Fat bodies in the family
words by Millie Smith
cover photo by Shoog McDaniel
cw: references to fatphobia experienced by author.
From the first moment sitting in the back of a tiny Ford Fiesta squeezed between the love of my life and his mother, I knew that I was in for a difficult time. I was going to be surrounded by foods I had never encountered (I grew up working class, so the idea of spinach and ricotta stuffed pasta was a world away from the pies I grew up on), people I could not understand, and a culture that was completely unaccepting of my existence. Wriggling and moving, trying to fit back into the tiny box I had broken free of years ago. Breathing lightly so I don't expand too much. Ignoring the sweat between my delicious folds of softness. Running down the rolls of my back.
Strike One.
We stop at a place to eat on the drive home. It's by the sea, and the sand looks so soft. It's my first time in a different country, and the sea looks like it does in movies. I want to wriggle my toes in the sand and dip them in the ultramarine ocean, but the moment I walk towards the sand, I'm reprimanded. At that moment, I realise that I do not have agency here.
We walk to the restaurant and I can't read the menu, so I opt for the only thing I understand - Calamari. I feel the judgement as soon as the words pass my lips, as I realise everyone else is ordering salads or pasta. The fat girl orders fried food, of course. It's silent as I crunch through the salty batter, eyes on me as I lift a glass of coca cola to my lips. All the things I love about food in one spot, salt and fat and acid and sweetness. I can't make conversation here. I am alone.
I spend the rest of that trip quiet. Crying through a bout of gastroenteritis, migraines daily and stress from trying to shrink myself down. I try to make them laugh, but it does not work - my backup plans fail.
His mum tells me when we leave that she'll strangle me if we don't lose weight. She says she's joking.
I sob down the phone to my mum.
Strike Two.
It's my second time here. It's been three years since my first visit. My partner and I have spent the last two weeks with our stomachs in knots, terrified of me going again. This time, they seem excited to see us. This time, I think it won't be so bad. This time, I decide to not shrink myself, and instead opt for a route that many fat women will recognise - the jolly fat person. I decide I will be loud, I will be brash and honest. I will be confident. I will wear clothes that his mother has never even dreamt of a thin person wearing - let alone a fat one like myself.
I shroud myself in my armour of bright, abstract pink skirts with matching tights and wild printed shirts. I laugh loudly, and I'm sarcastic and blunt. It's an open-mic night, but for me, it lasts a month. I brush off the snide remarks, ignore the glares at second-helpings and being frozen out of conversations. I eat the Calamari, loudly and proudly. When my partner's aunt remarks to him how he would be much happier if he were thin – I stop her, look her dead in the eye and tell her that life is beautiful and he should enjoy it.
Another aunt remarks that I'm funny. I pull a stupid face at her and say "I know".
I sob down the phone to my mum.
“Throughout my time there is one word that sticks to me – morbido. Morbidezza. Softness. Like fresh ciabatta, the insides of zucchini fritters, pistachio gelato. ”
Strike Three.
Last time wasn't so bad. I watch my partner eat less and less as the days get closer. Maybe last time was a fluke?
We land. It was definitely a fluke. We got lucky, there were good moods in the beautiful sunshine of Calabria - but it is winter now. I look at smaller portions get passed to me. I watch as treats get hidden. I make them laugh, thinking it can fix us. For a brief moment, it does.
Then the looks of disappointment return. My partner walks into his childhood bedroom to see me, and he cries. Night after night, he is sat down and reminded of his fat-ness. Reminded that he is not healthy or worthy. I hold him. I have had to face this for some months, but he has felt this his entire life. Self-worth entangled with his weight like pasta and pesto. How do I help him?
We go to the mountains, a few days before we leave, and his mother starts again. She wants us to go to a nutritionist and dietician. We tell her we're okay. I crack. I ask her why she sees our weight first. Why she can't love her son as he is? Why she can't love me? Health. She states that it's health and that's what everyone says when they criticise fat people. It doesn't matter that we don't get treated equally from doctors, teachers, parents, designers, anyone you can imagine. It doesn't matter if it's class related, or if BAME people are more affected, or if people who are severely underweight actually are in 'more danger'. Fat people aren't what you see everyday. Fatness is bad and ugly. So when people come and challenge the idea of being fat and unhappy...what was the point in all the years of hating themselves?
She doesn't talk to us for the rest of the trip. She doesn't talk to me for months.
I sob down the phone to my mum.
You're Out.
It's July 2020. We're aiming to visit for the end of July, but a family emergency means that we head to Italy on the 4th. It's slightly awkward after the months of no-contact, but I choose to continue my previous jolly fat girl approach. It seems to be working, but at the same time - weight seems to be dropping off.
I spend my days falling asleep to the lullaby of an AC unit at two in the afternoon. I wake up at 9PM. I sleep again at 3. I wake up again at 11. I eat lunch. I make them laugh. I pull faces. I offer to help. I ignore the glances and comments. I break my tooth. Apparently that is good, because now I might not be able to eat as much. Then there is the joke that I should leave my partner. There it is again. And again. And again. I am the not good-enough fat girl, ruining their son.
I eat the strange Jewish food I grew up on, I add different flavours to everything they make. I refuse to eat certain foods. I've lost a stone. I've been here two weeks. Every day is stressful. I mention in passing that I've lost weight and my partner's mum is overjoyed. She's so happy. Maybe she won't ignore me for the evening if I eat an ice cream today? I was wrong. A joke that is too much... Apparently, I should get gastric band surgery.
I book a flight home. Without my partner.
I sob down the phone to my mum.
I see stories of fat joy everywhere. I see stories of fat sadness everywhere, too. I see love letters and body positivity. I see poetry and songs, and fat nude art classes. I see unapologetic fat femmes. I see women being denied treatment. Trans sisters not being feminine enough due to their fatness. Black women denied love because of their size. Some days, it feels like I'm walking on air. Some days, I feel chained to my bed. Why? Because I chase love and validation from those who I want to love me. I want my mother-in-law to love me. I want her to see me, and appreciate me. I want her to not wish that I were thin. I want her to love her son...without conditions. Because with conditions, is it even love?
Throughout my time there is one word that sticks to me, morbido. Morbidezza. Softness. Like fresh ciabatta, the insides of zucchini fritters, pistachio gelato. It comes from the Latin morbus, which is where we find the word that leads to the words that I hear uttered around me - morbid obesity. How can my softness make me so much of a target in a country that sees luxury in the gentle curves and plump tummies of cherubs?
I will go home and wrap myself in self-love. I will go home and feel relief and dance. I will go home and spread joy and positivity. I will fall back in love with myself. I will not be ashamed. I will come back stronger. Not for them. For me. I am soft, but I am so strong.
Millie Smith is a fat, queer femme woman living in Glasgow as a PhD candidate. She spends her time sewing, cross-stitching and doing jig-saw puzzles alongside activism, being a trustee for children’s charities and working to make museums a safer space for working class people and other marginalised groups.
You can find Millie on Twitter at @smithjanemillie.