We Are Fat and We Are Legion

by Benjamin Duffy

  Fat politicians are a rare breed. Most people want to cast their vote for someone who looks trim and fit because…well, I don’t know why. It makes absolutely no sense to me. Check out slim and fit George W. Bush. Didn’t he screw up the country enough? Skinny people have been in charge since time immemorial and everything sucks. It’s time for them to relinquish the reigns of power and let us fatties give it a try. We might do a better job of running the day to day affairs of the country. We could hardly do worse.

  Girth was an issue in the 2009 New Jersey Governor’s race. The incumbent, Jon Corzine, ran a campaign ad accusing the challenger, Chris Christie, of “throwing his weight around” to get out of traffic tickets. The ad then flashed a picture of Christie getting out of a vehicle with his full sized belly in view. The message was clear—are you going to vote for this lardass for governor?

  I wouldn’t have voted for Christie either, but not because of his gut. I kind of like his gut. I would not have voted for him because he’s a Republican and I’m definitely not. I hated Republicans before it was cool to hate Republicans. I can kind of understand the allure of the Republican Party for people who happen to be a rich, white, religious, and skinny, just not for anyone else. Rush Limbaugh’s a bit of fatty and he used to be even fatter. And Newt Gingrich? He’s a tub of lard too. Don’t they understand that they’re part of a marginalized “out group”? Why do they support a status quo that does so much harm to fatties like themselves? It makes about as much sense to me as Jews for Jesus or the Log Cabin Republicans.

  Regardless of party affiliation, I was disappointed that one candidate (a Democrat, no less) would take a jab at the other just because he’s fat. I rebuked Corzine for his ad on The Fat Majority. I didn’t give him a pass just because he’s a Democrat.

  I liked the way Chris Christie handled it too. He took Corzine’s slings and arrows with a definite sense of humor, joking that he’d be a “big, fat, winner” on election day, which he was. I love a good fat joke, so long as it isn’t malicious. I was kind of happy to see a fat man win the governorship, even if I didn’t agree with him on the issues.

  Even so, the deck is stacked against fat candidates. I think it has a lot to do with the dawn of the mass media. Years ago, before the age of television, most people had only a vague idea of what their elected officials looked like. For example, most people didn’t know that Franklin Roosevelt was in a wheelchair because he was rarely on camera. On the few occasions that a photograph was taken of him, he made sure that his wheelchair was out of sight. That would be impossible in today’s world.

  People of that era were less fixated on what a candidate looked like, which made movie star good looks (à la Obama) unnecessary. People cared more about a candidate’s position on the issues than if he looked handsome in a suit. A fat man had a fighting chance in those days.

  William Howard Taft is my favorite president and also the fattest in American history. I’ll even forgive him for being a Republican because it was a different kind of Republican Party in those days. Though his girth fluctuated throughout his adult life, Taft’s weight while in the White House (1909-1913) was about three hundred forty pounds. A true BHM occupied the Oval Office.

  Taft ordered a new bathtub for the White House because the old one was too small. Although he wouldn’t have used the term, he was actually making the facilities “fat accessible,” much like the fat accessible BBW cruise I took five years ago. Kudos to him for that. Fat accessibility is a big issue of mine.

  But the days of fat presidents are long gone. In the modern era, elected officials have to look “good” for the television cameras. It helps to have an athletic build and a handsome face. Basically, it’s best to look more like Kennedy, Clinton, or Obama than like Mr. Taft. Such is life in the world of twenty-four hour media bombardment. No fatties need apply. It will be a long time before we elect another BHM (or BBW) to the White House.

  The irony of this situation is that most Americans are fat. Statistics indicate that 67 percent are overweight and 34 percent are obese; hence the name of my show, The Fat Majority. You might think that fat people would turn out in droves to vote for a fat candidate who speaks to fat issues. But that just isn’t the case.

  Chapter Twenty-Two:

  Cowgirls Don’t Cry

  I clutch the cell phone in my hand, rubbing my thumb across the display. Finger grease smears the window. I’ve been contemplating this for quite some time, and now I think it’s time to go through with it. I’ve worked up the nerve and I must do this before I talk myself out of it.

