dimarts, 20 d’agost de 2013

10 Fat Truths

  • I know I'm fat. Not chubby, or big. But FAT. That's it, three letters. It's an adjective, not a life sentence. I am also short, dark-haired and freckled. My front teeth are slightly bigger than they ought to be, which might make me look like a rodent in some pictures. Don't worry, I have mirrors at home. You don't have to tip toe around the subject like a ballerina. I don't like it when you pay that much attention to a tag on my shirt, I'm still the same I would be if that number on the scale was lower. Please don't treat me any different, I pay the same taxes thin people pay. 
  • No, you're not just saying it because you're worried about my health. If you were worried about people's health you'd give the same crap to smokers, underweight people, girls wearing high heels and social drinkers. If you were worried about my health you wouldn't tell me to suck it up when cigarette smoke triggers my asthma. If you were worried about my health you wouldn't be looking at the size of my jeans, but at my blood test results -which probably happen to be better than yours. The only reason you criticize my figure is (in 99'999% of cases) because you don't like it. Because you would prefer my waist to be thinner for your viewing pleasure. Because you loathe to think that you might one day look like me. Because I bother you, my body bothers you and my happiness bothers you. Because how dare I be happy AND fat? Face it, you're as superficial as everyone else, despite your claimed veganism and socialist meetings while keeping your I-phone in silent mode.
  • Yeah, I need a second portion of that. Or not. But in any case, it's none of your business. Sometimes I eat more, sometimes I eat less. Sometimes I get cravings, and sometimes I crave a bowl of fresh salad. Yeah, I usually crave jelly beans more often, but who doesn't? Are you telling me thin people don't like tasty food? Because most thin people I know happen to eat tastier food than I do -simply because they want to. And it's okay. I don't have a problem with what thin people eat, so why should thin people have a problem with what I eat? When you're paying, you can complain. Until then, zip it.
  • I do not have a 'pretty face'. I am pretty. I never heard anyone brag about how pretty their elbows were. Back-handed compliments are your way of dealing with the fact I am fat and nevertheless, still human and deserving of love and affection. You would never tell a thin girl she has a pretty face. Like, yeah, you have a pretty face, but your metacarpus is just gorgeous. Who does that? Are you emotionally impaired? Pay a shrink, do not expect me to work on that for free. I'm not your punching bag.
  • Errrr, no. Fat people are not jollier than average. As a matter of fact, we are more inclined to suffer from depression. Most fat people I know have self-loathing feelings and a poor self-esteem -and this includes me. The battle for self-respect is arduous and victory is rare. Just because the fat girl at the counter smiles at every costumer doesn't mean she doesn't spend her nights crying or shoving her fingers down her throat. And yeah, this happens. It's not playing the victim, it's not fantasy. Fat people have eating disorders too.
  • My boyfriend is not a chubby chaser. He's not a sexual deviant with a secret fetish. I have met people like that, and he is not one of them. Actually, I'm the biggest girl he's ever been with. His previous partners were thin, and yes, when we started dating he was made fun of. He's not particularly attracted to the thickness of my thighs or the circumference of my belly. He loves me for who I am, regardless of my weight. If I lose weight, he will love me anyway. To be honest, he's always had a thing for tall, blonde, German-typed girls. And he's still with me. So, obviously, our relationship did not sprout from a physical fetish. I am loved as a woman, not a body. And yeah, he loves my belly. And everything else.
  • I LOVE TAKING CARE OF MYSELF. I like the elliptical machine. Actually, I want to buy one for myself. I like exercise. I like walking. I like feeling good with myself. I like dressing up and playing with my hair and doing my make up, and mind you, I'm pretty good with that. I like to wear dresses, and short skirts. I like to show off my boobs. They're fucking awesome, why shouldn't I? I like racy lingerie. I like cute shoes. I love doing my nails, and I absolutely love fashion, even though it is not accessible for people my size. But maybe one day it will be. And when that day comes, I can assure you my style will be neater than yours.
  • I do not hate thin people. Specifically, girls. What I do hate, is stupid people. Specifically, girls. It makes me angry when I see a girl walking like an uncoordinated horse, with a huge bag hanging from her elbow and playing with her smartphone. It makes me angry when I have to move because, otherwise, she'll crash against me. It makes me angry when they sit on the bus and place all of their crap in the seat next to them and don't let elderly people sit down. It makes me angry when they give the stink eye to another girl. It makes me fucking rabid when they use their boyfriends as giant coat hangers. Why is it that whenever I criticize a fat girl I'm always right but when I do the same towards a thin girl I must be jealous? Idiots come in all shapes and sizes, my friends. 
  • Uh, yeah. I have sex. I've had sex. Many times. And not with drunk or blind guys. Some were ugly, some were short, some were tall, some where attractive and some were mean. I did not wait until five a.m so some poor soul would take me as a last resort. Yes, some of those men were pricks who would have died of embarrassment had someone seen them with me. These people exist and they are everywhere. But that's not my fucking problem. Thin girls also find pricks in their lives.  Some of us -women- are fortunate enough to find a partner who will love us and respect us -regardless of our and their appearance. 
  • I'm sorry if you find my boyfriend attractive, but he's not available. He's not waiting for your size 0 ass to wiggle in front of him to abandon me. He's been with thin girls, he sees thin girls every day. And he's with me. Deal with it. Yeah, he does prefer his fat girlfriend than your skinny bitchiness. Maybe if you ate more carbohydrates somebody would love you as well.

