I’m ashamed that I often look at my body and secretly agree.
See, the thing about my mom is that she was fat until, suddenly, she wasn’t. Or at least that’s how it felt to me. I feel like I woke up one day and the Mom I knew was gone and replaced with a newer, thinner model.
But the change didn’t actually happen overnight. Perhaps I didn’t want to see what was right in front of me—that my mother’s body was slowly shrinking, looking less and less like mine every day, because I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) acknowledge that she was achieving the very thing I waste so much time longing for.
It went like this: my dad got sick and died, my mom wallowed for a long time, we both got fatter together in our sadness, she had trouble feeling good about herself, she decided to throw herself into losing weight, and then—bam. Things were different.
I guess there were a few other things that happened in between, but that’s the gist.
It didn’t help that my mom and I were never especially close. People always said I was Héctor’s girl, through and through. I inherited Papi’s brown skin, dark eyes, curly hair, and sense of humor. My mom—white, with light-brown eyes and straight hair, not as easily amused as us—would sometimes grumble about the fact that she felt left out of our jokes.
My dad and I just clicked. Our relationship was easy in all the ways that my relationship with my mom is hard. It was like he got me right down to my core from the moment I could talk.
Though he worked construction, Papi’s heart really belonged to storytelling. He wrote in his spare time—he loved mystery novels and the art of a good thrill—and passed that admiration for language on to me (though telling stories about ordinary people falling in love is more my cup of tea). Storytelling was just something we did together. When I was a kid, he read me stories at bedtime until I was old enough to read some to him. Then we ditched the books altogether and started making up the stories together. It was our thing, and he even wrote a few of his favorites down so we would remember them. My favorite was “Charlie and the Rainbow Shoes,” which we based on a pair of Mary Janes I owned that had rainbow stitching around the edges. In the story, they were magical and let little Charlie do things like swim with whales and fight monsters and ride unicorns and fly. I still have the story in a box under my bed.
Papi had a thing for the spoken word, too. He was bilingual and always seemed to be talking—he just always had stories bursting out of him. He couldn’t (or didn’t want to?) contain his big imagination, and sometimes that meant he got too invested in new projects that would never go anywhere. If we needed a little extra cash: What if we started a dog-walking business? If we were bored of the same meals: What about a night of homemade sushi and gyoza? If we were seeking some adventure: What if we drove to the coast and explored the shoreline?
I liked to think of my dad as a balloon always drifting toward the sky, and my mom as the anchor always keeping him tethered to the ground—not enough so that he couldn’t dream, necessarily, but enough so that we didn’t go broke or end up at the beach in the middle of the night when it was freezing cold out.
Even though sometimes my parents were like fire and ice, for the most part, they worked together. She never let him float away, and he helped her keep her joy alive.
That’s why it was better when we were three. There was a sense of stability, and when things got tough between me and my mom, my dad could serve as the buffer between the two girls he loved most. Because if I got my love of words and laughter from my dad, I got my stubbornness and tenacity from my mom. We aren’t so much oil and water as we’re just two straight-up firecrackers who both like to be right and have the last word and are—ultimately—incredibly sensitive.
So Papi had to help keep the peace, and he made us both feel heard. Mostly, I think he just wanted us to be happy together, our little family, and he’d do anything to make it so.
It’s not that we never had nice moments, my mom and I. We did. We both loved reality television. We were always singing old-school Mariah Carey. Shopping brought us together, too, especially when it came to clothes: Mom liked to say she never met a sale she didn’t like, and she taught me to dress well, to appreciate the thrill of finding a good garment—which was especially tough to do as fat women.
We also had fun cooking together, dedicating ourselves to delicious food and savoring our creations. My mom was an amazing cook; her love language was food—lots and lots of it, seconds, thirds, even fourths—and she took great pride in feeding others good meals until they wanted to burst. I developed such a joy for eating when I was standing next to her in the kitchen, concocting a meal and delighting when Papi loved what we’d made for him. There was something so pure about the taste of a scrumptious recipe, something so simple, and it brought us happiness together. As a family, we were fat, and maybe we didn’t love that about ourselves, but we accepted it.