  I’m sitting in my car. It’s lunchtime. Millie went to Boriquen y Quisqueya by herself to get some rice and beans, maybe fried plantains, and roasted pork. I indulge that little food fantasy for a moment, imagining a heaping plate in front of me. I’m here in my Nissan with nothing to keep me company except my Weight Watchers approved bag lunch. I’ve been watching my points faithfully.

  I dial the number Mrs. Emory gave me and listen to it ring. I hope that Denny picks up and not that new girlfriend of his, Alyssa what’s-her-name. I breath heavily. Nerves.

  Just when I think no one will answer, someone does. “Hello?” says a female voice.

  This is not going according to plan. This must be Alyssa and I don’t want to talk to her. “I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number,” I say.

  “Who ya callin’ for?” she asks.

  “Oh…uh, Jennifer.” I pull a name from thin air.

  “No Jennifer here,” she replies.

  “Sorry,” I say, then hang up.

  My face is flushed red with shame. I can’t believe I just did that. I can’t just keep calling back. If I keep calling and Alyssa keeps answering, what am I going to say? Wrong number again?

  Millie friended her on Facebook, so now she has full access to Alyssa’s page. I saw her pictures. She’s kind of pretty. She’s probably considered fat by societal standards but she isn’t nearly as fat as I am. She’s already posted a few pictures of herself with Denny. The pictures upset me quite a bit. I felt moved to find this chick and kick her bitchy little ass. I could take her.

  I have a few minutes remaining on my lunch break so I grab a bottle of water and switch on the radio. The song is “Cowgirls Don’t Cry” by Brooks & Dunn. I feel fidgety so I play with the turn signal just to expend some energy.

  My cell phone rings. I quickly glance at the screen before opening it up. ‘RESTRICTED’ it says across the screen.

  “Hello?” I say as I switch off the radio.

  “Gabby?” says a man. It’s Denny’s voice. I’d recognize it anywhere. I’m instantly overcome with glee and anxiety at the same time.

  “Yeah, this is Gabby.”

  “You just called here, didn’t you?”

  “Uh, yeah. I did,” I reply.

  “I guess you thought no one would know it was you. Welcome to the twenty-first century. We’ve got caller ID these days.”

  I chuckle nervously. I don’t know how to extricate myself from this one. “Yeah, you caught me.”

  “I don’t know where you got this phone number,” he continues. “It doesn’t matter where you got it. You’re crafty, you must have done some snooping around.”

  “Denny, I—”

  “I thought I made it clear to you that our relationship is over,” he interrupts. “We’re finished. There’s nothing to talk about. Go find somebody else.”

  “Denny, I just wanted to tell you that I’m also trying to lose weight. I don’t think I’ve lost much yet, but I’m just getting started.”

  “Uh huh,” he replies. “So everything’s cool now, right? And now I should just take you back like nothing every happened?”

  The answer is yes. Oh hell yes. But I can’t say that. “No, I don’t expect that.”

  “Good. Now let me ask you this—do you understand why I’m trying to lose weight?”

  “Because of your diabetes,” I reply. “I understand.”

  “Not just because of my diabetes. That�
��s part of it, but there’s more. Do you know why I have such trouble sleeping?”

  “I thought it had something to do with Gulf War Syndrome or something.”

  “Ha!” he snorts. “Gulf War Syndrome? You’re kidding, right? When did I ever tell you that I had Gulf War Syndrome? It’s called sleep apnea. I can’t sleep because the weight on my chest pinches my windpipe shut and I wake up gasping for breath. The weight on my knees is wearing down the cartilage. I’m miserable, Gabby. I don’t need to change society to make it more fat friendly. Society’s not the problem.”

  I bite my tongue. It’s exactly that kind of attitude I’ve spent the last fifteen years fighting against. Sadly, plenty of fatties accept the idea that fat people need to change in order to suit societal prejudices, rather than vice versa. “I know,” I say. “You’ve got a weight loss goal and I accept that. If it will lower your blood sugar levels and improve your sleep, I can accept that.”

