We Are Fat and We Are Legion

by Benjamin Duffy

  This room reminds me of Denny. We used to come here together. He liked the ribs too, but sometimes he ordered the hook burger or scallops creole. He also liked to have a beer with his dinner. The thought of him makes me a little melancholy. Please don’t break down crying again, right here and now in this restaurant. I brace myself, but nothing happens. I think it might be impossible to cry any more tears today.

  I sneak outside to the Webster’s ice cream shop next door. I’m glad that the ice cream shop and the restaurant are separate. I don’t want anyone to know that I’m having dessert. I’d like some ice cream, and no one’s going lay a guilt trip on me for it. I might get hungry later on. There’s no food back at the house, I remind myself. I order a bowl of pistachio ice cream and eat it in my car.

  I’m driving home when it hits me. I’m stuffed. I’m so damned full that I feel like a tick that might pop at any minute. My stomach cries out in agony. I’m bloated like a damned walrus or something. How could I have eaten so much?

  A wave of self-loathing washes over me. I despise myself for jamming my system so full of food. How can I live with myself this way? I have to do something to get it all out of me. One way or another, it has to come out.

  I arrive home and lay down on the coach, moaning to no one in particular. I feel like ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag. I wish I could just fall asleep to escape the pain. Nutter rubs his cool nose against my forehead, begging me to go for a walk. I don’t want him to drop a deuce on the rug, but right now I’d rather not move an inch off of this couch. This is agony of the worst kind.

  Please, Nutter, don’t go doo-doo on the rug, m’kay?

  A thought pops into my head that hasn’t been there for fifteen years. I need to lose some weight. I need to go on a diet. I can’t go on living this way any longer. I commit myself to that resolution.

  * * *

  For fat women, food is a never-ending source of anxiety. It has the power to change our moods for better or for worse. We love food and we hate food, but most of all we need food, just like everybody else. We have to eat on a daily basis or our mortal selves will perish. Therein lies the problem that plagues our relationship with nourishment.

  You may have heard of a twelve-step program called Overeaters Anonymous. Although they refuse to accept the label, they are in fact a diet program much like TOPS or Nutrisystem. Overeaters Anonymous differs from other twelve step programs in one key aspect—it doesn’t recommend that its adherents give up eating cold turkey.

  Of course not, right? That would be silly. But this difference is not inconsequential. Every other twelve step program is organized around abstinence—alcoholics never touch a drink again, gamblers permanently forgo trips to the casino, narcotics users completely abandon their drug habits. Overeaters however, still have to eat. It becomes a question of how to eat in a more “sensible” fashion. For fat people, this concept of needing something that is supposedly making them ill creates quite the logical and ethical bind. Over time, the very act of eating can become a ball and chain, a monkey on our backs.

  It’s my belief that most of the anxiety fatties feel toward eating isn’t really about what we’re putting in our mouths. It’s about society’s quiet judgment of our eating. We often hide ourselves from view, choosing to eat alone, rather than risk being seen eating something that tastes good. That’s not because the food itself it hurting us. It’s because of the snickering and dirty looks we receive simply for doing what everyone else does.

  Fatphobes watch us eat just so they can wag their fingers at us. Moral superiority radiates out from them like holier-than-thou churchy people. Tsk tsk. Sometimes they come right out and ask: “You aren’t really going to eat that, are you?” As if it’s any of their damned business. Even if they don’t say it with their words, they almost always say it with their eyes.

  People glance furtively into our grocery carriages to inspect the items we’re buying. They think we don’t notice, but we do. I might have only eggs, flour, and milk in my carriage, but it doesn’t matter. No wonder you’re so fat! Flour is refined death, eggs are full of fat and cholesterol, and shouldn’t you be drinking skim rather than two percent? For any other human being on earth, the contents of my carriage would quite mundane. But because I’m fat, they will find something wrong with what I’m buying. Maybe if I survived only on baby carrots they would be satisfied. Not likely.