But then we lost him.
Without him, the balance and the joy in our home were lost, too. Without him there to separate us or draw us together when we needed it, my mom and I couldn’t stop fights before we said things we didn’t mean, couldn’t fill a silence before it got too big.
I was thirteen when my dad died and I was fourteen when my mother’s body changed. Mine was changing, too, but not in the way I wanted. I developed, but also widened, going from having “baby fat” to just being “fat-fat.” At a time when I was becoming interested in boys and men, I realized how interested boys and men were now becoming in my mother.
As my mom shed her old body and habits like a snake shedding its skin, the things that brought us together began to disappear: no more sitting on the couch watching reality TV; no more shopping for clothes together (we couldn’t patronize the same stores); absolutely no more cooking together unless it was grilled chicken and broccoli, no delighting in indulgent meals or whipping up decadent desserts—no, nope, never. Food was no longer a celebration. We ate to survive and nothing more.
I tried it her way for a while. I really did. But I missed my dad, I missed my mom, and I missed my old life. I missed food.
So she shrank. I didn’t.
Instead, I refocused. I amped up my writing, which helped me escape my brain. I went online and began to share stories of beautiful girls with happy endings, which made me feel joyful and whole, even if only for a bit. And then, slowly, through those writing communities, I ended up finding feminism and the fat acceptance movement, and I moved on to writing stories about girls of all sizes, from all backgrounds. It started to impact the way I thought about bodies, about nourishment, about diets, about myself.
And that was maybe the final wedge between me and my mom. When I tried to talk about some of the things I was learning or questioning, I was swiftly shut down. Her body had been a “prison,” she said, and mine was, too. I could be “free,” if only I could commit to being thin.
She started looking at me critically, saying things like, “Do you really want to eat that?” “Are you sure you should go back for seconds?” “That’s what you’re wearing?”
I try not to let it get to me. I recognize that my mom’s thoughts about her body and mine are not healthy. And yet…
My own relationship with my body is so complicated. I am endlessly surrounded by messages that tell me to love myself, to celebrate stretch marks and soft rolls, to take charge and take up space, to be unapologetically me. Show off that visible belly outline! Rock a fatkini! All bodies are beach bodies! I get that. I celebrate that. I believe that.
But I’m also surrounded by messages that tell me I need shapewear, I need to lose weight, I need to fit into straight sizes, I need to look like an Insta girl, I need to be tiny to be loved. Even my lived reality seems to support this. I don’t mean to seem shallow, but it’s like, when everyone goes out of their way to tell you “what a pretty face” you have, you notice.
Is it any wonder, then, I still find myself wishing so badly for this body of mine to be smaller?
I’ve quietly tri
ed the diets and the shakes and the workout plans and the control tops and the wasting-birthday-wishes-on-thinness—and simultaneously, I’ve gotten involved in the fat acceptance movement, celebrating Fatness and following the #fatfashion hashtag like it’s my religion. I believe that people can be healthy at any size. I think other fat girls are absolutely beautiful.
But my mind struggles to bridge the gap between the two ideologies. I’m fat, and I celebrate other fat people, but I don’t quite celebrate me. It makes me feel like a fraud.
My mom says I’m unable to lose weight because I don’t want it enough, but she couldn’t be more wrong: I would secretly give anything to be thin, while outwardly and openly rebelling against the idea that anyone should have to.
Food comforted me then and still comforts me now. The rush of happiness I feel when I bite into a chocolate chip cookie, the ache of a belly that’s a little too full, the anticipation before digging in to a meal—these things bring me joy.
Because of that, I guess I can see why my mom doesn’t believe that I try to eat better and exercise, even though I do. It’s just that sometimes I look at my mom’s lithe body and all the enviably thin bodies around me and my efforts feel futile. It’s hard not to turn to food, which is so reliable and so easy.
