This reminds me of a kid I knew

Feminism/Politics 9 Responses »
Mar 152010

… [A] recent survey found that the most severe hunger-related problems in the nation are in the South Bronx, long one of the country’s capitals of obesity. Experts say these are not parallel problems persisting in side-by-side neighborhoods, but plagues often seen in the same households, even the same person: the hungriest people in America today, statistically speaking, may well be not sickly skinny, but excessively fat.

via The South Bronx, Plagued by Obesity, Tops a Hunger Survey – NYTimes.com.

When I taught daycare there was a child in our class who was fat and who was always hungry. His mother, acting on the advice of their pediatrician, told us that he was not allowed seconds at lunch. He got one serving of the (mostly) balanced meal and one serving of the Goldfish crackers or raisins or cheerios at snack. One serving and that was it no matter how much he begged.

He was fat but he was hungry.

I remember one time when a substitute accidentally gave him seconds.

“Dawn, Dawn!” he called, his 3-year old face lighting up. “Look! I got more!”

Eventually I started babysitting for him in his own home and that’s when I realized why he was hungry.

There wasn’t much to eat in his house and what there was to eat was processed foods. Fruit snacks instead of fruit. Frozen meals with processed cheese food sauce instead of fresh vegetables. Packages of ramen. He was fat but he was probably also malnourished. His mom was so skinny that I bet she never ate (to save money maybe?) and judging from the ‘fridge and cupboards, her son was the focus of her grocery list since every happy-looking package was pasted up with kid-friendly slogans and graphics. No wonder he wanted seconds on our (not much better but at least USDA-approved) lunches at daycare!

I was only twenty and dumb and didn’t know I could do anything about this (like find some nutrition information to share with his mom) so I didn’t. But I thought of him later when I met fat clients at the shelter who were getting their meals from food banks (boxed dinners, canned spaghettio-s). And I also think of him when I hear about doctors taking a glance at a kid’s growth chart and advising, “Don’t let him eat seconds” instead of having the time and inclination to sit down and say, “Now what all do you folks eat in a regular day?”

Getting explicit about size

Parenting 20 Responses »
Jun 302009

Madison and I just got back from the grocery where we ran to get a cake for my boss’s birthday celebration (we need to leave for it in about 45 minutes) and cherries to take to the Clippers game tonight. She buckled herself in while I put the cart away and when I came back and got in the car she said, “It’s ok to be a little bit fat, right Mama?”

And I said, “Yes. What’s important is eating right and getting exercise. If someone is doing those things then their body is going to be exactly what it’s supposed to be, which might be fat and might be skinny.”

She said, “Ok.”

I said, “Were you thinking about me being a little bit fat? Were you watching my body when I was putting away the cart?”

(The line after this paranthetical paragraph is where you see how Dawn will climb up on the cross for the public good of her blog reading public to combat size prejudice. Much of the following info is similar to what I’ve written before but further down you can see what Madison says about herself and see why being explicit — i.e., getting up on the cross and daring to say, “You mean my fat ass?”  is important.)

She said, “Yes, I was looking at your tush.”

I said, “My fat tush, huh?”

She laughed.

“Well,” I said. “You know how I eat a variety of food and you know I’m running and exercising so you know that my body is just supposed to be a little bit fat.”

“Not straight like Lis [babysitter].”

“No, not straight like Lis. But that’s how my body is and that’s how Lis’s body is. You know, people might look at me and Lis and say, ‘Wow, Lis is so straight! I bet she really exercises!’ but actually I exercise more than Lis and this is just how my body is. That’s why you can’t ever look at someone and know if they eat too much or too little or exercise at all. People will tell you that you can look at someone and tell but they’re wrong. And they will try to tell you that how people look is ok or not ok but they’re wrong about that, too.”

(Lis will not mind my telling you that I exercise more because she is one of the people I talk to about this stuff anyway.)

Madison then said, “It is just racist to say that people who are fat don’t exercise!”

I said, “It’s not nice to say things about people’s body shapes and sizes but it’s not racist. Racist is when people make assumptions about people based on race — on being black or white or Asian. Some people call it size-ist when people make assumptions about people’s size.”