  There’s a long pause on his end. “Okay, Gabby. I think you’re just saying that to patch things up. You don’t really believe it.”

  “No, I believe it.”

  “You know, I wasn’t always this way,” he says. “I wrestled in high school. I played soccer too.”

  “I know. You told me.”

  “I was in the Marines,” he continues.

  “Yeah. I know that. And you were probably one of the best damned Marines there ever was.”

  “Then I started eating. I couldn’t stop even though I saw what it was doing to my body. The fatter I got, the more depressed I got, the more I ate. And you spent five years trying to convince me that it wasn’t my fault.”

  That remark stung me; it sounds as if he’s laying the blame at my feet. “I just wanted you to love yourself the way you were. The way I love you.”

  “Funny thing is, I almost believed you,” says Denny. “I almost accepted the premise that I was naturally four hundred forty pounds. Just born that way, that’s all.”

  A tear trickles down my face. “I didn’t want to harm you.”

  “Great. Well, I’m done feeling sorry for myself. I want to live, Gabby! I see myself getting older every day. I see that life is too short to just lock myself in the house and play chess all day. I’ve only got one life and it’s passing me by. I’m going to take that life in my own hands.”

  “That’s great, Denny. I support you.”

  “And there’s no room in that life for you.”

  It feels like a fist in the gut. Suddenly, I feel like a punch-drunk boxer, stumbling around the ring, the world around me a swirling maelstrom. “Don’t say that,” I whisper. “Please. You hurt me when you say that.”

  “It’s true. I have to break free of you if I’m ever going to change myself. I’ve found a new girlfriend and we’re very happy together.”

  “I get it! I really do, but—”

  “This is your final warning. If you call me again, if you show up at the bus garage, if you make any attempt to contact me, I’ll go to court and get a restraining order against you. Comprendo?”

  I’m sobbing now. I can’t believe he’s talking to me this way. “I…”

  Denny hangs up the phone. I’m alone in my car. I look at the screen to see what time it is. I really have to get back to work but I can’t do that. Everyone will see that I’ve been crying. I dab my eyes with a soft tissue from the console between the seats. Just a few more minutes.

  * * *

  To the founding mothers of fat civil rights, I have much to be grateful for. They started it all. My only regret is that I am too young to have been there for the formative years.

  I was in diapers when the Fat Underground struck a blow for the cause at a UCLA psychiatric seminar. It was 1975. Knowing that the top psychiatrists in “obesity research” would all be in one room to discuss “behavior modification theory,” the unrepentant fatties of FU decided to crash the party and challenge the message.

  Perhaps you’ve heard of behavior modification therapy before. Churchy people think it’s the key to “curing” their gay children, although it’s been roundly rejected by mental health professionals as ineffective and dangerous.

  Kudos to the head-shrinkers for that. Yet the same mental health professionals still employ behavior modification therapy to make fat kids reject food. They haven’t learned yet that you can’t change a fat kid any more than you can change a gay kid. They’re both born that way and people just need to get over it.

  The movement was young in ‘75 and still considered fringe-ish at best. They had no illusions of winning over all of the obstinate minds with a single infiltration mission. These were “experts,” after all. There’s nothing they don’t already know. That’s what makes them experts. Too many heads were stuck too far up too many asses for reason to suddenly carry the day. Nonetheless, it was important to simply talk back, to put into place arguments running contrary to the accepted narrative of fat as a sickness.

  After disabling the phone in the lobby (so no one could call the police), twenty fat women stormed the stage. Well known activist Lynn Mabel-Lois, dressed to intimidate with work boots and work clothes, brushed aside the startled speaker and seized his microphone. This is the same Lynn Mabel-Lois who raged against the medical establishment one year prior in the wake of Cass Elliot’s death. With the microphone in her hand, she had the means to deliver a passionate rebuttal to her captive audience. She gave a one minute speech from notes she had quickly scribbled down during the bus ride home from work. The stunned crowd was treated to the fury of a fat woman tired of being treated like crap. She denounced the psychiatric community’s misinformation, the concept of weight loss, and the idea that people are fat because of overeating.