  We fatties have to remind ourselves constantly that we have a right to eat, a right to eat without hiding ourselves with shame, and a right to eat things that taste good. That’s not a privilege of thinness.

  As I became more aware of fat liberation, my tolerance for the food police sharply declined. I no longer accepted it as a simple consequence of being fat. I decided to suffer in silence no longer.

  I confronted people.

  The first time was at the Big Y in Chicopee. A guy in his thirties saw me take a bag of potato chips off the shelf and toss it into my carriage. He winced, his facial expression betraying his internal thoughts.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  He looked startled. “No, I uh…”

  “What does it matter to you if I enjoy potato chips?”

  “It’s just that…I mean, potato chips? They aren’t very healthy.”

  Ah ha! So he was worried about my health. A complete stranger saw me buying a common American grocery item and he wanted to save me from myself. Throw on your cape and tights, Captain Health Food! I hear there’s a fat woman in freezer section considering whether to buy some Klondike bars. Now’s your chance to swoop in and save her life! Was I really supposed to believe that health was his main concern? No, that was a smokescreen, nothing more. He was just another anti-fat bigot.

  “Do you eat potato chips?” I asked him. It was pretty obvious that he did. The reason he saw me grab the potato chips was because he was browsing the same section.

  “Yeah, sometimes,” he shrugged. “I like chips.”

  “Even though they’re unhealthy?”

  His face began to turn red. “Yeah.”

  “So you can eat them, but I can’t.”

  “It’s just that you’re so…” he trailed off. “And I’m not.”

  “I’m so what? I’m so fat, right? Is that the word you were looking for?”

  “No, no,” he said meekly.

  “Well, let this be a lesson,” I barked. “You and I both eat potato chips. You’re skinny and I’m fat. Fat people and thin people eat the same damned things and yet we end up at different weights!”

  “Never mind,” he said as he slinked away, shaking his head in disbelief.

  I’ve had dozens of confrontations like that over the years. Usually the fatphobe flees the scene the moment I unmask his bigotry. A few stand and fight.

  Why is it anyone else’s business what I choose to put into my body? Seriously. I’m not hurting anyone. It’s not like I’m blowing second hand smoke in someone’s face or speeding through a school zone at three o’clock in the afternoon. For Pete’s sake, I’m just eating. Last time I checked, eating is a necessary biological function that we all take part in.

  My eating habits are my own decision. Yes, I take joy in foods that are delicious, but so do plenty of thin people. I do not welcome comments or even disapproving glances. Anyone who doesn’t like me to consume sustenance can just go shove it. It’s none of their damned business what I do in the privacy of my dining room.

  I recall a Saturday afternoon last summer when Denny and I went to Cook Farm in Hadley to get some ice cream. I got maple walnut, Denny got butter pecan. Denny wanted to take the cones to go, no doubt embarrassed to be seen eating them. I didn’t feel like it. Half of the Cook Farm experience is enjoying ice cream while strolling through the grounds of a functioning dairy farm. I think the cows are kind of cute, especially their wet noses. I get a little kick out of the idea that the ice cream I’m eating is the product of their udders. I insisted that we stay and eat our cones there.

  People were
staring at us. Two fat people, romantically involved, out at the local ice cream joint, enjoying themselves on a summer day? Intolerable. We had dared to show ourselves in public, to live our lives the exact same way everyone else does. Our mere presence was an affront to their prejudices.

  Something snapped inside my head. “What the hell are you staring at?” I shouted at a young family. There was a bubbling of whispers. “Haven’t you ever seen fat people before?”

  “Gabby!” Denny whispered sharply. “Don’t embarrass me.”

  I ignored him. “Is it the ice cream?” I shouted at the people. I took a big bite off the top of my scoop, just for effect. “Are we not allowed to eat ice cream?” I said with my mouth full.

  The family stood up and quickly moved away from us. No one bothered us for the rest of the afternoon. Denny didn’t talk to me until dinnertime that night.

  Chapter Seventeen:

  Fat People of the World, Unite!