“I exercise and I eat a variety of foods.”

“Yes you do. You are really healthy.”

[beat]

Then I said, casually, “What do you think about your body?”

“A little bit little and a little bit fat.”

“And since you exercise and eat right, your body must be exactly right.”

[Note: Here I wanted to say all kinds of "beautiful" and "strong" and "pretty" but I felt like this was coming from my reaction to her saying "fat" and wasn't necessary and in fact would be "she doth protest too much." Because if she had said, "A little bit little" I would have just said that bit about being exactly right so I stuck with it. I sat on my proverbial hands. The ones that would otherwise be wringing.]

“Yes,” continued my dearest darling Madison. ” Can you be straight and fat at the same time?”

“Yes, you can have a fat tushie or a fat tummy and straight arms and legs. Bodies come in all shapes.”

“Like a fat belly? Like Pennie has a fat belly because Roscoe is in there!”

And then we segued right from size and body acceptance into how babies are born, what they do before they get born and adoption.

It was the longest ride home from the grocery EVER; I am exhausted and recuperating with coffee (to make up for that lame-ass diet coke I had this morning).

I have been wondering when Madison would bring up the fact that she is bigger than her friends because obviously she knows this. For one thing, they play dress-up together and clothes that fit her friends don’t always fit her. That she used “fat” matter-of-factly gives me hope because this is a label that will be put on her (she is female after all and I think you could be 5’4″ and 105 pounds and still could get that lobbed at you) and I’d like her to own it and not the prejudice that comes with it. And note: The first step to this is asking her explicitly, “Are you talking about my fat body?” And then saying explicitly, “Because my fat body is ok.”

The very first time I heard a 4-year old girl call herself fat was when I was babysitting and this adorable, beautiful and yes, round little girl said, “I am too fat to be the princess; I have to be the prince.” See, the problem is not that she (lovely as she was) called herself “fat”, it’s that she thought beautiful princesses could not be fat. Fat is not the problem; some of us are fat. That word isn’t the enemy. It’s the prejudice behind it and the only we can dismantle it in our own families is by disempowering it as an insult. First step to doing that? Not flinching when your kids say it and even inviting them to share their thoughts even when you know it’s your fat ass they’re eyeing.

There’s a lot I do wrong as a parent. Like yell at the kids when the root of the problem is that I’m drinking diet coke at breakfast instead of coffee. Or get so tense about money that I have a heart-attack when someone innocently asks why we are so mean as to deny them a trip to the (expensive) movies. I mean, these kids have worlds of lame parenting to explore in therapy someday. But this stuff — this explicit talking about fat and about sex and about race and about adoption and all the hard stuff — this I can do. And I have a strong belief, surely born of my fear that I am screwing up in many ways, that if we see our kids as the full-fledged people they are with ideas and concerns and experiences that matter as much as our own and treat them with the serious attention they deserve then they can deal with our neurotic breakdowns. Knock wood.

From Madison telling me that she wishes we were all black (you should’ve seen her, elbows on the table, waving her hands and rolling her eyes as she said it) to saying that she is “a little bit little and a little bit fat” with the same casual certainty that she says she likes pink, I figure this girl is gonna be ok.

Not so Good Friday around here

Feminism/Politics 42 Responses »
Apr 102009

My childcare has food poisoning so first I want to acknowledge that her Friday is even more suckier than mine before I whine that I’m scrambling to reschedule meetings. I’m just grouchy because I am discombobulated. I’ll recover. And Noah is being considerate and making everyone breakfast so I could get to my work inbox and stuff.

(sigh)

I just emailed Becca this (because she’s my editor/writer friend who talks to me about editor/writer stuff when I’m working on essays) but in my essay about calling myself fat it is only about ME. It’s about me not wanting to be called fat and the times I have been called fat and how I feel like I need to get over it for the sake of my daughter who — being female — will eventually be called fat and for my son who — having female friends and perhaps someday partners — will eventually be dealing with women who say, “Do I look fat in this?” So it’s a very small focus, the essay. It’s not about calling other people fat or about the media or manners or fat-phobia in general — it’s about ME and calling myself fat and obviously this is a good thing essay organization-wise since talking about the rest of that just gets off-track.

