Big Fat Manifesto (2 page)

I finish with five or six cookies. Just a few, even though I want the whole bag.

I'm trying.

I really am trying, though I'm not totally sure why.

It never really matters.

The Wire

REGULAR FEATURE

for publication Friday, August 10

Fat Girl Pornographing

JAMIE D. CARCATERRA

That got your attention, didn't it?

Quit being a pervert.

I'm not talking about the oh-so-illegal-at-this-school sex thang. I'm talking about the third definition of pornography, according
to the
American Heritage Dictionary
of the English Language,
Fourth Edition:

Lurid or sensational material.

Yeah, that definition. The one that gets lost in all the body parts and grunting sounds, especially in perverted minds like
yours. Mind out of the gutter now? Good.

I think we all agree that dirty pictures, whatever the degree of dirtiness, probably qualify as lurid and sensational. Next
down the ladder we have scenes of gory death like in stalk-and-slash movies or "real life" accident footage. There is definitely
something wrong in a society where sex flicks get trashed as illegal, but snuff flicks make billions at mainstream movie theaters.

Then we have the more insidious—that's sinister, subtle, or menacing for all you can't-read-above-fifth-grade-level types.
Like pictures of bloody streets and dead gang members and hysterical relatives screaming and waving their hands. That's lurid,
and definitely sensational. Usually, newscasters say something about racial violence or poverty or God knows what, but behind
them, blood and pain stain the television screen.

My friend NoNo and I think shots of Holocaust victims can be pornographic. Shock value. Exploitative. It depends on how they're
used—to commemorate and honor the dead is one thing, but to do that "Face of Death" thing, that makes me totally sick. Ditto
photos of civil rights workers who didn't survive. What they did matters, sure, but so often these pictures are pornography,
used without regard for relatives, friends, or other people who might be devastated by the images.

So far, I think we might be agreeing on what constitutes pornography, in that third definition way. Now, I'll probably piss
you off.

Let's talk about the endless television news reports about obesity, featuring big jiggly bellies and fat waggling butts walking
down the street. Fat bellies just strolling along, like they have some right to be in the world. They never show faces or
eyes or mouths or opinions or thoughts. Nope. Just the bellies and butts, with a sound bite about what the obesity epidemic
is doing to our nation or our health-care system or whatever they're hyped up about that day.

And worse—a whole new level of worse—health broadcasts showing fat people eating. Shoveling in those high-fat foods. Or shots
of half-ton people flopping around in their beds or getting hauled to the hospital on slings and hoists usually used to lift
whales for transport.

Why isn't this pornography?

Simple answer: It is.

It's designed to maximize the horror and disgust felt by people less fat than the bellies and butts. It's designed to make
you say, "Jesus God, how can they
do
that to themselves?"

I'll tell you what it really is, though. It's spectacle. It's lurid. It's way past sensational.

It's pornography.

If the evening news wants a jiggling belly shot, hey, I'll go volunteer—but I'll get my say in the process. Tattooed across
my swaggling giant butt will be the phrase: GET A FRIGGIN' CLUE.

Across my belly, you'll read: I'M STILL A PERSON.

Surprise. Did you know that? Does that matter to most viewers? Does it matter to you?

It doesn't matter to the pornographers.

Stop the exploitation.

Stop
all
pornography.

CHAPTER

TWO

Freddie, NoNo, and I stare at the glitzy storefront window of Hotchix on Wednesday afternoon, at exactly 4:30 PM. It'll make
for a tight deadline given the paper goes to press Thursday, but play practice usually goes short on Wednesdays and I've got
my homework in reasonable shape. We've already spoken to all relevant adult obstacles. No worries, though. We have the blessings
of Principal Edmonds
(Yeah, stick it to the man
—I
mean, the
woman
—
whatever
—stick if
to somebody),
Ms. Dax
(Bold journalism,
girls),
our parents
(Don't you dare get arrested),
and his ed-itorialness Heath Montel
(I like it. It's got ba
—
uh...).

