I only call this rant that /points above because ‘Fuck you, Mr. B—‘ seemed a little mean. But you know, you read it any damn way you want to, friends.
One of the weird things about grief is that you may be forced to come to terms with memories that had, well, a little candy coating that actually wasn’t there. Right about the time I had my epiphany that I didn’t need to be fat anymore, I started to remember all those cute little ‘jokes’ that weren’t. All the times I was corrected for what I wore or how I sat or what I ate. Mind you, there was nothing remotely like a fresh fruit or vegetable in the fridge or pantry, breakfast was non existent, but there was always plenty of frozen convenience foods like Totino’s pizza and Little Juan chimichangas.
While I was scratching my head and saying WTF parentals? I also happened to exorcise a memory of our Physical Education teacher- 4th grade through 8th. You know the guy- fresh out of college from somewhere in the northeast, permanently tanned and gym shorted, with the clipboard and whistle as permanent fixtures upon his person. Well meaning and earnest, absolutely.
But also very, very stupid.
It was fifth grade, in the spring, when he decided to give us a pep talk leading up the presidential physical fitness exams. It was going to be more difficult than it needed to be for some of us to do well, he said, because we weren’t in good shape. Some of us were carrying a half an Arian (back when I couldn’t death glare people for using that name for me) or an extra David leg around with them. We needed to take personal responsibility for our bodies, and we would live longer, happier lives for it.
Alright, fucker- a lot of those kids were lucky to have any food on the table when they got home at night. It wasn’t as if they could turn down the mac and cheese (made from government surplus staples) and ask for a fresh salad, perhaps with some nice lean grilled chicken. The quickest way I knew of to catch major shit from my dad was to refuse to clean my plate. I knew of at least three or four kids that were straight up emotionally and physically abused. And if you really wanted to start a little crusade towards health, Mr. B—, maybe start in the school cafeteria, with the fish sticks and sponge pizza. Maybe one in five meals was actually decently healthy… but there were no choices. And if your parents were barely making it to put food on the table at night, you probably weren’t in a position to bring something healthier.
But it was our lack of our own personal responsibility that made us overweight. Okay, asshole, sure.
It’s been years since I’ve thought of this guy. And part of me thinks he’s either heard those words back in his own head and went.. well shit. I done fucked up. OR he’s doubling down on the personal responsibility aspect for eleven year olds when it comes to food management.
At least two of my friends were in tears after that little lecture. We didn’t find it inspiring; we weren’t suddenly motivated to run a 5 minute mile to show them all… we went on being who we were in that time and place, because there weren’t a whole lot of options.
That shit doesn’t work, people. Just like my dad’s little remarks didn’t work, nor my mom’s attempted bribery. The only thing that has worked has been a long, involved journey in which I don’t give a fuck about these old words that have been echoing through my head like so many pinballs over the past decades. Letting those words go, that weight (har har) go, accepting myself as I am and as I want to be.. that’s what’s done it.
That and remembering all that I want to be able to do. At the end, mom couldn’t walk anymore, she gave it up. She gave up on her body until it gave up on her.
Well fuck that, yall. There’s still a half a lifetime of living left for me, and I fucking want it. I’m not going to skip going to the places I want to go and being with the people I want to be with.
Personal responsibility- sure, Mr. B—… but as an adult, when I do have control over the variables that doomed so many kids back then. I’m sure you’re not a bad person, not at heart, and I really think you wanted to do some kind of good. I’m pretty sure he’ll never see this- there aren’t enough folks who’ll read this that go that far back or even know who I’m talking about.
Kids, adults, and everyone in between- here’s my point. Body shaming is a shitty, lousy thing to do. Sure, it keeps therapists in business and all, but trust me, we have enough rampant narcissists and weaponized incompetents to do that.
If you’re still with me, just take away this last thought for the road. I love you, you fantastic work in progress, and I believe you can be whoever it is you want to be. Need to talk, I’m here to listen. And fuck anyone that wants to tell you different.
Not like, literally, please. That’s a whole different kind of therapy you need after doing that- trust me, I’d know.
Curiouser and Curiouser 