Becca asked if I felt defensive and I’ll tell you all, YES. ABSOLUTELY. And I suppose I feel defensive about this because it’s not easy at all to talk about, (which goes back to my need to pretend that we don’t all know that I am fat) and so discussion is just harder for me around it. Yet another reason to work on the essay.

Here is one piece I’m putting in the essay though. I was thinking about it while I was working out because I’ve never blogged it since it was and is very painful for me.

So — one of the hard things about my infertility struggles was that I now had proof that my body was a worthless piece of shit. If you read fat-positive stuff, sometimes it will focus on how fat women are so fruitful and lush and womanly and also — the adjectives imply — fertile. You know, they’ll go “womanly hips to cradle a new life” and “lush breasts to nurture another being.” But me — I was just fat and barren. I loathed my fat, barren body. My infertility was unexplained but I had myself convinced it had to do with my weight and I convinced myself of this because all the infertility books say if you are too fat or too skinny you can sometimes f*ck up your fertility. Plus there are always miracle conception stories from women who lose a bunch of weight and — boom! — get pregnant. My RE was neutral on it. Maybe losing weight would help, maybe not but he was pushing for Clomid.

I decided the whole infertility journey had to have some meaning and I decided I would get stronger and healthier and lose some weight and see if it helped me get my cycles in order. But I was really scared about it because I didn’t want to become diet obsessed (I had never dieted before although I have lost weight in the past by exercising more) and I didn’t want to sink deeper into self-loathing, which I knew would be easy to do since inevitably I would eat something “bad” or skip a work-out.

I took it all very slowly and deliberately. I made small, heatlhy changes. I started keeping track — not obsessively — with portion sizes. I asked Brett to quit buying ice cream. I also started running instead of just doing step aerobics. And slowly but surely, I started losing weight. I felt really good about it. I felt confident about my ability to keep the weight off because it was coming off slowly and I felt like I was making changes I’d be able to live with forever. After every run (and it took me a long time to get to where I could run for twenty minutes without stopping to walk) I would stop and breathe and stretch and pray.

I started to feel better and more forgiving about myself. And as it happens? My cycles shortened from 35 days to 29 days, which boded well and sure enough — after losing about 25 pounds — I got pregnant.

And then I miscarried.

I was at my brother-in-law’s wedding when I began to lose that pregnancy so I didn’t get back to the RE until I was well and truly bleeding. I was still holding out impossible hope though because you do that when you’re insane to be pregnant. And this is how my doctor greeted me (this part is in my archives): “Congratulations! You’re pregnant!” and then when I gasped at the miracle he smoothly added, “But it won’t last.”

This is the part that’s harder to write.

I was crying in his office, sobbing so hard I couldn’t see and he started pressuring me to consider the Clomid, which I really did NOT want to do. And I said (through tears), “I’ve been working really hard to lose weight and I’ve lost twenty-five pounds so far and isn’t it possible that if I keep on this course that it’ll help regulate my luteal phase defect?” And he said, “How much do you weigh now?” And I told him (although I don’t feel ready to tell you yet) and he said flipping to a BMI chart, “How tall are you? Well, then that’s obese! You’re obese!”

Then he harangued me about wasting time (I was 31) trying to lose weight when he could get me pregnant RIGHT NOW if I would only follow his directive. And I don’t really remember how I got out of there but all I could hear was “obese” and suddenly it didn’t seem like such an accomplishment that I’d gotten to a size 12 again.

I haven’t run since. Because the next time I tried to run I started crying so hard that I couldn’t breathe and I had to stop and I felt like a big, stupid worthless thing trying to stagger around a track. I felt so stupid. I felt so humiliated. I felt like he could see me in all my fat glory on the track and I sure couldn’t run past the playground full of skinny moms with their many children so I went home to hide my shameful self and the next month I started the Clomid.

Contrary to legend — I did not drown my sorrows in cheesecake or curl up with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and a chick flick like a Cathy comic strip. I just stopped running and eventually the weight came back on.

(I have tried running since but can’t get past the shin splints.)