Freddie supplied the word
ovaries,
by the way, with an appropriate you-are-such-a-caveman glare.

Hotchix is
the
store, of course.

One thousand square feet of haute couture, teen-style. All the best girls get their hot threads from Hotchix, but I have never
seen a Hotchix model who has any body fat.

The three of us gaze into the window of glamour as the rattle-tattle thunder of the south end of Garwood Su-permall washes
up and back like a psychotic tide. All the noise echoes the waves crashing in my brain.

NoNo looks like her brain went on holiday last week, but NoNo often looks like that. It's deceptive. As for Freddie, well,
her brain's probably busy picking out escape routes for when NoNo finds animal products and starts screaming and throwing
things. Freddie's been best friends with NoNo and Burke since they were little kids. I met them all six years ago, when my
family moved to Garwood.

Since NoNo's in such a wad, Freddie keeps peeking over the top of her sparkly sunglasses and fiddling with the jewel-studded
earpieces. Any second now she'll dislodge the wires to the voice-activated MP3 recorder Heath hot-wired into her prized shades—forget
about the tiny wireless cam crowning the V-neck of her purple lace and muslin dress. With her silky black hair piled into
a perfect princess up-do, Freddie looks more like a fashion-runway escapee (from a country with body-fat requirements for
their models, because honey, Freddie's got hips) than a coconspirator, but she's the biggest activist I know. Other than me,
of course. And NoNo. Buuu-uuut, NoNo's "causes" run a little different from the mainstream—or are at least more extreme.

I'm wearing my usual, a size 4X loose-fitting shirt with a blue skirt. It's way easy to hide cameras and mics all over me,
though Heath thought my curly blond hair was probably the best place to tuck wires.

You have the thickest hair,
he had told me while he worked with his big hands behind my ears.

That had made NoNo snicker, and made Freddie kick NoNo, at which point NoNo said a few words NoNo doesn't normally say. Freddie
can do that to a person.

As for NoNo, she's in her usual attire, too. Bright blue hemp jeans and a dye-free colorgrown red striped T-shirt reminding
me of that kid in the
Where's Waldo?
books, only lots less vivid. We had a hell of a time finding anywhere to hide anything electronic on NoNo, but she agreed
to wear a bulky hemp necklace and carry a bag, after we proved it wasn't leather or any other product derived from animals
or animal testing, and made in a country that does not use child labor.

We argue again for a few seconds about who should go in first and decide on Freddie, since she's sort of middle ground. Too
big in the hips for a lot of Hotchix stuff, but not totally off their snubby little planet. Then we wait until the store's
empty except for the saleswomen.

Freddie erases her usual serious, intelligent expression, the one that she uses when she's Ms. News Anchor on the Garwood
High cable station, and walks into Hotchix.

NoNo and I watch as fashion hell swallows Freddie whole.

My breath catches in my chest—the group of clerks look like they might turn rabid and eat her.

Don't panic.

Have you lost your mind?

Probably.

I check the button on my recorder, then NoNo and I watch Freddie rifle through the racks and hold up a few items. The cluster
of saleswomen glance one from the other. I see a sneer or two, and one whispers to the lady next to her. That lady takes about
a minute to head over to Freddie.

That's NoNo's cue. Strands of her very short red hair stick to her pale, freckled forehead as I give her the go-on thumb jerk.

NoNo blinks. Swallows hard. "They have
so
many animal-based products in that store, Jamie," she whispers, like anyone but me could hear her over the dull roar of the
mall.

"Nothing will bite you, I swear to God." I resist the urge to shove her forward. "We're
exposing
them, remember? Just think of how you can use all the animal stuff in your column."

Of course she writes for
Green Revolution,
the city's underground conspiracy rag, circulation twenty. Maybe twenty-five. But NoNo seems to take strength from this idea.
She straightens to her full height, almost five feet ten inches, and heads into Hotchix.

