We Are Fat and We Are Legion

by Benjamin Duffy

  Ron’s face is illuminated. “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’m ready if you’re ready.”

  “I was hoping you’d say yes,” he says. “So neither of us is going back to the meetings?”

  “I don’t see any reason why we should. Weight Watchers doesn’t have any secret solutions we don’t already know. I can’t think of anything we need them for.”

  Ron shakes his head. “Me neither.”

  The waitress approaches with our coffee, plus tabs of cream and a shaker of sugar. “Anything else I can get for you?” she asks.

  “No, just the coffee. Thanks,” Ron says.

  I rather enjoy cream and sugar in my coffee, but I won’t have any today. I’ll take mine straight black. I try to sip it but the coffee burns my lips. I’ll have to be a little more patient. “There’s just one problem, Ron.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m still the queen of fat acceptance. What am I going to tell my audience? How can I keep hosting The Fat Majority?”

  Ron blows on his hot coffee. “Well…”

  “I’m going to have to quit the show,” I say. “I’ve been considering it since I started this diet. There’s no way I can keep up the charade. Weight loss goals are completely incompatible with fat acceptance.”

  “As a fan of your show, I’ll just say that cancelling The Fat Majority would be a great loss. Fat people need to hear that show. Heck, skinny people do too. I don’t see why you can’t do both.”

  I shake my head. “No. No, I can’t. Fat acceptance means exactly what it says. You can’t say that you accept yourself if you’re trying to change yourself at the same time. Don’t play this game.”

  “Which game? I’m not playing any games.”

  “That game. You know, when you try to take two incompatible things, like weight loss goals and fat acceptance, and you try to fudge it around the edges, rationalizing how they aren’t really so incompatible, when you look at it the right way. They are incompatible. Period.”

  Ron frowns. “I urge you to reconsider,” he says softly. “Remember that woman who called in a few months ago, she had such difficulty calling herself fat?”

  “Emily? Yeah, I remember her.”

  “That was vintage Gabby Medeiros. Emily didn’t have much dignity left when she called, but you helped her.”

  He sure knows how to say the right things. How his ex-wife let him get away, I will never know.

  “That’s why I do The Fat Majority, you know. For people like her. I see so many fat people who are just empty shells. I want them to walk with their heads up. I know there are a lot of supersize fat people who live as shut-ins. I always imagine some of them are listening. I want them to come out of hiding and join the human race.”

  “Yes!” Ron exclaims. “And that’s what you do best, so keep doing it! If you can’t call it fat acceptance, call it something else. You don’t have to change much. Just tell your audience about your change of heart and keep up the fight for fat dignity.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. You don’t have to take a stand on dieting either way. You don’t have to encourage your listeners to lose weight. Let them decide what’s best for them.”

  “Okay, I get it,” I say. “No sense in throwing the baby out with the bath water.”

  “Right!”

  I nod approvingly. “Ron, you’re a very smart man. You’ve given me some good advice. I think you’ve got the right idea.”

  It was a banner year for the movement. NAAFA celebrated its twenty-fifth anniversary in 1994 and the organization had never been stronger. Membership peaked that year, as did the organization’s revenues. It appeared that fat civil rights had really achieved lift-off.

  Unfortunately, I just missed this pinnacle of NAAFA success. I joined the organization in 1996, after having discovered fat liberation at my local library. Maybe it’s better this way; I didn’t face the heartbreaking disappointment of seeing the organization recede from its high water mark.

  NAAFA’s 1994 convention was held in Washington, DC during the hot month of August. There isn’t much going on in the nation’s capital in August. Congress is out of session, which means that the lobbyists have no one to buy off and the reporters have no one to gossip about. The guys and gals of NAAFA had the whole town to themselves.

  The convention was a blast, I’m sure. Every convention I’ve attended has been loads of fun and I haven’t missed one since 1996. NAAFA conventions usually feature pool parties, workshops, lectures, fashion shows, and dinner dances. Fat people can let loose and enjoy themselves without sneers and gawking.

