I was a fat girl.
Not the funny, quirky one you see in movies
who is average size in baggy clothes.
Actually fat.
They called me “fatty” and “chubbs.”
My brother still does sometimes.
In fourth grade, we read Blubber out loud.
It almost made me hate books when the cute boys
decided my new nickname.
Thighs that chafed until they bled.
Clothes always too snug.
Walking meant pain.
Breathing meant effort.
I haven’t been overweight in years.
But sometimes I still glance at my plate of food,
worry someone will comment on how much or what I eat.
I sneak bites, nervous that eyes are judging what goes into my mouth.
The names from childhood—
“Fatty. Chubbs. Blubber.”—
still taunt me when I glance in a mirror,
when I try on clothes in a dressing room,
when I step on a scale.
That girl hasn’t been seen in a long time,
but I still carry the weight of her with me.
And sometimes?
She orders a Quarter Pounder with extra pickles
and an M&M McFlurry,
finishing it in the car before I get home.
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December 8, 1980
When I was six or seven, my stepdad came into my life, and I remember thinking he knew everything. He could befriend anybody, anywhere. In grocery stores, he chatted with strangers over cuts of meat; at gas stations, he bonded with people pumping fuel over how the smell of gasoline was disgusting and yet enjoyable. In restaurants, he took an interest in waiters’ lives—like Steve, whose father was dying of cancer. When Steve’s dad died, my new dad attended the funeral.
By Tina D. LopezExclusive • 2 months ago
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