  I feel like a fraud as I drive to the radio station. It’s seven thirty in the evening and I’m driving through downtown Northampton to do my first Fat Majority show since embarking upon my diet. I fully intend to put on the performance of a lifetime—railing against dieting and the industry that profits from it while harboring the secret that I am doing exactly what I condemn.

  I am on a diet..

  I had fake eggs, mini corn tortillas, and salsa for dinner. It was kind of tasty, but not what I’m used to eating. I’m munching on a bag of baby carrots as I drive.

  Tonight is no ordinary show. The date is May Sixth, which happens to be International No Diet Day (INDD), a day when people around the world resolve to give up their weight loss goals, at least for twenty-four hours. This being the first year since my show began that INDD has fallen on a Tuesday or Thursday (the nights I get to talk), I have a big show planned. I can’t believe that the first full day of my new diet happens to be May Sixth. Ugh…the irony.

  I’m going to lie. I’m going to go through with the entire show, never revealing that I am flirting with weight loss. For crying out loud, I feel like a televangelist sneaking around with a couple of whores. If anyone knew that I was dieting, I’d be exposed.

  I slug my way down Northampton’s Main Street. Damned pedestrians keep crossing in front of my car. Northampton has a lot of crosswalks. I gaze at the wonderful variety of restaurants and imagine their offerings—sizzling, grass-fed, black angus beef at Local Burger, cheesy quesadillas at Bueno y Sano, savory couscous and lamb at Amanouz Café. But at all of those tasty offerings are off limits to me because I’m a dieter.

  I reach the radio station and say hi to the Valley Liberated Radio staff. I’m on friendly terms with all of them. I’ll be on in a few minutes and I’m starving. The carrots did little to curb my hunger; real nourishment is called for. This is the kind of suffering I gave up for fifteen years. Why am I doing this again?

  The special edition of my show begins in the regular way. I wait for my short snippet of “Baby Got Back” to fade way. I’m on the air. “Welcome to a very special edition of The Fat Majority with your host, Gabby Medeiros,” I say. “We have a spectacular show planned for today because May Sixth is the biggest day of the year on the fat liberation calendar. It’s International No Diet Day! Founded by British feminist Mary Evans Young in 1992, INDD is now observed across the globe as a day to resolve to end the weight loss obsession.

  “Now, that doesn’t mean that today is a day for stuffing your face. It just means that we should eat what we want, when we want. If you feel like eating a steak and a baked potato and then having dessert, go ‘head and do it. International No Diet Day is about individual choice. It’s about listening to your body and its natural cues, rather than eating according to a predetermined set of rules. Eat what you want and don’t beat yourself up if you don’t look like the girl on the magazine cover. Don’t worry, nobody does; not even the girl on the magazine cover. She’s all silicone and airbrushing.

  “The first International No Diet Day was to be celebrated in London in 1992. Mary was concerned that bodily obsession was doing more harm than good. She had just seen two news bulletins about people who had harmed themselves as a result of societal fatphobia. One teenage girl had committed suicide because of anti-fat teasing. She wore a size twelve dress, which is basically average. Another woman had just split the staples on her stomach and was undergoing her third operation. Mary Evans Young thought it was bloody madness.” I pronounce the last two words with an affected English accent. It’s probably terrible. I hope that no actual English people are listening.

  “And it is bloody madness. People generally, and women in particular, do absurd things to lose weight. Dangerous things. We’re never satisfied because none of us look like Giselle Bündchen. Giselle is basically a one in a million genetic freak occurrence. It’s virtually impossible to look like her. No woman should put herself through the proverbial wringer trying to look that way. It won’t happen.

  “The holiday has since spread around the world to such places as Canada, the United States, Germany, and Australia. Former governor of Texas Ann Richards proclaimed May Sixth as International No Diet Day in her state back in 1994.

  “INDD comes with a pledge,” I explain. I want to continue, but there’s a lump in my throat. I pause for a second before I realize that I’m committing a broadcasting sin—dead air. “Which I will take right now…”

  I’m lying. I know I’m lying. I’m about to swear an oath of anti-dieting, and yet I am in fact dieting. Screw it. It’s not like I’m swearing on my mother’s grave before God Almighty and His angels. I can lie a bit.