She doesn't even get to a clothes rack before all three remaining saleswomen move to engage her. The one who reaches her first
looks close to our age, but I figure her for midtwenties. All of them look about that old. Hotchix probably has hiring profiles,
screening for girls with a youthful, thin, chic appearance.

NoNo's victorious clerk is busy yanking things off hangers and out of stacks and loading them into NoNo's scrawny arms while
the other four saleswomen wander back toward the registers.

It's my turn now, baby.

Get ready, Hotchix. Here I come.

Over the threshold and through the door.

The aroma hits me first. Leather and cotton, with undertones of cedar. It smells new inside Hotchix. And young. And, as much
as I hate to admit it,
good.
Didn't expect that, but okay. I can take it. Should have figured on some unknowns, since I don't go in stores like Hotchix
very often, even to shop with NoNo or Freddie.

In real life, I'm relegated to Diana's and the West End, and lately, as I've gotten a little larger, just to Diana's. Diana's
smells like old-lady perfume, and they sell lots of lime green and bright purple stuff for "mature, shapely" women, which
I've never quite figured out. I don't fancy myself as a giant grape. Do older fat women cherish looking like grapes? My grandmother
made my blue skirt. At least she gets the whole no-grapes-please thing.

NoNo's high-pitched voice lifts over the top-ten soundtrack blasting through the store as she asks if the jacket the clerk
just loaded on to her try-on stack is real leather. Freddie's head turns, calculating the location of the exits. She locks
eyes with me for a few seconds, then goes back to picking out an outfit or two with her bored saleswoman.

The clerk with NoNo assures NoNo it's faux leather and keeps piling on options.

Of the two available salesclerks in Hotchix, neither of them comes toward me. They study me, though, and I catch each expression
on camera. Surprise, annoyance, then eye-rolling. Mild disgust, followed by a head-to-toe check of my body, and more obvious
disgust. They stop looking at me and start talking to each other.

I catch bits and pieces of what they say.

. . .
Not sure why
she's
here.

Can'I be to shop...

Bel her boyfriend can't wait to get some of
that...

Maybe buying a gift. You go.

Nofriggin' way. You.

This I'm ready for. I've heard it more than once. Lots, in fact. Which is why I shop at Diana's, where the clothes make me
look like a grape.

The women at the register give me a few more snide expressions, then ignore me. Seems like the bigger I get, the more invisible
I become. Another fifty pounds, and I'll be an outright ghost.

Freddie and NoNo, who are not ghosts, head toward the fitting rooms with their sales associates in tow. While they're gone,
I go through three racks, all full-price stuff, and two different tables of shirts.

No one says a word to me.

The clothes
are
hot, damn it. Especially the stuff with tassels and bangles and wild designs. So much attitude. My taste, no question. It
bugs me I can't wear any of the colorful, fresh things I touch, that the gods of clothes making don't mass-produce stuff for
Fat Girls. We're what, three in ten now, stats-wise? But stores like Hotchix would rather ignore us thirty-percenters. Guess
our money doesn't spend as well as Freddie's or NoNo's.

Still nothing from the clerks, except snickers if I handle something especially small.

After about ten minutes, like we planned, I wave at the counter huggers. "Hello? Excuse me? I'd like some assistance."

My two victims glance at each other. I swear if I hadn't been watching, they would have drawn straws or done rock-paper-scissors.
The nearest clerk moves from behind the counter, but I think she got pushed, judging by the way she stumbles. By the time
she gets to me, though, she's smiling and chirpy and sales-y and trying oh-so-hard not to rake my large body up and down,
up and down, with her big blue eyes—and probably working twice as hard not to roll them halfway back in her head. With her
spiky blond hair and the way her cheeks and lips puff out, she reminds me of a blowfish. Her nametag says
Pepper.