  But ‘94 was special. In addition to the normal convention, a political rally was planned. The location was to be 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

  The rally was organized by the same woman who planned the convention, Sally E. Smith. I’ve met Sally a few times. Nice lady. She also served as editor-in-chief of BBW magazine until the internet made it obsolete.

  Sally decided to link the White House rally to the leading issue of the day: health care reform. At the time, First Lady Hillary Clinton was actively pursuing a policy of “universal” coverage for “all Americans”. Sally Smith and her band of NAAFA activists worried that the bill wouldn’t go far enough to protect fat Americans from weight discrimination in health care.

  The buses arrived at the White House on August 25, 1994. More than a hundred fat activists turned out to make their voices heard. They marched, they chanted, they carried signs of protest.

  Organizer Sally Smith was a little disappointed with the turnout. Although five hundred people had attended the annual convention, only a fraction of that number came to the White House protest. Some of the fatties apparently preferred pool parties and fashion shows to actual political action. Sadly, it can be difficult to get fat people to stand up for themselves when it really counts. Politics isn’t our strong suit.

  Regardless of the relatively poor turnout, the media devoured it. It was a slow news week. As unfortunate as it may be, the local press seemed fixated on the rally as some kind of “freak of the week” show. Funny, ha ha. Fat people demonstrating in front of the White House were not to be taken seriously. Reporter Carl Wieser snarked that the protestors were “burning off 300 calories an hour”. Fat people are used to this kind of demeaning treatment from the press and society at large. We could deliver the most polished, insightful speech in the world and its value would be instantly diminished just because it was a fat person who delivered it.

  Even so, there’s no such thing as bad publicity. The fact that reporters paid attention at all was a small victory to be savored.

  In the end, the demonstration accomplished nothing in terms of public policy. Apparently, Bill and Hill weren’t listening because they didn’t amend their health care plan one iota. Hillarycare went down in flames the next month when Senate Majority leader George J. Mitchell declared it dead. In November of that year, the Republicans swept to power with their ten-point Contract with America, making true health care reform seem like an impossible dream. Ironically, it was tub-of-lard Newt Gingrich who put a stake through its heart. The topic would not be revisited until President Obama resuscitated the issue in 2009 with his watered down plan. Obamacare isn’t all that fat-friendly either.

  Even though the 1994 rally proved to be a flop in terms of public policy, it did raise awareness. That achievement cannot be overestimated. For a brief moment sixteen years ago, fat rights were at the forefront of the national dialogue. There were undoubtedly people who saw the rally on TV and, for the first time in their lives, gave some thought to an issue that hadn’t yet crossed their minds. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

  Okay, so it wasn’t exactly our Stonewall. It wasn’t our Montgomery Bus Boycott or even our Seneca Falls. It was just a bunch of fed-up fatties marching in an ovular shape in front of the President’s house. For all I know, he wasn’t even there to see them. He was probably vacationing in Kennebunkport or something.
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  But it was something! Fat people don’t normally do these sorts of things. Many of us, the supersize in particular, are such defeated souls that we never set foot outside our front doors unless we absolutely have to. Fat people don’t march. Fat people don’t protest. Fat people don’t raise our voices to challenge the inequalities that affect our lives. Too many fat people sit in their living rooms, tacitly accepting their lives in the shadows. We’re just grateful to have whatever tiny scraps of respect we can get. We don’t make noise and we certainly don’t make demands!

  But that day we did. One hot afternoon in August fat people made history.

  Epilogue:

  December 2010

  I recognize her face before anything else. I’ve never met this woman before. Not in person, anyway. I know her name but precious little else.

  Less than an hour remains in 2010. By my watch, it’s 11:10 PM on New Year’s Eve. Ron and I are packed into the crowd on Main Street, waiting for the ball to drop over the Hotel Northampton.

  The atmosphere is festive. Just like everyone else, we’re bundled up to insulate ourselves from the cold. They call it First Night Northampton. There’s a sense of excitement in the air for the boding new year. Fifty minutes until 2011.

