Celebrities, Politics, and Fat Shaming

I went on my first diet in sixth grade, using the Seventeen magazine's diet book, where I dutifully recorded my height, weight, measurements, and everything I ate for a period of literally days. I was not especially fat, I realized many years later; I had physically matured into a classic hourglass shape. Tipping the scales at 121 pounds was just fine.

It didn't seem fine at the time, not when the popular girls were slender waifs fretting over how fat they were at 102.

That was long ago, of course, but I have battled my notion of being Fatty McFatpants ever since. There have been periods when the adult me was nearly as slender as the sixth-grader, and there have been times of pregnancy and personal crisis when I approached twice that size. Most of my life, when I lose weight has been the carrot on the end of a rigged stick. I'm overweight but healthy, reasonably active, and if I don't care for the way I look in a bathing suit, show me anybody my age who does.

So I was surprised at the sting of a recent Twitter comment I saw from a celebrity of my vintage. I'd been a low-key fangirl since he was 21, playing teenagers on TV, and I was a college sophomore of 18 with a good eye for pretty boy-men. (Since I prefer not to direct any backlash at him, I'll just call him Alan, which isn't his name.)

Ordinarily I like Alan's tweets. He's politically aligned with my opinions, doesn't self-promote all that much, and has a lot of flashback tweets to his career. I imagine I might like Alan if he was just a guy rather than a celebrity.

Or not, since Alan noted that it was not possible to vote for anyone who wasn't a fat head--and body, too.

Oh, Alan! Are you so stupid and shallow to think appearance matters? I mean, you and I were both kids when Kennedy was elected, but I already knew the mother of a friend who voted for him because he was handsome was an idiot. You don't elect people to lead your nation because they meet Hollywood's standards.

And are you so mean-spirited that you think it's okay to mock people for their weight? I know in your line of work, that's the kiss of death to a career, whether you're Val Kilmer or Marlon Brando. But politics has nothing to do with looks and everything to do with mind and character. And I'm sorry to see that yours isn't up to my standards.

Two Families

We went to an air show, and while I enjoyed it, the people-watching very nearly eclipsed the Blue Angels. (Sorry, guys.)

In front of us was an extended family group, two parents, two small children, and two grandparents. They spoke Spanish, so I understood only a word here and there. But one didn't need to comprehend to see how they worked as a unit to make the experience good for everyone, including little children. They'd brought water and hats, snacks, chairs and a blanket spread out to play on, and toys from home including planes. They purchased souvenir toys (although why an inflatable hammer larger than the child is sold at an air show, I can't guess) and snacks the group shared. Most of all, the children had frequent adult attention keeping them happy and engaged while some of the adults went off and did their own thing, like checking out the helicopter or viewing the show from a different vantage point. The little ones played until the planes were about to fly by, then one of the four adults directed their focus to the reason they were there. The whole family seemed to enjoy the air show, and the pride in Dad and Grandpa was a pleasure to see; it was obvious they'd served.

To the left was another extended family group of two parents, five children under six, and two grandparents. While the men strolled off, bought beer, and made the experience good for themselves, no one did the same for the children listless in the heat. There were not enough chairs for everyone to sit, and when the baby slept in her carrier and a sibling dared to sit in the stroller, there was scolding and threatened swats. The family may have eaten before we arrived, but there were no snacks and no water for the kids, although the adults had beer. No one had brought toys or pastimes; the older children kept busy playing in the dirt with a bottle cap and a stick which had missed the nearby trash can. No one attempted to engage them in the air show or anything else. The boy was threatened with physical violence twice, and it was obvious that he recognized the risk of a beating as genuine.

At one point, Grandma mentioned she was 36, which suggests two generations of women having a child at 15. I'm sure that's not easy, but I didn't see anything suggesting the parents or grandparents were doing everything they could to make these children feel valued or happy to see the planes. The kids were young, but the older three had good mastery of being half-invisible, shoulders hunched, heads bowed.

We were not perfect parents--who is?--but I wanted to grab those adults and force upon them a crash course in parenting. I can't get the hopeless eyes of those kids out of my thoughts. It's way too easy to imagine all four girls seeking attention and approval from others any way they can get it, thereby repeating the cycle of early parenthood, while their abused brother eases his misery with drugs or alcohol. I'd really like to be wrong on that, but I don't think I am.

And what does this have to do with writing? I'm getting there. The bottom line is that good writing isn't going to do itself, any more than those neglected kids are going to raise themselves to be fine adults. Like those parents to my left, the writer faces many, many days when other things are more important, when writing is too damned hard, when you want to have some fun for once like everybody else, when it seems pointless to try, when you're so exhausted or despondent the energy to do your very best just isn't there.