Now it's me working not to roll my eyes. "I'm hunting for something in white with blue highlights," I tell Pepper the Blowfish
as I gesture to my top region, the biggest part of me if you don't count the hips. "To match my skirt."

My smile would rival any beauty pageant contestant's, especially as Pepper the Blowfish goes crimson around the gills. "We—um,
in this store, our biggest size is thirteen.
Junior
thirteen."

"Okay," I say as brightly as I can. "Give me the largest shirt you've got, and I'll try that."

We can drop the Pepper. She's all Blowfish now, and she hesitates. "We don't have anything that will fit you. Why don't you
try—"

"Diana's?" I keep the brightness. "No thanks. Diana's is for old ladies." I gesture to my face. "I'm large, but I'm not old.
I'd rather try here and take my chances."

"We don't have anything you can wear," Blowfish insists, this time more slowly, and a little loud, like I might have a mental
problem.

The woman at the register stares now.

"Why don't you let me be the judge?" I ask Blowfish. "Just find me a shirt to match my skirt."

She puffs out her cheeks, and I swear the spikes on her head get a little taller. When she turns her back on me and stalks
over to the rack, the other saleswoman laughs outright.

Blowfish storms back over with a size 13 white short-sleeve number with the
best
blue wave pattern sweeping from shoulder to waist. When she holds it out to me, she frowns. "This is it, the largest in the
store. If this doesn't work, nothing will."

I keep smiling as I take it from her and head to the fitting rooms.

From behind me she calls, "You break or tear or stretch—you buy."

The other clerk laughs again.

I hear something about me finding a tent store. How original. Don't they ever come up with new insults?

Blowfish doesn't follow me.

From her dressing room, NoNo says, "I really think
cabretta
might mean animal. I'm not sure I'm completely comfortable putting this against my skin."

Both clerks in the fitting room set about reassuring NoNo—lying wherever necessary—about what she's trying on. They tell her
how
marvelously
everything fits her, and encourage her to try more. Some of the ensembles. What about shoes? Necklaces to match?

Freddie's slipping by the wayside, probably since she has big hips. She shrugs at me and traipses back into her fitting room
to retrieve her actual clothes. I wonder if the clerks even notice that Freddie's own outfit probably cost more than two-thirds
of what Hotchix has for sale.

Me, I'm something past invisible now. I drift into a dressing room, close the door, and hang the beautiful shirt. Three mirrors
show off my size from various angles. Even though I know I'm large, it digs at me, especially since I don't really fit in
the fitting room. I bump walls as I turn, position the cameras to miss anything they shouldn't see, and work on taking off
my clothes.

I hate undressing in fitting rooms. I know most are monitored by cameras I
can't
position or, worse yet, actual people. If somebody's on the other side of those mirrors, they're stereotyping and laughing
at me—about how I'm deluding myself, about how I have no idea how big I really am or I'd "do something about it."

I think about what I had for breakfast. Boiled egg, grapefruit, toast with just a little bit of butter. My stomach growls,
since I won't eat again until I get home. I wanted lots more at breakfast, but I refrained. Not that refraining matters. I
might lose five pounds, but I gain them back just as fast, plus a few. Five pounds means nothing at all.

Damn, I'm hungry.

I'm stripped down to bra and skirt now, staring at the gorgeous shirt. My own smell fills the dressing room. A little vanilla
from my shampoo and conditioner and body spray, but mostly it's sweat and kind of a sweet but not too nice scent, like dough.
I don't sweat a ton, but enough that by afternoon I'm noticeable if you get too close to the pits or other areas. It's a real
problem when I'm in costume for plays at school—my dressing counter is full of sprays and creams to reduce the moisture and
smell.

Nothing much works.

Even skinny people sweat,
the director tells me. But I'm not stupid, and I don't look away from the truth. I stink worse because of my size. And in
the dressing room mirrors, the smell takes on an almost visible shape, coating my rolls and folds. Burke calls them curves,
like my parents, and my friends too.