The word you’re looking for is Fat.
The third-grader playing Gretl in my Small Town Children’s Theater™ production of The Sound of Music (in which I had the esteemed role of Young Female Villager) declared in front of a devastating number of my peers that it was easy to tell me and my sister apart because “she’s the skinny one, and you are…” She trailed off there, when someone nudged her into silence.
My mom and I have long torsos and carry our weight on our stomachs. There was a maternity outlet store she regularly frequented — in times of pregnancy and out — that my Barbie-shaped sister refused to enter. She said it wasn’t as weird for us to occupy that space because, “at least you’re…” But she refused to finish that thought.
The right ventricle of my heart is enlarged, causing an above-average amount of premature atrial contractions, which is a fancy-pants way of saying it beats a lot. When the cardiologist I had just met was discussing this with me, he made a comment on my bloodwork after looking at my blood sugar levels: “Oh wow, it’s actually kind of low. That’s surprising.” His pointed look, as I sat exposed in my loose-fitting paper hospital gown, said the rest.
I came into the LGBTQ community on the tail-end of the reclaiming of queer, so I’m able to use it as an identifier without much conflict. But fat isn’t there yet. My therapist cringes her forehead every time I say it. My girlfriend still calls it “being… heavy.” The only time I ever hear my peers talk about being fat is when one of my skinny friends eats a very normal-sized meal and feels the need to call attention to their temporarily-rounded bellies or pinch at their non-existent muffin tops.
But it’s the right word. It doesn’t pander, it’s nonchalant, it’s broad. I’m not curvy, because my fat doesn’t accumulate in places that men find sexually valuable. I’m not plus-sized, because that makes it sound like I’m beyond some reasonable spectrum of existence. I’m not heavy, because actual weight is relative; no one cares if a 6’9” basketball player weighs 250 pounds, but if Lady Gaga’s tummy pokes out, all online hell breaks loose. I’m not chubby because I’m not a toddler, and I’m not a person of size because I lost ten pounds just from saying that many words. I’m none of your polite-company euphemisms. I’m fat.
But just because I have the right word doesn’t mean fat is something that I’m fully comfortable with. Every day, I find myself cringing at something that highlights my size. When I played on the Women’s Rugby team, there was only one jersey that I could physically get over my torso. Learning how to belay on the Climbing team, the harness they gave me didn’t fit over my thighs. Every dance practice or theater rehearsal, I can’t help but catalogue the roomful of flat bellies peeking out of XS t-shirts and tiny shorts. I refuse to eat at Slifka because squeezing in between the tables makes me so self-conscious and anxious that my morning bagel experience is ruined. For months, I made my girlfriend be on top every time we made out because I thought somehow I’d crush her. Everytime I go into a depressive episode, I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and tell it people would like me more if I lost a hundred pounds.
But all those things happen regardless of whether or not I call myself fat or plus-size or pleasantly plump or thicccq. The years of self-love I lost because I’d been taught to hate the spread of my thighs when I sat on the floor or the way smiling made my cheeks look fuller in pictures is time I can never get back. Hiding and dodging and nicknaming didn’t make my stomach any smaller.
As much as Twitter Doctors like to caveat, I’m not fat because I have an illness that causes me to gain weight. I’m fat because my parents are fat. I’m fat because doughnuts are fucking delicious and cardio is boring. I’m fat because I have depression and food makes me feel good. Do I want to be fat? Not really. If I weighed less, it’d be easier to do sports and my knees would hurt less. If my body was smaller, I could borrow my girlfriend’s clothes. If my stomach didn’t hang over my waistband, I could wear bikinis without having to make every beach day a silent political statement about self-love. Am I going to try to lose weight? No. I’ve got homework to do, theater to produce, Survivor reruns to binge. I’ve tried to lose weight my whole life and the only thing it’s given me is an ingrained instinct to try to make myself smaller.
But, my dear Skinny Readers, there are some rules. Like all labels, it’s not all encompassing for the group it references. Lots of people aren’t comfortable with the word fat. It’s being reclaimed, and some people aren’t claiming it — it’s their choice to make. If you’re sitting there, thinking: well, how am I supposed to know? Ask. But only if it’s relevant. No need to turn to the kid next to you in lecture and say: “Hey I’m Greg, I see you uncomfortably wedging your body into these LC desks, do you prefer fat or plus-size?” Also, don’t use fat as an insult. If you’re making fun of something about a person’s appearance that they can’t easily change, you’re not edgy — you’re just a dick.
To my fellow Chunky Children of God, fat doesn’t have to be your word. It can be your word later, or never. You have the right to take up space. Whether that’s in the classroom or in an airplane seat or in people’s vocabulary. You’re a valid person, even if you’re not endorsed by skinny people or you’re not “fat, but healthy” or trying to lose weight. And it’s okay if that’s something you’re not ready to accept yet.
As straightforward as it is, ‘fat’ is immensely complicated. It’s complicated to be fat, to feel fat, to talk about the realities and nuances of living while fat. Fat’s not a bad word; in fact, I argue that it’s the best way to describe this state of being. But it’s a laden word. It’s heavy. Use it with intention and respect, but use it.
