Fat.
Throughout my childhood, I never once heard my mother utter this word. It must have lingered in our home, obscure and concealed. Perhaps my mother thought it in bold letters while carrying me, a robust 9-pound infant. Maybe she fretted over her own changing body as the months progressed, or how she would squeeze into her late-’70s bell-bottoms after my arrival. She might have contemplated vocalizing it in exasperation while weighing herself or glancing at the glamorous women on magazine covers. “I should lose a few pounds,” she could have been thinking. Meanwhile, I was in another room, engrossed in my favorite television shows. Yet, my mother was cautious.
If these thoughts crossed her mind, they never escaped her lips. At that time, I was unaware of what the word meant to women.
As a little Italian girl, food represented something integral to my being. I cherished mostaccioli just as much as I loved my home or my cherished doll. It was ever-present at family gatherings, embodying love through delicious meals of thick meat sauce and tender veal.
In this way, I grew up, transitioning from a slender 7-year-old to an introspective 12-year-old, with my bangs shielding me behind a book during dinner. I ate when hungry and read when yearning for something more. The transformation from girl to woman is gradual on the outside, yet shockingly swift internally. One day, the world feels small—just my house, my parents, and my bus ride to school. The next day, my gaze becomes expansive, hungry for the greater world and its myriad experiences.
I began to unravel the complexities of womanhood during visits to my grandmother’s house. There, my aunts awoke late, donned oversized shirts, and wore their hair in lofty ponytails. They painted my nails when I asked sweetly and dressed me in their clothes, allowing me to absorb their conversations. They shared what they considered beautiful and lamented their figures. Their discussions revolved around diets, often consisting of restrictive meals like tuna or hard-boiled eggs. Yet, they also filled the air with laughter and song. My aunts offered me my first glimpse of young womanhood, which felt whole and vibrant.
At home, however, such topics remained unspoken. There were no diet plans or workout videos. Food was simply a necessity and a pleasure. My mother would occasionally say, “Finish your meatloaf,” as I navigated the mashed potatoes on my plate, but she never remarked, “You don’t need another cookie.” I didn’t diet or question my size; I lacked any awareness of societal pressures. The word “fat” was devoid of significance.
It wasn’t until middle school that I first heard my peers use the word. In the locker room, after gym class, girls would exclaim, “I’m so fat!” Their casual remarks were laden with irony and competition. I observed, intrigued and somewhat distanced from their self-deprecation. Unlike my aunts, who discussed diets and body image, these girls seemed to be engaged in a disjointed dialogue that lacked depth. The unwritten rule appeared to reward those who claimed to feel the heaviest while being the thinnest.
I found myself perplexed. To my eyes, they looked perfectly normal, perhaps even slimmer than me. Upon returning home, I locked myself in the bathroom, stripped off my sweatshirt, and scrutinized my reflection in the mirror. I stood on a stool to catch a better glimpse of my body. I had large breasts and wide hips, and though my waist was small, my face was round. “Am I fat?” I wondered.
Trying out the words felt foreign: “You are so fat.” They resonated with an unexpected cruelty. “I am fat.” I whispered it, uncertain. My reflection seemed to question me back. “You’re fat!” I repeated, grappling with disbelief.
My mother interrupted my thoughts with a knock on the door. “Dinner,” she called.
I descended from the stool, clothed myself, and turned off the light. Dinner consisted of steak, buttery mashed potatoes, broccoli, and milk. I pushed aside my inner turmoil and engaged in conversation about school and books. Those were the topics we valued over our meal. I may have appeared distracted, lost in thoughts that many women still wrestle with. Perhaps my mother noticed variations in my body, but her prior silence spoke volumes.
She had given me the invaluable gift of her carefulness, an understanding of the strength in what remains unspoken. Thus, my mother never voiced a word.
In reflecting on this experience, it’s vital to consider the impact of societal expectations and the narratives surrounding body image and food. If you are looking to understand fertility better, consider exploring resources like this article on fertility supplements for more insights. Additionally, if you are curious about the process of intrauterine insemination, this resource from the Mayo Clinic provides comprehensive information.
In summary, the exploration of body image and the significance of food in our lives is complex and deeply personal. The absence of certain conversations can shape our perceptions and experiences in profound ways.
Keyphrase: body image and food
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