Body talk

I’m going to the beach this weekend with my cousins and their really skinny girlfriends and I don’t know what to do,” a friend tells us on WhatsApp, following up this statement with a photo nicked off Facebook of said girls, bikini-clad. Wow, abs. But you look perfectly fine, we tell her, and it’s not just lip service, because this particular group of friends is the most blunt and critical I have; they tell it to you straight. She does look perfectly fine. Petite, and slim, and pretty; my friend has nothing to worry about. “No, I’ve gained so much weight! And you know how every group has a token whale? In this group, I’m the token whale!” she wails.

It occurred to me then (not that it hadn’t occurred to me before in some form or another, countless times) that in this group of friends and nearly every other I’d been a part of, I had probably always been the “token whale.” The last time I remember being thin was when I was prepubescent, and the last time I remember being comfortable in my own skin is basically never. I’m far from skinny, and while a good number of people (mostly female; also: my mother) have told me that I should appreciate my full figure more, and that the curves suit me, there’s always this nagging desperation to lose weight that continues to whisper in the back of my head. Because everywhere I look, all I see is skinny.

I read a quote on Tumblr (I know, right?) from Junot Díaz, a writer whose work I’ve always enjoyed, that really resonated with me even though I have no idea what it’s like to be Latino in the United States of America: You guys know about vampires? You know, vampires have no reflections in a mirror? There’s this idea that monsters don’t have reflections in a mirror. And what I’ve always thought isn’t that monsters don’t have reflections in a mirror. It’s that if you want to make a human being into a monster, deny them, at the cultural level, any reflection of themselves. And growing up, I felt like a monster in some ways. I didn’t see myself reflected at all. I was like, ‘Yo, is something wrong with me? That the whole society seems to think that people like me don’t exist?’

If I’m cheapening something that is so clearly about something other than body issues (lo siento, Mr. Díaz), I apologize, but it doesn’t change the fact that any girl who has ever deviated — likely less than willingly — from the accepted standards of beauty surely must know what that feels like on some level, must be able to relate. We almost never see ourselves out there, and the scant few times we do, we see ourselves diminished, we see ourselves as less than people.

There are few reflections of us in mainstream media, and when there are, they are relegated to the role of the token funny one, or the best friend with the heart of gold. Always the sidekick, rarely the leading lady. And if by some miracle they are the leading lady, it always needs to be qualified over and over and over that there are reasons that they are the star (like the aforementioned sense of humor and heart of gold). It always needs to be proven beyond the shadow of a doubt that, in spite of their weight (which is always pointed out in one way or another; hello, Fat Amy), they deserve the limelight, too. Weight is always a plot point, always a struggle that needs to be overcome somehow. I don’t think any heroine has had to prove herself worthy of the title in spite of being skinny. And that bothers me, because fiction is often reality’s mirror, and in reality, I constantly feel the need to prove myself, too.

There are even less reflections of us in the fashion industry. Sure, there are plus-sized models — gorgeous ones — but they’re still little more than a novelty, little more than a bone the industry throws us just to prove that they’re not cutting us out completely, but who are they kidding? I’m so cynical now that when I see a plus-sized fashion editorial, the only thought going through my head is “Whatever,” because I already know that all the other editorials that’ll come out over the course of the year will feature people twice my height and less than half my dress size.

Even shopping, which we all love, can sometimes feel so demoralizing. How badly does it suck when you walk into a fitting room, your arms loaded down with gorgeous things (in size L at a minimum, M if it’s super baggy), only to have barely any of them look right or even fit at all? Le sigh.

I’m waiting for the world to change, and it has been excruciatingly slow. I’m waiting for it to stop making it appear like a small minority of our billions-strong global population is actually the norm that I should be aspiring for and working (out) towards. I’m waiting for the day that we’ll all really be working out for the health reasons we’re saying we work out for, and not because we want to be model-thin. I’m waiting for the day when, in moments of weakness, I won’t catch myself wondering if I would be more than I am now — more successful, more popular, more beautiful, just more — if I weighed less. I’m waiting for it to stop holding us to such impossible standards. I’m afraid I may be waiting for a long, long time.