I return my gaze to the shake on the counter and turn it around in my hand a couple of times. The label boasts ONLY 210 CALORIES AND 24 GRAMS OF PROTEIN, and for a brief moment, I consider giving it another shot.
But no. I throw the shake in the trash and pull out my phone to order some food instead. If I hide the evidence of what I’m about to do, my mom won’t scold me—and what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
Chapter Four
I do nothing all Saturday except read, write, and mess around on the internet. Mostly, I post new pieces of writing and chat with my community of online friends who help critique my work and offer support from the sidelines, which is really nice. In my real life, only Amelia knows I write, and sometimes even that feels scary; sharing my writing is one of the most vulnerable things I can imagine.
But there’s something thrilling about it, too, especially when it’s well received. I’m addicted, and my hobby often keeps me so rapt that I don’t even feel time passing.
When my phone buzzes midday Sunday, I see a text from Amelia.
Jake’s? it reads.
She’s referring to the small coffee shop downtown where we (and, I’ll be honest, most people from my school) hang out. I glance down at myself—still wearing pj’s even though much of the day has passed me by, my curly-now-frizzy hair piled on my head, a mess from excessive lounging around—and feel the brief temptation to pretend I didn’t see the text at all because it would require me making some kind of effort.
And to leave the sanctuary of my room—which is a sanctuary, by the way, from the twinkling white lights to the mountains of books to the window seat where I love to read. I’ve worked really hard to curate this very particular Instagram aesthetic and I only leave it when I absolutely must. It’s the introvert in me.
I weigh my options: say goodbye to the warmth of this blanket and the easy banter with my online friends, or venture out into the real world with my bestie and feel like an actual person?
When my phone buzzes again (Helloooo?), I sigh and decide on the latter.
Just need a few minutes to get ready, I write.
I’ll wait. You’re picking me up anyway!
With long hair like mine, there is no such thing as a quick wash, so I opt to keep it up in the shower and am careful not to get it wet. Once I’m out and dry, I braid it into two plaits, pin it to the back of my head, and slip into a sweater dress, some tights, and boots.
I grab Amelia and we head to Jake’s. It’s a quirky little coffee shop with delicious lattes, fresh-baked goods, and eco-friendly compost bins where they recycle the used coffee grounds. The mismatched decor makes the place feel cozy and lived in, like maybe you’re having coffee at your hippie aunt’s house. There’s tons of natural light, which makes for getting the perfect Insta pic of your drink, and a tiny section of used books they sell for a dollar each. Obviously, I’m all about it.
It’s late January in New England, and the best place to sit is by the fireplace. Unfortunately, that spot is always taken, so Amelia and I settle in two comfy chairs by the window with our large hot drinks instead—chai latte for me, hazelnut coffee for her.
“I saw you posted a new story this weekend,” Amelia says, propping her legs up on the small table between us.
“Eesh, I did. I don’t know about it, though,” I say. “This is the first time I’ve written from the perspective of a boy. And what do I know about boys and how they think?”
Amelia laughs. “Yeah, but what does anyone know about boys and how they think? So come on, Charlie. Give yourself a little credit. I thought Clive and Olivia were really cute together!”
I smile at her. “Thanks. But be real with me: Would you change anything?”
“Well…” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “Since you asked—I was curious why Olivia was so scared to hold Clive’s hand. She’s sixteen, not a nun.”
I wince a little internally, if only because Olivia’s nerves are totally based on mine. “I mean…not everyone is comfortable just going for it.…”
Amelia takes a sip of her drink. “You just spent, like, a really long time explaining how terrified she was and I wanted to be like, ugh, just do it, girl! It’s just holding a hand!” I chew on my lip a little, letting her critique sink in. I maybe take it a bit more personally than I should, and she notices, adding, “I mean, don’t stress. Everything else was perfect.”
“Okay, yeah.” I give her a smile. “I’ll work on that next time.”
A thoughtful look comes over Amelia’s face. “You know, it’s really impressive that you just, like, come up with these stories from your brain. You make people up. Whole-ass people!”