  For me, it’s been a year to remember. This time last year, I was living with Denny and I was sixty-five pounds heavier than I am now. I’ve since met the kindest, most wonderful man I’ve ever known and lost six inches off of my waist. I’ve monitored portion sizes, drunk copious amounts of water, read labels, and avoided foods that are greasy or sugary. That’s it. I didn’t use pills. I didn’t sell my soul to Jenny Craig or Dr. Atkins. I did it all by my own will power, with just a little help from my teammate, Ron.

  My profile still doesn’t look like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader and it never will. I don’t care either. I have no plans to try out for the squad. All I want is to be myself. It’s nice not to carry the burden of all that extra fat anymore. I don’t miss it one bit.

  The woman I see is wearing red earmuffs and a scarf, but I still recognize her pretty features. Her name is Alyssa Bennigan and, oddly enough, I don’t feel like piledriving her off the top rope. I bet she’s nice.

  The man standing next to her must be Denny. Yes, it is. If it hadn’t been for her, I wouldn’t have recognized him. Denny is a changed man. His body looks so much less rotund, even through his tightly-zipped black jacket. His smiling face is so thin that I would have walked right past him in a crowd. This stranger can’t be the same man who shared my bed for five years. But it is.

  I realize at this moment that I still have a choice. I could walk away, pretending that I never saw the two of them there huddling together for warmth. They haven’t seen me yet. I could still escape unnoticed. Or I could talk to him.

  “Denny,” I say, my breath forming ice crystals as it emerges from my mouth. I worry that my words may be slurred from the glasses of bubbly I’ve been drinking since eight o’clock. His head turns left and right, trying to determine the direction of the voice. “Denny Emory,” I say.

  Our eyes meet. I look into them, trying to discern his reaction. He is a blank slate.

  “Gabby,” he says.

  I wonder if this moment is as awkward for him as it is for me. It’s probably even more awkward for our significant others. “Yes,” I reply. “How ya been, Denny?”

  I sense no animosity in him. Denny is at peace. “Just fine,” he says. “You?”

  “I’m fine too,” I reply. “Nice night.”

  “It is,” he agrees.

  “I can’t believe it. You look so thin.”

  Denny smiles weakly. “Yeah. Thank you.”

  It occurs to me to ask how much he’s lost, but perhaps that’s a bridge too far. I suppose it doesn’t matter. All I know is that it’s a lot.

  “I’m happy for you,” I say.

  “Well thank you. It looks like you’ve lost some weight yourself.”

  “I have,” I reply. “So this must be your girlfriend?” I ask, pointing to Alyssa.

  “Fiancée, actually,” she chimes in. Women are very particular about those things. She lifts her hand to showcase a diamond ring on her finger.

  “Congrats,” I say. “Us too.” I jab at Ron’s ribs.

  “You’re getting married?” Denny asks.

  “Yup. September Seventeenth.”

  “Wow. I didn’t think you were the marrying type,” Denny replies.

  “I didn’t either,” I shrug.

  “Well, congratulations to you too.” I hear no hint of hatred or resentment in his voice. I’ve known Denny long enough to detect his sincerity.

  I realize that I have nothing more to say to him. He and I have chosen divergent paths; they may never cross again. Both of us are happier on New Year’s Eve 2010 than we were on New Year’s Eve 2009. That’s all that matters.

  “It was nice seeing you again, Denny.”

  “Yeah, you too,” he says, waving a gloved hand at me.

  I take Ron by the wrist and disappear into the crowd. We’ll just leave those two lovebirds alone. The night is young and there’s a lot of revelry to be made.

  “So that was your ex?” Ron asks as soon as we’re out of earshot. “That was Denny?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Was it weird? I mean, were you uncomfortable?”

  I grin to myself and exhale dazzling crystals. “A little. But I’m fine. Really couldn’t be better.”

  The truth of my words ring in my own ears.

  Acknowledgments

  The preceding work would not have been possible without the generous assistance of: Professor Paul Campos (University of Colorado in Boulder), William Fabrey, Lynn McAfee, Sharon Robinson, Richard Seligman, and Sally E. Smith.