So when I allow my children to acknowledge my fatness and when I acknowledge my own fatness, I am doing this in part because I need to teach myself, too, what I want to teach my kids: That I can be fat and accomplishd and lovable and attractive and worthy. I don’t really believe it yet. I mean, I sorta do but in a very compartmentalized way. It is hard to own my good points when I am owning my less socially acceptable points. I can acknowledge that I’ve reached some of my writing goals but very often hot on the heels is, “Yes, but I’m fat.” As if it negates everything — anything –  I’ve done.

I feel best about my body when I’ve got an exercise routine but only if I unhook said routine from the idea of weight loss and trust that I will be the weight I should be if I’m eating right and exercising and understanding that I will always be bigger than many people think I ought to be. (And many of these people are wearing white coats, which reminds me that I need to find a new doc now that my insurance has changed, which just makes me want to CRY because it’s hard to find a doctor who will not give me shit about my weight even though my blood pressure is low and my cholesterol is normal and I work out regularly. And I am prone to crying in doctor’s offices because I can bluff my way through my kids calling me squishy but not so much when it’s a person of some authority. I get kinda wimpy then and my high ideals end up puddling away into a stagnant pool of shame.)

I’m working to drown out voices like Grosskinsky’s and I’m working to head off the voices that will, without a doubt, be coming for my daughter.

So you know, when we get into semantics arguments or a totally civilized debate about manners, I am a little bit prone to feeling like people are deliberately not hearing me even though I know — and in every other blog type situation would accept — that it’s got to do with my writing and not with your reading. (In other words, that I’m writing it wrong. I know I’m writing it wrong but I feel more sensitive and defensive than I usually would.)

Anyway. I want to write this essay in part because writing things down helps me get rid of things and if I can write it all out loud then it won’t be so shitty. And at least dealing with the comments here will kind of ready me to deal with any comments I’ll get if it’s published. So I know that’s all good and everything but I’m still slightly miserable about it all. (Because i just wanted to write it and get it out and not have to debate it just yet — still fragile. Which how should you psychically know that? And honestly I’m not blaming any of y’all for saying anything that I got all hepped up about — just explaining my small insanity around this.)

(I’m not rereading this post because I’ll want to delete it so anything that doesn’t make sense will just have to not make sense and bad spelling and poorly placed punctuation will have to hang there, too. Also I am going to ask you to be kind, which is not something I usually ask from my commenters in regards to myself but honestly, this is one of the most difficult posts I’ve ever written and as I’ve said, I am particularly fragile around it. And now I’m not only frustrated with my work day but I am also marginally depressed.)

Quickly 'cuz Brett's cooking dinner

Feminism/Politics 19 Responses »
Apr 092009

And he’s making spaghetti so you know how quickly that cooks.

A couple of people commented (spring and momartfully) about the use of the word “fat” and also whether or not it’s ok to “observe/evaluate” people’s bodies. This is convincing me to keep going on the essay.

Technically fat is a descriptor and I wouldn’t stop my kids from using other descriptors, from saying tall or red-headed or African American. Would you? If not, then why can’t they use fat?

I have told both of my kids that some people feel very self conscious about their body size and that the word fat can hurt some people’s feelings because (I’ve explained) too many of us don’t understand that healthy bodies come in all shapes and sizes. Fat, I tell them, is something some not very kind people use as an insult, which is ridiculous because fat is just one way to be. But be sensitive, I tell them. Even though you and I know that fat is just fine, out in the world people feel uncomfortable when we talk about body size be it thinness or fatness. WE know it’s ok and we can talk about it here at our house but out in the world? We need to be aware that people struggle with self-acceptance.

I think it’s akin to colorblind racism, (which is about white folks treating everyone the same i.e., as if they were white) to pretend that some people are not fat. If you ignore fatness (i.e., pretend that we are all thin), then you are devaluing people for being fat.

Think about it.

“The bathroom is over there, by where the tall woman is standing.”

“That guy is really attractive — the one who has the dark glasses on.”

“My friend will be waiting near the front. You’ll recognize her as the fat, pretty woman.”

It’s like — yikes! We can’t say FAT! We can’t say that out loud! But what if we could? What if fat was simply a descriptor? I mean, how else do we say it? We could call someone thin but call someone fat? We balk!

