The last time I remember loving my body was in 2012 when I lived in Guatemala. One day toward the end of my yearlong stay, I came downstairs in my host family’s house and Papa Chico, the grandfather of the family, was there. Papa Chico was a hardworking, sweet man with crooked teeth who I could barely understand. He was a man of few words so a happy smile would do as our main form of communication for most of the year. But on this day, Papa Chico said more to me than he ever had. He smiled and declared, “You’ve gotten fat.”
In that moment I felt proud—like my host family had done well. They fed me enough delicious handmade tortillas to show off the fact that their family had food to feed a gringa. I loved it. I kept saying it in my head to myself, “I’m fat.” At first it was the most awkward thing and it felt horrible. Maybe this is another one of those “I’ve been in Guatemala too long thoughts” I told myself. Then after a few more times, I said to myself, “Um YEAH–I’m fat, I know how to eat tortillas!” I started telling this story to people as a badge of pride, and I felt so fucking happy heading into graduate school in my new round body. How could I not be proud of the happiness I’d found in Guatemala?
It’s three years later now and I’m in my first year of teaching. To say it’s been amazing would be a lie—it’s fucking hard. I come home some days and cry, while other days I laugh endlessly at things my kids have said. They are so clever and hilarious. Other times I don’t even make it home before the breakdown and I cry at my desk after school. But lately there have been less tears and more joy with my kids. There’s also more of me—I’m the biggest size I have been my entire life—but it’s not the round, fullness I felt when I left Guate. I want that back so badly. Where are you Papa Chico to make everything feel right again?!
Instead there’s me, my fiancée, our fur babies and a new counselor. (Side note: all first year teachers should be provided with access to mental health services.) Sometimes being a teacher feels like my body (and everything else about me) is thrust on stage for people to poke at. Last week I had a substitute teacher ask my kids if I was pregnant because I looked like I had a basketball under my skirt. What is wrong with people? We should not be commenting on anyone’s body–telling someone they are “so skinny” is no more acceptable than asking someone if they are pregnant. If we want to talk about our own bodies, then we will!
How am I supposed to fight my way back “in” my body when people are constantly handing over their unsolicited feedback? Is their feedback and my struggle even about my body? How can I identify myself as fat positive and body positive and read fucking radical body positive blogs by amazing women and still feel at war with my body?
I have to admit something: when marriage equality came to Florida, my partner and I were going to elope at the courthouse, but I put an end to that plan because I did not feel good about my body. I have been reflecting on what drives these issues for me. I am trying desperately to get “in” my body, and grasp at fleeting moments of loving it. For me it all comes down to one key image: I just could not come to terms with the fact that successfully finding someone I am dying to spend the rest of my days with does not look like a me as a lanky sexy queer super model in an androgynous pants suit.
I am going to get married in the next year and today I want to make a promise to myself: I will not put a number on my wedding day, and I will not postpone celebrating my love with the world just because I can’t come to terms with my own skin. I can do this. I will practice mindfulness and self-care. I will stop being so hard on myself. I will appreciate my tummy full of delicious food (mmm avocado) and my partner playing with the dogs out in the living room. My life is full of all the things. Because success doesn’t look like a certain weight—it looks like me, right here, right now, writing from my bed, laptop on my round tummy.
