Fat Chance, Charlie Vega

by Crystal Maldonado

I leave out the part where their kissing basically makes me have an existential crisis.

it was then that I realized that being fat is a thing: A Very Bad Thing, according to most.

The world around me has reiterated that fact over and over in hundreds of ways since: the way people eye my body and shift uncomfortably away when I’m getting on the bus; the way the gym teacher loudly tsks me—and only me—every time I have to get weighed at school as part of the “physical fitness test”; the way my doctor doesn’t even hear me when I’m complaining about sinus pain, and instead assures me that if I “try and lose weight” that’ll fix my problems; the way most stores refuse to make clothes that even fit me and then if they do, they’re much more expensive, as if my fat body comes with a fat wallet, too.

we’re reading The Catcher in the Rye. I hate it. Holden Caulfield is not a sympathetic character to me, and I’m over the way he calls everyone a phony.

I loved it in HS, but Holden is just so damn annoying, which I figured out when trying to re-read it in my early 20s.

She’s fat like me, and I can’t help but think that’s what makes her unwilling to ride. It sounds like something I’d do, hanging back because I’m too scared that the seat belt won’t buckle or something.

He’s got high cheekbones, his grin is a little crooked, and his dark eyes crinkle at the corners. My stomach does a little whirly-loop because I’m a hormonal teenager

I realize this conversation has probably gone on way longer than it should, but I spend a ton of time thinking about names. When you’re writing, you’re always trying to come up with the perfect names for your characters, and maybe I get a little carried away sometimes.

SO relatable.

Inside, on the kitchen counter, there’s a note that just says Enjoy. It’s propped up on a meal-replacement shake,

UGH

She tells me if I just replace one meal a day with them, I can really start to see some results on my body—my unruly body that needs to be controlled, I guess—and I can finally start living. Like it’s impossible for me to live now in this body I have.

Well, duh, ofc it is... how on earth can those of us in fat bodies live now!?

Food was no longer a celebration. We ate to survive and nothing more.

Not fun.

I ended up finding feminism and the fat acceptance movement, and I moved on to writing stories about girls of all sizes, from all backgrounds. It started to impact the way I thought about bodies, about nourishment, about diets, about myself.

I wish I'd had that as a teen.

Her body had been a “prison,” she said, and mine was, too. I could be “free,” if only I could commit to being thin.

Fuck that noise.

I don’t mean to seem shallow, but it’s like, when everyone goes out of their way to tell you “what a pretty face” you have, you notice.

Yep.

I believe that people can be healthy at any size. I think other fat girls are absolutely beautiful.

I’m fat, and I celebrate other fat people, but I don’t quite celebrate me. It makes me feel like a fraud.

Been there. Many, many times.

“Oh my gosh! Watch out!” Cal’s friend Tony shouts, dramatically putting an arm in front of Cal as if protecting him. Cal looks puzzled, and Tony stares at me, a smile spreading slowly across his lips. “Oh, sorry, man. Thought that was an elephant stampeding toward you.”

Grrrr...

“Fuck that guy!” Amelia says, turning to me. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine. It’s no big deal.” I ignore the water that’s welling in my eyes. The last thing I want to do is start crying in front of everyone. She shakes her head. “You’re not.” Through gritted teeth, I say, “I’m fine. Can we just drop it?”

“Okay,” she says, relenting. “I get it.” Only she doesn’t. That’s the thing. She has no idea what this feels like.

Then, once I stop writing, I remember that I’m alone and haven’t been kissed and it stings all over again.

All I know is I refuse to get one that exposes my arms; I’m way too self-conscious for that. Yeah, yeah. The #fatfashion comm would be like, What the fuck, Charlie? Don’t say that shit. But then I’d be like, Guys, I live in the nasty, judgmental Real World, and that means I still sometimes think not-great things about my body. Sorry.

There is nothing more infuriating than a privileged skinny person being embarrassed about their body. It’s like they won the body lottery and they can’t even appreciate it.

She tells me we’re lucky to be brown because we look good in every color, and that feels nice.

My insides are jittery with the realization that Cal Carter really did mean to invite me to the dance.

Oh, Charlie.

“The dance,” she repeats. Then her face lights up. “The George Washington High School Annual Football Awards Ceremony?!” “That’d be the one,” I say. “Oh my God!” she exclaims. “But you?” I feel my jaw clench a little. “Really, Mom? ‘You?’” She rolls her eyes at me. “Ugh, Charlie, that’s not what I meant,” she says. “I’m just surprised.”

I stand up a little straighter before saying, “Cal Carter.” My mom starts laughing. “Oh my God, Charlie. Come on. Seriously, who are you going with?”