  “If you so desire, you can pledge too,” I continue. My voice is weak and scratchy. I flip my notebook open to this show’s notes. “Just repeat along with me.

  “I pledge—that I will not diet for one day on May Sixth, International No Diet Day. Instead of trying to change my body to fit someone else’s standards, I will accept myself just as I am. I will feed myself if I’m hungry. I will feel no shame or guilt about my size or about eating. I will think about whether dieting has improved my health and well-being or not. And I will try to do at least one thing I have been putting off until I lose weight.”

  I sigh. That’s not a good thing to do on the air either. I’m getting a little frazzled. Hunger is nibbling away at my concentration. “That’s it. That’s the pledge.” The red light on my phone glows. I shake the cobwebs out of my head. “Hello, caller. You’re on the air with Gabby Medeiros.”

  “Hey, yo, Gabby,” says a male voice. “Nice pledge. Really great.”

  I can’t tell if he’s kidding. I laugh nervously. “Thanks. Glad you like it. Did you take the pledge?”

  “Nope, sure didn’t,” the man replies. I can tell he thinks he’s funny. Cutesty. I despise a smart ass.

  “So you were being facetious when you said it was great.”

  “Yeah, basically. Hey, there’s one thing I wanted to ask you. Why don’t you just change yourself rather than trying to change the whole world?”

  “Good question. Thank you, caller,” I reply. “I believe you’re asking me why I don’t just lose weight.”

  “Yeah,” says the caller.

  “Because I can’t,” I reply.

  “You can’t?”

  “No. I’m living in my natural body. I am built this way. Some people can’t accept it, but I have accepted myself.”

  The smartass snickers. “Yeah, okay. You think it’s impossible to change yourself, but it’s a real possibility to change the whole world. That makes no sense whatsoever.”

  “To change attitudes? It’s not impossible to change attitudes. Martin Luther King did it. There’s nothing natural about society’s current attitudes about body image and what it means to be attractive.”

  “Right. Well, you’re no Martin Luther King. In any case, a lot more people have lost weight and—”

  I cut him off. “Ninety-five percent of them gain it back!” I snap. I’m seeing red. “All of it
and a few pounds more!’

  “Okay. So you can’t lose weight. I think I got it.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. Of course it’s possible to lose weight. It’s keeping it off that’s the hard part.”

  “And if it’s hard, then don’t do it. Don’t even try, right?”

  I’d like to kick this guy’s ass. I wish I knew where he was calling from. I’d drive to his house after the show and give him an ass-whooping he’d never forget. I’ve had to put up with this crap all of my life. My brain in burning with anger inside of my skull, cooking like a poached egg. “It’s not a question of willpower,” I spit.

  “It’s not?”

  “No, it isn’t. Let me ask you—have you listened to this show before?”

  “Only once,” he replies. “Tuesday evening. But I decided I should listen more often, ‘cause it’s really entertaining. I mean that. A laugh a minute.”

  I decide to let that last comment roll off. “Okay. That’s why you don’t get it.”

  “Oh…I see. So if you’re fat, you just stay that way?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I choose to love myself for the person I am. I don’t loathe myself for the person I’ll never be. Most fat people haven’t yet adopted this attitude, but I think they’d be a lot happier if they did. Willpower has nothing to do with it. Dieting requires a degree of suffering that no thin person would ever put up with. Fat people are expected to—”

  “Baloney,” he interrupts. “You just agreed with me. You just told me that dieting requires suffering. In other words, it is about willpower. Your attitude is that if it’s hard, don’t do it. That’s the definition of willpower—doing something that isn’t easy.”

  “Are you on Jenny Craig’s payroll or something?” I shout.

  I’ve lost my cool with this guy. Other hecklers have called in before, but I’ve always held my own with them. This is the first time I’ve felt myself on the losing side of the debate. I’ve lost my edge because I’ve lost my faith. I’m not sure if I even believe myself anymore.