The Gifts of Fatness
I know how hard it is to walk through the world in a fat body, but you are stronger for it
I was 19 years old the first time someone told me I was going to die.
I was at a work event, and I was dishing up catering, welcoming attendees who made their way through the line. An older man, well dressed, smiled as he accepted the plate of food I handed him. In the midst of an assembly line job, I was grateful for a kind face and bright eyes, and I smiled back.
“When did you put on all that weight, sweetie?” he asked me. Stunned, I didn’t respond — my face froze, smile turning into a mask of a grimace.
“Was it when your dad left?” he asked. Still, I couldn’t respond. I was reeling, my brain struggling to make sense of what was happening. I had been doing my job — a job I loved, was good at, and was proud of — and then this sharp turn left me woozy and whiplashed. Who was this stranger? Why was he asking me these questions? And why did he stay so unsettlingly friendly while feeling so entitled to draw conclusions about my family, my history, my emotions, all based solely on the shape of my body?
I opened my mouth, but no words came. I wasn’t sure I wanted to respond. My silence didn’t stop him.