FAT chance

I do not think there has ever been a moment in my life when I did not see myself as FAT. Not pudgy, or thick, but FAT -regardless of what my real figure looked like. When I was eight I thought I was the biggest kid in the world. I wasn't. When I was twelve and my body began developing a bit earlier than my classmates', boys would look at me or elbow each other when I walked by. This would make me miserable for the rest of the day, because I believed what they were pointing out was how much of a monster I was. Not true, they were only after the tits. By the time I was sixteen I had already adopted a dark sense of style, and had a habit of covering my face with my long locks. I was bullied in school -guess why? Now I look back and realize it wouldn't have been such a big deal if school had not been my entire life, but it was. I did not live in the normal world, like adults, where they can encounter several types of idiots in different settings. I spent my days in school, and my reputation as the class' fatty preceded me. There were times when I was perfectly healthy and, dare I say, IN THE NORMAL WEIGHT RANGE, but my label was what it was and there was no way to overcome it. Men on the street would look at me, and I never understood why, because my auto-concept was clearly atrocious. 

This went on for years. Every time a guy paid a bit of attention to me I would be damn grateful, and a bit suspicious as well. Nowadays I look at pictures of myself when I was eighteen, twenty, twenty-two... And you know what, I was fucking gorgeous. Just like many other women I know. Why could I only see a monster in the mirror when I was actually a pretty decent-looking girl? And I know that every day, now, I'm looking in the mirror and catching a glimpse of that monster, because I have put on even more weight, and it tries to drag me every day into self-loathing territory. But I'm through with that. Because I am well aware of the fact that, ten years from now, I will be looking at pictures of me at my current age and saying: What the hell was I hiding myself for? I looked great.

dimarts, 19 de març de 2013

Still I Rise - Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

dilluns, 12 de novembre de 2012


Torna cap a casa, amb el rajolí de sang assecant-se-li sobre el llavi. No pensa en mentides per dir als pares, sap que no els veurà fins ben entrat el vespre. Coixeja lleugerament, encara li couen els ous de la puntada de peu. No ha estat malament avui, probablement tenien pressa.
No s’ho ha callat, fa mesos que ho va dir. La seva tutora, amb tota la bona fe del món, va parlar amb els altres. Després, amb els seus pares. Però res. Se li van riure a la cara, diu ella. Al cap i a la fi, què podia fer ella si els agressors tenien catorze anys i escaig.
‘Ignora’ls’, li diu la mare, ‘Si no els fas cas es cansaran’.
Però no es cansen mai, al contrari. Com més intenta suar de la seva cara, més viciosos es tornen, com gossos de presa.
‘Doncs t’hi enfrontes’, diu el pare, ‘A la meva època aquestes mariconades s’acabaven amb un parell d’hòsties’.
I mira que ho provava, però sempre anaven junts.
Abans d’arribar al portal es mira el banc mig podrit de sempre, envoltat de closques bavejades de pipes de gira-sol. S’hi asseu, de manera excepcional, i sense adonar-se’n li comencen a rodolar les llàgrimes galtes avall. No somica, només plora. Deixa anar l’amargor que el corromp per dins i deixa que la soledat l’inundi. Una desconeguda s’atura, entendrida per aquella cara rodoneta tan trista, i li ofereix un mocador de paper, que ell accepta, avergonyit. Ella no s’asseu, i ell se’n sent agraït. No vol explicar els seus problemes. No vol parlar més.
‘Res no dura per sempre’, xiuxiueja ella abans d’allunyar-se.
I aquesta simple frase el manté despert tota la nit, barrinant, barrinant, fins que és hora de tornar a l’institut. Segueix tenint por, segueix sense saber com acabarà tot, o simplement, si acabarà.
Però ja no se sent sol.
L’acompanya la fredor esmolada de la navalla dins la butxaca.

dijous, 19 de juliol de 2012


Tal vez no ser es ser sin que tú seas,
sin que vayas cortando el mediodía
como una flor azul, sin que camines
más tarde por la niebla y los ladrillos,

sin esa luz que llevas en la mano
que tal vez otros no verán dorada,
que tal vez nadie supo que crecía
como el origen rojo de la rosa,

sin que seas, en fin, sin que vinieras
brusca, incitante, a conocer mi vida,
ráfaga de rosal, trigo del viento,

y desde entonces soy porque tú eres,
y desde entonces eres, soy y somos,
y por amor seré, serás, seremos.


dimecres, 6 de juny de 2012

Mary Elizabeth Frye (1932)

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.