I am an advocate for talking to kids about subtext. Ever notice that all the women in commercials are thin? But commercials are trying to tell you that something is wrong with you — that your life isn’t organized or clean or pretty enough — because they want to make money off of you. Marketers deliberately ignore fat people. Media deliberately ignores fat people. Is that fair, I ask them? Should fat people take that on as a judgment of their value? No, of course not. Not anymore than people in wheelchairs should take on shame from the dearth of people in commercials using wheelchairs.

Fat is not a curse word. Fat does not equal ugly. It doesn’t equal stupid. It doesn’t equal rude. It’s a descriptor. I have blue eyes. I have brown hair that is streaked (increasingly) with white. I am fat.

Obviously in the wrong mouth or in the wrong intonation — ouch. Fat! I say, “Oh I’m round. I’m a little overweight. I’m chubby.” But the “F” word, my god. I’ll be honest with you (because when am I not?) — I want to pretend that people won’t notice that I’m fat. I am uncomfortable with the descriptor but that is because I am struggling to be comfortable with me. I hear “fat” and I hear all the other stuff under it like that I am greedy or lazy or out of control, none of which is true. I exercise. I eat reasonably (sometimes I eat too much but I know lots of skinny people who do, too). I’m anything but lazy.

My children can SEE that I’m fat. Am I supposed to make them pretend that I’m not just to save my feelings? Force them to lie by omission? Am I supposed to make them afraid of my fatness and — importantly — of their own possible fatness by being sensitive about them stating and seeing the obvious? It used to be that my worst fear was to weigh this much. I was fifteen and would think, “I would rather be dead!” I don’t want my own fifteen year olds to think that. I want them to know that you can be this fat and still be lovely and loved. And confident. And busy. And accomplished.

So I own — at least with them — my fatness. I say, “That’s right — I’m fat and beautiful.” I have a husband who says, “Hello gorgeous!” I get dressed up for work and Madison says, “You look pretty!” And I say, “Yes I do!”

Madison notes I have blue eyes. Yes! I do!

She notes that I have pink skin. Yes! I do!

She adds that I have a fat belly. Yes! I do!

These are all true. They are morally neutral.

And in fact? How much more important to own this for my brown-skinned daughter given the aforementioned colorblind racism. People may try to ignore traits that feel uncomfortable FOR THEM but those of us who have those traits? We need to own them.

There is nothing wrong with being fat. Now go read The Weight that Women Carry. (I will keep linking to this until y’all read it!)

(Now I really need to stop writing about this or I’ll lose momentum on the essay.)

The night my world caved in

Parenting, The Story of My Life 53 Responses »
Feb 182009

exerciseI am blurry on the details. Both my parents were home, which makes me think it may have been a weekend. (My dad traveled most weekdays.) Also it was summer. I know this because I was in my underwear and a t-shirt. We were not a walk-around-in-your-underwear kind of family (not like my kids who regularly streak down the hall in little else) and I remember feeling quite daring for wearing a t-shirt and underwear to bed like my friend said she did. So I know I was already feeling a little over-exposed. And it must have been evening since I was (un)dressed for bed but I’m not sure how old I was. I want to say ten, maybe. Maybe eleven. It was before the divorce (because my dad was there) so let’s say ten.

I can’t remember — did my parents call me downstairs? Or did I come down to tell them something on my own? I also don’t remember exactly what they said but I do remember their worried, compassionate wrinkled brows and their assurances that they loved me. And I remember something vague about my dad having been a fat kid and how he didn’t want me to suffer the way he’d suffered. (But this adds to my confusion — maybe my father wasn’t there. Maybe he left it to my mom to tell me and I remember him being there because I remember my mom saying this. Or maybe she said this after this initial confrontation. It’s all a blur.)

I know they told me I was putting on a little too much weight, that maybe I needed to watch it a little because I was getting, well, I was getting chubby.