I really hate her mom.

Unfortunately, the only empty seat I see is a couple of rows up and a few people deep…which means I need to hoof it up there and say “Excuse me” a bunch as I clumsily climb over my peers with my gigantic body. Sure. No problem.

:( Such familiar feelings.

so I hear her start to tell my mom about what happened, a story I’m not keen on hearing. I get up to close and lock the door, but not before I hear my mom say, “I tried to tell her…”

Not to mention that fact that he treated her terribly, constantly pursuing her long after she made it clear she had zero interest.

But I hoped—and thinking of that now, I cringe.

is it wrong to feel like having sex is something I might never experience? Not when I’ve made it sixteen long years without so much as a peck on the lips.

I know I’m being hard on myself and that I’ve got to be better about that, but I don’t know how, and I’m not going to solve that tonight, so I decide to write instead.

I don’t think of her as particularly vulnerable or insecure—but that’s stupid, isn’t it? Because we’re all kind of a wreck inside, at least sometimes.

“Just—promise me you girls won’t devalue yourselves for anyone. And I mean anyone.” She takes a good, long look at me and at Amelia. “You can’t. You have to really be kind to yourself and look out for yourself because the world can be cold and cruel. Don’t feel bad, ever, about putting yourself first. Promise!”

Life may be shitty. But in moments like these, everything feels like it might just be all right.

end up having to participate in gym class. And I hate gym class. Not only am I terrible at it, but I sometimes feel like my gym teacher takes special pride in judging me because I can’t run a seven-minute mile.

“All right. It’s just that I didn’t really appreciate you leaving me a shake to drink after what I thought was a nice night, but okay.” “The company was nice. The food was not.” Mom shakes her head. “I can’t believe I let myself eat like that, let you eat like that. We put so much garbage in our bodies that night. It’s gross.”

I feel gutted when I realize she weighs less than my (secret) dream weight. She shakes her head. “Not where I want to be.” Sighing heavily, she looks at me. “You see? We both have work to do.”

I say. “I’m not going to be part of this.” “And why not?” “This feels like a sick mind game.”

YES CHARLIE! YES!

“I’m overreacting?! You’re the one freaking out because you ate a fucking mozzarella stick! Jesus, Mom, live a little!” She shoots eye daggers at me. “Language! Show a little respect here!” “I don’t really feel like you’re respecting me right now, so I’ll pass.”

“I’m not sick, Mom, I’m just fat!” Mom visibly recoils at the f-word. “Don’t say that.” “But I am! I’m fat!” I gesture toward my body. “And it’s okay, Mom. I’m allowed to be fat!”

“No, Charlotte. It’s not okay. It’s not healthy. I would know.” “Don’t you dare try to lecture me about what’s healthy. You peddle weird pyramid-scheme shakes for fun. You don’t eat actual food and you try to force your messed-up views about bodies on me, too! All I ever hear from you is that I look wrong, eat wrong, dress wrong! You didn’t even believe a boy would ask me to a dance! You’re the one who’s not happy with me! So congratulations! You’re a terrible mother!”

“And lastly, no work.” At that, her brows furrow. “Wait, what? Seriously? No work? Charlie, that’s weird, and…well, fucked up. Like, really fucked up. Jobs aren’t for fun. You shouldn’t be grounded from a job. It’s not normal for parents to do that.”

Def not normal.

me. “The way she talks to you sometimes—you know that’s not okay, right?” I don’t look at her but shrug. “That’s just how she talks.” “It doesn’t matter. My mom would literally never say that stuff to me—ever!”

“No one’s mom should talk to them the way your mom talks to you. Moms are supposed to, like, build you up. Make you feel good. At the very least, they’re not supposed to make you feel worse about yourself.”

But the way we fight just doesn’t seem right. The way we make up could use some work, too. We don’t apologize; once my mom has stopped talking to me, I just have to deal until one day she decides we’re fine and acts like nothing happened. I hate it, but it’s just how it is.

maybe if I can start to apply some of these principles from the fat acceptance movement to myself, I’ll be a whole lot happier.

comment with others who are active in the movement and, at the encouragement of one, have been trying to take and post more pictures of myself on my own Insta when I can, hoping to normalize what my own body looks like.

Is it my anxiety brain, just nerves, something else?

Or all of the above?

can’t tell if my mom is purposely being hurtful, or if she genuinely doesn’t realize that literally none of these things will fit me.

I cannot imagine how she wouldn't know.

One time, she made a snide comment about how my mom shouldn’t set such a bad example for me. If she lost weight, Amanda said, I’d probably follow suit.