A love letter to a fatcaller
To the man who shouted “I would not f — you!” from a passing car
Of all the things strangers have shouted at me on the street, yours is my favorite. But it was far from the first.
A year before you and I met, I was walking home from work. A stranger stared at me, slack jawed, looking my body up and down, over and over again.
“Excuse me,” she shouted. “Are you big enough yet?”
I kept my head down, eyes fixed on the pavement, walking swiftly, willing the moment to pass.
“Is everyone else seeing how fat this b — h is? Look at her!” She pointed at me, searched the faces of passersby. “How do you let that happen? Can you even hear me? I deserve an answer!”
For months, I couldn’t think about what she said — I could only feel it. I remembered her constantly. Shame filled my body like a water balloon, fragile in its fullness. The simple act of walking down the street in a fat body had called up a deep rage in a perfect stranger. I tried to imagine what kind of body would cause me so much anger, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t fathom feeling a rising tide of hostility just from seeing another person’s skin.
Our encounter had taken place across the street from my office. I regularly feared seeing her, uncertain of…