The result won't be as tragic as those kids' futures, but the point is, you have to try, hard and consistently, to have a genuine shot at success. Be the family in front of me at the air show.

A Wig and a Shoe

Ah, Buffalo, the butt of dying-city and blue collar jokes! While it does have its problems, much of it isn't a bad place to spend an afternoon. Passing through or going there as a destination, I've enjoyed Buffalo's zoo, the Albright-Knox Art Gallery, the Erie County Botanical Gardens, and sports and rock concerts at the First Niagara Center and Shea's Theater.

So I didn't hesitate to visit the Convention Center recently. The immediate area was parked up, although I couldn't say if it was because of the event we were attending or just the usual parking of people working in the area. We had to walk a half dozen blocks through a neighborhood short of seedy but not especially appealing. It was broad daylight, with nothing to fear.

But the night before, it had been cold and dark and someone had plenty to fear: in the gutter I saw a dark wig with long curls and a high-heeled shoe with its size visible inside the heel, a 12.

There's a story in that debris, and I fear I know what it is. Who wears a wig and a mighty large shoe? Trans women. I watched the news for reports of an assault, but there was nothing. That saddened me further. If a trans woman was walking along minding her own business and was assaulted, or a trans prostitute attacked by either her competition or a (potential) customer, wouldn't that have been on the news?

No. The trans community in Buffalo may have learned the ugly truth of so many cities: trans women need not apply for equal protection under the law. Especially trans women of color.

It made me sad, not just for the person it happened to, but for all the women who are attacked and feel there's nothing to be gained by calling the police.

Yet Another First

In a long life with most of my firsts behind me, it's both refreshing and disconcerting to chalk up another one--someone has blocked me on Twitter.

It would be petty to name names, and I won't. I certainly understand people have bad days, or bad things going on in their lives about which I know nothing, which make them irritable. But my crime seemed worthy of a scowl at most, or a shot across my figurative bow, something like "Not appreciated."

Someone complained about a health problem which is most annoying to endure. I'm not a medical professional, but I know this problem is common and temporary. I’ve had it myself. You probably have, too. I'd liken its seriousness to that of pink eye or a sprained wrist--inconvenient, uncomfortable, maybe worthy of medical attention, yet not a major concern. It passes in less than a week.

The tweet with the complaint ended with the person not wanting unsolicited medical advice. Good call. Who wants medical advice from strangers online, anyway? I replied, "My unsolicited advice is to smile at yourself in the mirror and be glad this is your biggest physical malady. There, better!"

Blocked.

Okay, not my problem. I don't rely on this person's tweets for anything I need to know. But I'm somewhat bothered s/he's been selfless there, which is how I came to follow them, and is now so self-involved s/he must block those who remind them to see the positives.

Life's nasty. There will come times when this person feels so unwell s/he cannot function, has a disturbing symptom pointing to a dire illness, or has received a dreaded diagnosis which makes today's health complaint seem the merest shadow when compared. I can only hope s/he can smile in the mirror then and be grateful to be alive.

My master plan is to be aware there's still life in me, that I can stand before a mirror, that I can see, that I can smile, that I have a mirror. 

There, better!

Back Road Boogie

My husband and I have been taking some short trips--an overnight, a two-day, like that. Even though it's brief, we feel as if we've been away, and that's what we're after.

We already knew that highway hypnosis, becoming drowsy after driving a while no matter how much sleep you got the night before, is worse with every passing year. We laugh that it now begins within an hour of our departure, which is funny only because it's true.

After a half hour of increasingly large yawns, my husband the driver revitalizes himself by pulling over to some quiet and shaded spot, sleeping for fifteen or twenty minutes, then driving onward. We favor parks and college campuses, but too often settle for rest stops where it's hot--or freezing--and noisy, our sleep fitful.

Recently we agree getting off the limited access highway and taking routes which pass through towns and farm fields may take longer but is much less tiresome. Would we rather be in the car five hours, yawning for four of them, talking silly nonsense or blasting music to stay wakeful enough to drive, or slowing down for towns and trucks loaded with hay and logs you can smell? Would we rather risk being detoured for a small town's bicycle race (as we were one weekend), discuss the architecture, poverty, charm, or farm crops we pass, or drive the same highway a the same speed until our minds are gone?

The interstate highway system remains the best way to travel by car when time is of the essence, but you miss the heart of the country.

Let's Hear It for the Girl!