This is what stays with me: The cold, cold shame freezing my stomach and making my vision turn wide then small. My awareness of my physical vulnerability in my t-shirt and underwear. My want to disappear, pull a blanket over me. And my shock because no one — NO ONE — ever told me I was fat. No one had ever said these words to me. So the irony is that my parents wanted to protect me from the cruelty of other children but the only people who had ever told me I was fat were my parents who were telling me now. And this is also what stays with me: that spinning, empty feeling around my limbs as I realized that I did not know myself or my body. That my legs and arms and tummy were no longer close and familiar but were enemies bent on fooling me. Where I had felt strong and pretty, I now knew I had been mistaken and then I realized I had been a fool walking around in the world feeling good about myself because it was a secret from me, the way that other people saw me. And that was the shame that has, frankly, never left me. And this is a shame that I still feel around my family more than I feel it around anyone else because they were the ones to tell me.

It sounds like I’m damning my parents and I’m not. My parents really were trying to be helpful. I believe their intentions were good and loving because the bulk of my experiences otherwise at that time in my childhood were good and loving and supportive and encouraging. So I forgive them for doing their best even though it ended up causing me harm. My father was a fat kid and he carried those scars. On the other hand, my mom was always a skinny, skinny kid and likely didn’t know what to make of her sturdy, stocky daughter. Perhaps I was getting too chubby although pictures I have of that time show only me at my most Dawnest self — neither big nor small. Plain, sturdy, short of limb and stern of face.

I do wonder though what they thought I would do as a ten or eleven year old. We already ate well because my mom controlled the food in our cupboards and on our dining room table. We had lots of fruits and veggies; we had few sweets or processed food. I was one of the few kids who never had Hostess cupcakes in my lunch and when we drank kool-aid, she made it with a fraction of the sugar. I rode my bike a lot, too, although truth be told, I was more of a bookworm. My body at that age (I say, gazing at the pictures) was simply a sturdy, stocky body and this I already knew. My best friend was younger and a full head taller with long, long legs and her tummy never curved out in her bathing suit. But that was how she looked and this was how I looked and it didn’t occur to me that one was better than the other until I heard it. Until my parents told me directly and until I overhead adults talking about Annie’s body and how they envied her her legs, shaking their heads in rueful admiration.

What happened after this momentous day is that I quit walking like I was the person inhabiting my limbs. I felt self-conscious as I moved through space. I doubted the me I saw in the mirror and no longer trusted my ability to know what I looked like. I began to look at other people with suspicion and self-consciousness. In short, I became less likely to want to run or ride or dance or be active anyplace people might see. Which is obviously what my parents were trying to avoid. And this has never left me. Nor has the feeling of powerlessness over my body, this sense that it will do what it wants and I am disconnected — body separate from soul. This is a disconnect that feels like I am a poorly dubbed movie with a body that will not co-operate with my thoughts.

I think about this so much lately because I am now a mother to a sturdy, stocky daughter and I feel like high-kicking the world under its collective chin when I think of anyone — ANYONE — visiting any of this on her. I know she is beautiful like I knew I was beautiful. Because looking back, I can see that my parents were wrong. They were wrong to tell me and they were wrong in their assumptions in the first place because I wasn’t fat. I was lovely. And strong and sturdy and exactly how I was meant to be. I know this because my mom fed me well and I rode my bike and ran around the neighborhood and so the body I carried was the perfect body for me. But I can’t get back to that place and so I’m deathly afraid that someone with the best intentions will steal Madison’s sense of self.

So I will tell you now: My daughter is perfect. And so is my son. They are exactly who they are meant to be. They own the ground they walk over. They own the air they move through. They are grace even when they stumble. They are strong and free and masters of their beings. Their bodies will change — filling and stretching — and the change will be perfect even during those awkward times when their knees don’t seem to work right and their elbows knock into things. I feed them well, they run around — they are nourished and active and so I won’t let anyone else’s worries come to visit them.

When we talk about health, we don’t talk about weight. When we say “diet” we mean “food you put in your body.” We mean vitamins and minerals and diversity in your menu. We get off the elliptical trainer or back home from a walk or a run and say, “Wow, that really helped my stress levels! That made me feel strong! I’m going to sleep well tonight!” Because that’s the equation that will build the bodies they are meant to have and those bodies may be slim or round. They may be heavier or lighter or taller or shorter but they will be perfect and my children will never ever ever (god willing) have to lose ownership the way I did when I was ten.

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