s a great little restaurant on the town common across from the college. The things he brings home are always delightful. “What is it? What did you bring me?”
“Just some Cajun chicken pasta,” he says.
The Cajun chicken pasta is to die for. I give him a hug and hit the refrigerator. I find a Styrofoam to-go container on the bottom shelf and flip open the lid. I discover chunks of blackened chicken, roasted peppers and broccoli in a cream sauce poured over a bed of linguini pasta. Beads of water drizzle down the Styrofoam flip-top. Denny knows it’s one of my favorites. I sling it into the microwave and set it for two minutes.
I return to the living room where Denny has switched back to Jeopardy! It’s Final Jeopardy! I can tell from the music. The question on the screen baffles me. “This reform-minded New York Democrat lost his chance at the White House after the Compromise of 1877 traded a Republican presidency for an end to Reconstruction.”
“Do you know this one?” I ask.
Silly question. Of course he knows it. He’s Denny. “It’s Honest Sam Tilden,” he says.
“Honest who?” Sounds like a used car salesman to me. Anyone who calls himself “Honest” reminds me of the guy who turns back odometers and puts sawdust in transmissions.
“Sam Tilden. He was the governor of New York. He ran against Rutherford B. Hayes in 1876. The election was really close that year.”
“What happened?”
“It was kind of like Bush and Gore in 2000,” Denny shrugs. “Nobody could figure out who the real winner was. Tilden was a Democrat. His party wanted federal troops out of the South. They basically wanted to get back the power they’d held as a party back in the slavery days. So they agreed to recognize the Republican as the winner as long as he ended Reconstruction.”
“I see.”
“Honest Sam Tilden got thrown under the bus and Rutherford B. Hayes got to be the president.”
The music comes to its exhilarating conclusion. Alex Trebek rereads the answer
then turns to contestant number one, a bald guy named Trent. I hear the microwave beep in the kitchen. My pasta is ready.
“Who is Horace Greeley?” Alex reads. “No, I’m sorry, the correct response was ‘Who is Samuel Tilden?’ Your wager was five thousand dollars, so that will leave you with nothing.” The crowd sighs heavily.
Denny was right. Again. It’s time for some Cajun chicken pasta.
* * *
Denny and I have been together for almost five years. We’ve grown so close together that I can hardly imagine my life without him.
I guess you could call him my common law husband. We’ve been shacking up for the vast majority of the time we’ve known each other. We have a husband/wife relationship in every meaningful respect except the legal one. We’ve never walked down the aisle, never made our relationship official in the eyes of any church or state.
Not that we haven’t discussed it. Every once in a while the topic of marriage creeps up, but neither of us sees the benefit of a state-sanctioned contract. It offers us nothing that we don’t already have.
I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t have any wedding day fantasies. I like to imagine it sometimes—Gabby and Denny’s wedding, complete with frilly invitations and a limousine to carry us away with tin cans rattling along behind us. I would be proud to have my mom give me away at the altar. Dad passed away a few years back.
But no, there will be no wedding bells for the two of us. Weddings are for the skinny and young. Fat people in their thirties and forties don’t go ahead with all of that pomp and circumstance. They just shack up, which is fine by me. I don’t need a wedding or an official certificate from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts to know that I love Denny.
I met Denny on a cruise. Not any old cruise, but a special BBW cruise. BBW stands for ‘big beautiful woman’. I assume the moniker with pride. It’s the only context in which I refer to myself as “big” rather than “fat”.
We Are Fat and We Are Legion Page 2