the fatphobic in me (spoken word)

I’ve always hated the word fat.

I’m not fat. 

Not fat, just: curvy, big boned, “bigger,” plus sized, sure, think thick with two Cs,

but fat— no that couldn’t be me, I think you’re confused with someone else.

I might be in this body, but there is a skinny girl in here, trust.

See, fat people are lazy, stupid, ugly.

I’m active, smart, pretty. 

But, not cute. No, cute makes the alarm bells go off, because “cute” signals to me, 

“she’s pretty it's just a shame she’s —well you know.”

I hate the word fat so much, that when things become too much, 

or rather when I’m becoming too much,

I shrink myself. 

If I could put myself in the dryer I would. 

It would be less consuming than

counting calories, or

committing the number on the scale to memory, or 

continuing to punish myself for eating, oh, sorry I meant existing!

I went on a walk the other day. 

I felt the sun on my shoulders, and thought, 

“it’s a privilege to move my body like this.”

Still, acutely aware of how my thighs brush past each other,

but letting them without judgment. Just being.

The whole time screaming at myself to be kinder,

to myself.

I think,

“I’m doing my best.”

And then,

“Ya know, to some people, I might not even be fat.”

And then,

“Even if you are, it shouldn’t matter--

it doesn’t matter--

you matter.”

And then,

“You are you, forever.”

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to reclaim “fat.”

Befriend “fat.”

Be okay with “fat.”

Okay with my thighs, or my big cheeks, or my stomach.

Okay with the comments on my body that feel like a right of passage.

Letting them pass over me, releasing my tight grip on the barbed wire.

I don’t know if I can, 

but I’d like to try. 

Written Spring 2021

Art Credit: Helene Graham