Until that world emerges, I do not begrudge body positivity, but I do not dedicate myself to its gated community. I do not choose to invest in another space that expects my body to reduce itself endlessly until it disappears — a magic trick that I have never accomplished. I do not choose to scale the barbed wire fence of its many caveats about obesity and health, those constant reminders that body positivity is for some, but not for all. Not for me. Not for the people I love most.
Bodies like Taryn Brumfitt’s, Amy Schumer’s, Jennifer Lawrence’s came to clarify the scope of this newly popularized movement, lifted up as its courageous and happy warriors, praised for their unstudied beauty. Body positivity had been defined by omission. My body was among the many that didn’t make the cut.
Just, as if it were that easy to shrink to one third my size. Just, a red pen, crossing out the last twenty years of calorie counting, dieting, desperation. Just, as if every moment of shame and hurt was my fault anyway. Just, watching my hurt roll so cleanly off of you, leaving nothing behind. Just, the earthquake that separated you and I. Just, when you stopped seeing me.
Fat characters have not earned fat actors. Their stories are not worthy of fat writers. To the thin people who disproportionately create these narratives, fat stories are simple: fat people can be sad or we can be made fun of. We can be the butt of the joke or the moral of the story. But our utility ends there. Our fat bodies have not earned character development, struggle, challenge, change. We have not earned anger, joy, happiness, fulfillment, imperfection, or growth— only obliviousness and isolation.
…ed above, the most effective way to show our contempt for men is to portray them as faggots. Again, I know what you’re thinking: “But none of the current jokes about Trump and Putin being gay for each other even use the word faggot!” Of course they don’t. They don’t need to. A picture is worth a thousand words. And by painting a picture of Trump and Putin as gay lovers in …
…s breath was sweet with jerky. Somewhere, an egret cried.” The hashtag went viral. Why wouldn’t it? The best way to show our contempt for men is to hit ’em where it hurts: right in the balls. The most effective way to emasculate men is to imagine them not as real men at all, but as fags.
She had spent one day in a padded suit. One day absorbing fat hate. These women had spent a lifetime with it. Still, the supermodel needed comforting. So the fat women did what fat women are expected to do. They comforted a thin woman in distress, terrified of what would become of her if she ever looked like them.
I have never seen the real life of a fat person on screen. I have only seen fat stories written by thin writers, acted by thin actors, directed by thin directors. At every turn, thin people control the stories about fatness that are told on the biggest stages, amplified with the biggest speakers, broadcast with the strongest antennae. And often, they tell the stories that make them feel best: stories that lift thinness up not as one of many natural body types, but as a badge of honor, earned only by those strong and smart enough to tame the wilds of their bodies.