  When she had finished, the crowd just sat there with mouths agape. The infiltrators turned tail and ran like hell to their cars. The silence was broken only after the moderator joked, “Look how much exercise they got! They walked all the way down the auditorium, and all the way up the stage steps, and all the way back!”

  Ha, ha. They never quit with the fat jokes. It only proved that fat women can’t make a serious statement without someone taking potshots at them. Fat women understand how it feels to speak with intelligence and conviction only to have all of their words invalidated by their fatness.

  But the fat ladies had the last laugh that day. Through the movement, I’ve met many of the women who took part in the Great UCLA Ambush of 1975. Although the details of the story vary a little depending on who’s telling the story, most seem to agree that they were lifted up with exhilaration when they got home. It was a better high than drugs.

  The incident at UCLA should recall shades of the gay rights movement. In 1970, gay activists besieged the American Psychiatric Association’s annual meeting in San Francisco, objecting in the strongest possible terms to the APA’s classification of homosexuality as a mental disorder. The APA hired additional security for the next two annual meetings, but to no avail—the gays kept coming back, bolder than ever, demanding that their sexuality be legitimatized.

  Again in 1973, they returned to the APA’s annual meeting. That was the year that the organization’s board of trustees officially voted to eliminate homosexuality from its Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, after consulting experts and determining that it did not meet the criteria of a mental disorder. The decision was confirmed a year later by a vote of the general membership, 58 percent in favor.

  Of course, there were some holdouts. Some psychiatrists persisted in classifying gays as sick even after 1973. Totally unprofessional. Believe it or not, a few of these oddballs still exist. Personally, I think they should have their licenses revoked for being so far outside of the psychiatric community’s mainstream. If they can’t follow their own psychiatric manual, they shouldn’t be allowed to practice psychiatry. Now that I think about it, fatphobic doctors should lose their licenses as well. Being fat is just as natural as being thin. It’s just as natural as being gay too. Fatness is not a sickness,
and any doctor who thinks so should find a new profession.

  There are parallels between the UCLA ambush and the yearly confrontations at APA meetings. Sadly, one effort was successful, while the other failed. Thirty-five years after a pack of fat women read psychiatrists the riot act, most psychiatrists still don’t get it. They have pathologized fatness. It will take much more effort to convince these people that fat is not a sickness but a natural condition found everywhere in nature. Alas, the battle goes on.

  Chapter Twenty-Three:

  Be the Change You Want to See in the World

  “Five foot eight, one hundred thirty-two pound Cassie Smith is too fat to work at Hooters,” I say into the microphone. “The twenty year old waitress has been suspended from her job at a Michigan restaurant due to the fit of her uniform. She claims that she was given a free gym membership and a timeline for weight loss. Failing to lose sufficient weight by target dates would result in her termination.”

  It’s Tuesday evening and The Fat Majority is broadcasting live out of the Valley Liberated Radio studio in the Florence section of Northampton. Normally, I would take great pleasure in these few hours behind the microphone. I used to cherish this opportunity to mount my own personal soapbox, to shout at the world, to make my voice heard up and down the Valley.

  That all changed the day I started dieting. I’ve come to dread Tuesday and Thursday nights. All of the joy has been bled from it, leaving the program feeling limp and lifeless. I hope my listeners haven’t noticed that my heart’s just not in it anymore. Even so, I’m still putting in my best effort to fake it with style.

  “You have to see this girl,” I continue. “I wish I could show you a picture, but such are the limits of radio. She looks like your run-of-the-mill Hooters waitress. She’s a stick. She isn’t even mildly overweight. If you consult the vaunted BMI tables, you’ll find that she’s a 20.1. You know what I think of BMI, of course—blatantly meaningless information. But if we assume the standards of the fatphobic world for just a moment, that places her in the normal range. If she lost any more than ten pounds, she would actually be considered underweight. And yet, that’s exactly what Hooters wants her to do just to keep her job. According to the news clip I saw, her fluorescent orange Hooters shorts are size extra small. And she’s still too fat.