A fat Howl
“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness…” ~ Allen Ginsberg
I want to talk about hypocrites.
No, I don’t mean the suits strolling the halls of Congress or the Bible-waving caricatures of brotherly love. No, not even the trolls who hurl venom through cyberspace with the assumption that humanity ought to be clothed in their status quo.
I’m talking that unspoken fraternity of otherwise intelligent and liberal progressives who champion social justice while stopping cold at fat discrimination.
Earlier this week saw me trudging into the graduate student lounge on campus. I’d put off reading an article for a class and the only copy known to mankind was to be found there. I normally avoid the lounge and not because of the sagging Goodwill uncomfortableness of the accommodations there. The program I am in accepts about 15 students a year into its fold. But the competition doesn’t end with an acceptance letter. It festers beneath the skin; it crackles loudly in an air of silence. It smacks of high school hierarchies and in-crowd cliques.
I claimed the wooden desk in the corner of the lounge, assumed invisibility and wished for headphones. Deep in concentration on the antebellum South, I could hear a gaggle of students across the room squawking like gossipy hens. It wasn’t until I got up to print did the conversation become clearer.
Male student: Let’s just send all the fat people to Iraq.
Students laugh. Unidentified voice mumbles a response about fat people being lazy and out-of-shape.
Male student: Oh, that’s okay – they all ride around in humvees anyway.
The inference, of course, is that we should socially cleanse society by sending all fat people to Iraq to die.
I wanted to march angrily across the room and call them out. I mentally debated whether I should interject. But I placated myself in silence. Being defensive while keeping your hostility in check is a fine line to tread in too-big shoes.
Class was starting soon and the simmering frustration boiled over as my six classmates and I piled into a small conference room. At least three of the students involved in the conversation – including the one who made the comment above – sat across from me as we waited for the professor.
“So, Adam,” I started as neutrally as I could muster. “What was that about sending fat people to Iraq?”
He tried to laugh it off. “Oh, we were talking about protestors and anti-war protestors and Kelly asked if there was a movement she could get behind and well, the conversation just went down from there…” he trailed.
“Yes, apparently it went really far down,” I said icily. “I guess liberal arts isn’t as liberal as I thought.”
“Uh, oh,” said another student. “I don’t think she found it funny.”
“No, I didn’t,” I said. “In fact, I don’t see it as very much different than telling a racist joke.”
Adam’s face registered shock. He stuttered a few words insisting it was just a joke when the professor walked in and started our class discussion on gender and racial discrimination in the antebellum South – the irony of which was lost to all but me.
Imagine, for a moment, if was said: “We should send all the blacks/Mexicans/Jews to Iraq.” Or, “We should send all the gays to Iraq!” Or, “We should send all the poor people to Iraq!”
Would it be a “joke?” Or would it be a racial and ethnic, homophobic and/or classist slur?
These kinds of progressive liberals don’t fit the mold of a bigot. Janus-faced, they cloak themselves in self-righteous intellect and hide under a veil of thin-skinned progressive enlightenment.
They lack the self-awareness other lesser-academically-degreed bigots delight in possessing. You know the kind: The jerks who deliver those drive-by verbal attacks with ease and just as casually detach themselves from the emotional heft left in their wake. The kind who hiss “fat bitch” or dispense unsolicited dieting tips as if spoon-feeding you your own medicine. I’m used to these kinds of bigots. I expect these kinds of low-level comments from people whose intelligence levels rival single-digits.
But are the two so very different?
When I was a fat kid, I’d turn on my tormentors with language, releasing the full extent of my expansive vocabulary like blows to the head. They’d stand befuddled, temporarily releasing me from the grip of their harangues.
As an adult, I despise and fear physical confrontation. To buffer and buoy the attacks, I write. I use language like currency, buying my way with a lexicon of rubies and gold. With writing, the tectonic plates shift, imbalances are leveled. It’s survival of the most articulate. I hide behind my bullet-proof vest of language and meaning.
Mostly, I write to keep from screaming.
But as M. Leblanc points out in her guest post at Shapely Prose, weight-based attacks and prejudices fester because we don’t scream. Fat people are picked on, discriminated against and verbally and physically harassed because too many fat people are complicit in their own social subjugation and subordination. We think we are failed thin people. We internalize the stereotypes and the hate and the prejudice. We believe we are worthless, that our fatness renders us second-class citizens, that once we Lose Weight, only then do have the right to self-respect and dignity.
We need to speak up. We need to point out hypocrisy and prejudice. We need to howl in the face of injustice and discrimination of any marginalized group of people, even if that cry stands on skinny legs.
Writing has its place, but so does screaming.








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