I laugh. “Guess I’ve never thought of it like that. Amelia, honestly, writing is super hard—it makes me feel so vulnerable. I mean, you know how reluctant I am to share my stuff. But my dad always used to say that to be a writer, you’ve got to be fine ‘writing naked’—like, baring your soul, being real—so I think you’re just supposed to power through the fear. It’s hard, though! It feels so personal that I can’t help but be fiercely protective of it, and then there’s this little voice that’s constantly concerned it’s not quite ready for other people’s eyes yet, but then it’s like…if I’m not going to share my writing, what am I even doing? I don’t know. I sometimes think I should totally switch dream jobs and just do data entry at a novelty mug warehouse.”
Then I feel a little sheepish for sharing so much and add, “I fully realize how dramatic I’m being.”
“I think it’s cute. You should get dramatic about things you care about,” Amelia says. “I wish I were that passionate about track.”
I frown at her. “You’ve been unhappy with track all year. Why don’t you just quit?”
She wrinkles her nose at that. “My mom really wants me to stay on. The legacy.” An eye roll. Mrs. Jones was a track star. “She also says it looks good for my college applications.”
“I wish I could say she’s wrong, but everyone keeps saying you need to be super involved in a trillion extracurriculars to even be considered for college these days.” It makes me think of how sparse my own résumé is. There’s my job, sure, but writing online probably doesn’t count as an extracurricular, right?
“I know, that’s what blows. She’s right! I just don’t want her to be!”
I shoot her a sympathetic glance. “You shouldn’t have to do something that doesn’t make you happy. Maybe you can talk to your mom and just be super honest with her about it. You’re already doing volleyball and your grades are good. I think she’d understand.”
Amelia looks unconvinced. “Yeah, maybe. But I don’t want to disappoint her.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I think
I’ll stick it out for the rest of the year and just not sign up next year,” she says. “At least I’ve met some cool people on the team.”
“That’s true.” I nod, but I’m bummed for her. While I’m used to disappointing my mom, I realize others probably aren’t—especially not Amelia. Her mom is so great I’d be scared to disappoint her, too. “Oh, I know what will make you feel better! I meant to share this with you. I’m obsessed with this new playlist I found on Spotify. It’s called ‘Lovesick.’”
“Please tell me there’s at least one Spice Girls song.”
“There are multiple, which is why I know this playlist is meant for you.” I whip out my phone and dig through my bag to get my AirPods. I hand the left one to Amelia and stick the right one in my ear. “Here.” I settle back in my chair as we listen.
“Ah.” She sighs happily.
“Yeah. Pretty great, right?”
We sit and listen until we finish our drinks, then head home. Amelia has homework to do and I, feeling inspired by the playlist, have some writing that’s calling my name.
Also: I want to put off going to bed as long as I can so that I can pretend Monday isn’t coming.
Weirdly, no matter how late I stay up writing on Sunday nights, Monday always comes around again. So then, on top of it being the start of another week, I’m super tired. Sigh.
At least my first class is English—my favorite, obviously. It’s a bunch of quiet, nerdy seniors. I’m the only junior, which makes me feel special, TBH.
I admire the teacher, Ms. Williams. She’s whip-smart and worldly, and in between each book we’re mandated to read by the school curriculum (aka a “classic” written by a white dude), she also picks a book written by an author from a marginalized group. For every Animal Farm and The Great Gatsby we’ve read, we’ve also read The House on Mango Street and The Bluest Eye. It’s incredible, and it’s in this class I’ve been exposed to some of my favorite books.
Plus, Ms. Williams gives us time in class to write, and unlike my online writing, this writing gets attached to my actual name, which is terrifying but exhilarating. Not that we do anything too rigorous, but we do spend the first ten minutes of each class free-writing in our own notebooks. We’re not graded on what we put in there; the only rule is we have to write for the full ten minutes. I really let myself go and spill my thoughts—sometimes about my life, sometimes about what I’m reading, and sometimes just little snippets of story ideas floating around in my head.
Fat Chance, Charlie Vega Page 3