You know who's overweight? Nearly every person I know. You know who hates their body? Nearly every woman I know. The men may have the same ten or forty or seventy-five pounds they ought to lose for their health, but they do not wake each morning determined to starve themselves into looking different, detesting the way they look now, their self-confidence utterly undermined.

No, that seems to be a woman's purview. And it's sad.

I'm a member of a weight-loss organization which works for many, but not all. It's a cult, it's a miracle, it's learning how to eat with health in mind--no matter how much of you there is.

One thing I've learned by attending its meetings is that heavy women often fall into two groups. There are large women who make the most of what they have--pretty faces, green eyes that pop with the right makeup, a sense of style, great posture, great taste in shoes or glasses, a mix-and-match wardrobe in a small number of flattering colors, bras that cost more than good shoes--and those who have given up, characterized by unflattering knit pants with elastic waists, tops which hug every bulge, cheap bras, hair in a "practical" style, and little or no makeup.

While it's lovely to see those who are losing weight rediscover that they can feel good about how they look, it's just as lovely to see those who are not losing weight see that they, too, can feel good about how they look. It takes some effort, but a big woman with access to a thrift store or a sewing machine can do great things for her appearance and confidence.

So let's embrace the lovely women and girls that we are, including our bodies, and wear clothes that make us feel good. Let's wear large plaids, bright colors, lateral stripes, tight knits, and short skirts. Let's bare our arms in warm weather and wear shorts and swimsuits. Let's go to good department and clothing stores, try on, and not blame or hate ourselves when a garment doesn't work for us. Instead, let's figure out what's not right about it and find something else to try on which doesn't have the same mismatch with who we are, what we like, and how we're shaped.

Let's remind ourselves there's no size limit on great makeup, hairstyles, nail polish, jewelry, accessories, and shoes. Let's shop with our large friends and help them find wardrobes that make them smile. Let's not get discouraged when something proves so tight it won't zip or we can't pull it past our hips. Let's not invest our emotions in a numerical size but be pleased at how we look in whatever size fits us. Let's reward stores which offer many choices for us by buying there, giving favorable online reviews, and recommending them to friends.

And let's remember that women in our communities and online know how to sew and will gladly share that knowledge with others. (You wouldn't believe how easy a skirt can be, especially if it doesn't have to zip.) Let's remember we are entitled to try on without buying, then make one like it ourselves at a fifth of the cost and in a color and print we adore. Let's make ourselves the simpler pieces of a wardrobe and save our hard-earned money for those beyond our abilities.

Let us all celebrate who we are, refusing to wear fabric sacks in dark colors instead of fashionable clothes. And please, let's all remember to compliment one another when we look especially good, because we can and we do--unless we've given up.

Those People Just Want Handouts

On a recent trip, I watched workmen erecting a large white wedding tent on a beautiful white-sand beach. The canvas tent had multiple peaks on tent poles and clear plastic-paned windows with rounded tops on all four sides.

Beaches are often windy, and the foreman had his crew driving three-foot metal stakes at an angle into the sand to anchor the tent. The foreman was in his forties and overweight, but the crew appeared to be in their early twenties at the most. The closest one was classic white trash, skinny with his shirt off, with a thin chin-beard, a cigarette dangling most of the time, and bad tattoos, and he worked hard. He raised that sledge hammer high and brought it down awkward, driving his spike a few inches deeper with each blow. He always hit the spike's head, but not always straight on. His spike's angle started out right but gradually shifted to straight down. The foreman came to talk to him about it. Anyone could tell the young man was angry but held it in. He struck the spike from the side, changing its angle in the sand, and finished the job. Although the day was cool and breezy, he was red-faced and sweating.

The other worker I could see was Hispanic, small and slender. He worked with such grace, moving his sledge hammer in a looping figure eight, his entire body in a dance with its own rhythm and careful moves. He expended less energy and drove two stakes for every one the other young man seated. He wasn't sweating after four stakes. It was a pleasure to watch him work. The foreman came up to him to talk, apparently including some praise, in Spanish.

Three days later, we visited that beach again. Someone had added a sand sculpture of a large heart near the wedding tent. The side of the tent facing the water had been rolled up and secured so those inside could see the arch, now covered with white tulle. The tent stake which had been straightened had lifted half its length from the sand, but all the others were holding.

It makes me angry when someone says a particular ethnic or racial group is lazy and doesn't want to work hard. The young man I watched defied that ugly stereotype, working hard, well, and with literal beauty. I imagine he'll be running a crew when he's still a young man--and that the sweating white guy with the dangling cigarette will resent the hell out of it.