Little Pitchers, Big Ears
CW: weight, weight-loss, & body image
When I was 4, I was told I had a “bony butt” and “thunder thighs.”
When I was 8, I had minor surgery that required a short hospital stay. I was always very tall for my age, and at 80 lbs, I was too big for most of the pediatric-sized medical supplies that I needed (including a hospital gown). Yet, I was also too small for adult-sized things. At a time when I already felt scared & vulnerable, I was also embarrassed & ashamed, but I did not understand why.
When I was 12, I went on my first diet. I was in the seventh grade.
When I was 13, I was in my eighth grade science class when we learned how to convert pounds to kilograms. The teacher had us do an activity where we all weighed ourselves in the classroom and then used our new skills to convert our weight from pounds to kilograms. We compared and contrasted our results as a class.
When I was 14, I was bullied & told “you shouldn’t wear shorts.” I (mostly) stopped wearing them in public for years.
When I was 15, I was at a summer camp, and all the boys in the small group put the girls on their shoulders for a photo, except for me. I was too heavy for a guy to lift.
When I was 16, I joined a new church. Purity culture insisted that my shoulders, back, chest, midriff, and thighs should always be covered, and I should never use my body “to get attention and approval.” Eager to fit in, I happily obliged.
When I was 17, I had my high school senior portraits done. A parent pointed out that I weighed “a good 20 lbs more” than my older sister did at the same age. Our two senior portraits hung side-by-side on display in a prominent place in my parents’ home for the next 20 years.
When I was 21, I lost 40 lbs over the course of one summer. I was praised for my body, but I was struggling immensely with anxiety, depression, and the “coming out” process. No one knew.
When I was 23, I had a very physically demanding job. I was the fittest & strongest that I have ever been in my life, and I was still told that I “needed to watch what I ate.”
When I was 27, I shopped in the plus size section for the first time. I discovered that not only were plus-size clothes were just as ill-fitting as all the others, but they are also far less trendy and fashionable.
When I was 28, I traveled abroad for a work trip with a large group of students, and because we went hiking in the muddy Andes Mountains, we rented “Hunter” rubber boots for the day. None of the boots I tried on fit over my calves. I ended up wearing an old, almost worn-out pair that had slits cut down the sides of each boot.
When I was 30, I traveled for a big job interview, and I asked for a seat belt extender on a flight for the first time. I cried.
When I was 31, I took a group of 30 college students to a ropes course for a team-building day. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead as I struggled to get the largest harness available to fit over my behind. It fit, but barely, and I took a breath of relief. However, my relief was only momentary. We did an exercise where one person is hoisted high in the air and swung around by the group on the ground. A simple physics principle means that the smaller and lighter the person, the higher they were lifted and easier to swing around. The group pushed for me to take a turn as the one lifted in the air, and I finally acquiesced for the symbolism of the team supporting their supervisor. As I swung among the trees high above their heads, I tried so desperately enjoy the moment while tamping down the embarrassment that it took ten people (far more than anyone else) strenuously pulling to lift and swing me in the air.
When I was 32, I returned a pair of jeans to the store because they did not fit. I asked a young, straight-sized employee if they happened to have the next size up in the stockroom. About ten minutes later, I hear a voice over the loudspeaker say, “For the customer asking about the jeans, I am sorry, ma’am. The size 18 ones are the biggest ones we carry in the store, but others are available online.”
When I was 33, I went to the doctor to discuss my struggling mental health and left with a prescription for a fad diet.
When I was 34, I, along with my coworkers, spoke to a college class of about 40 students. I was the only one who stood the entire time. The only seating options were the small desk/chair combo that are commonly found in old classrooms, and I did not want to embarrass myself by getting stuck.
When I was 35, I started shopping exclusively online for clothes. I used the pandemic as an excuse, but it was really that most stores didn’t carry a size that fit me.
When I was 36, I walked a 5K on Thanksgiving, and out of 200+ people, I was the very last one to cross the finish line. The race organizers – one of whom happened to be my boss – walked behind me to pick up the directional signs. Thankfully, I wear incredibly dark sunglasses; no one saw the hot tears of embarrassment that streamed down my face the entire time.
Two years ago, I finally met with the largest reproductive endocrinology practice in the region to talk about having a baby. I was incredibly excited about the appointment until I was told to lose 40 lbs before we could move forward. I have not gone back.
One year ago, I flew with friends on vacation, and as I did on every flight that trip, I asked for a seatbelt extender as soon as I boarded. On one leg of the trip, two of my nearby seatmates (who I did not know) watched as I was dismissed time and again by four different flight attendants. As we got closer to takeoff, my seatmates started asking on my behalf, and I eventually received the requested extender. While I appreciated the intention of being a helpful advocate, I struggled to hold back tears of shame & helplessness.
Ten months ago, I started working with practice that specializes in medical weight loss. Under their guidance, I began a strict calorie-deficit regimen that left me famished and miserable. I was so hungry that I cried myself to sleep for weeks. When I finally mentioned my experience to my two straight-sized providers, one scolded me for succumbing to my sugar craving a few times. The other provider cheerfully & flippantly said, “Well, I am sorry you are so hungry!” as she turned on her heels and left the room.
Eight months ago, I walked my another 5K, and even though I was the second-to-last person, I felt confident, at least until the last few minutes. A former co-worker (who I only knew tangentially & had not seen in two years) happened to finish the course ahead of me. She appeared out of nowhere by my side just as the finish line came into my line of sight. She took my arm and told me that I “didn’t give up,” that she was so proud of me, and that I was “an inspiration.” She made her son take a picture of us crossing the finish line. At first, I was confused. I was just walking? Then, it hit me: she felt sorry for me. I was doing something completely ordinary and living my life, and somehow, just because I am fat, that made me an inspiration? I am not sure which feels worse – being completely overlooked entirely or being seen, but only as the focus of someone’s pity.
Six months ago, I found a phenomenal medical practice that embraces “health at every size” as a core value of their work. I have never stepped foot on a scale, nor has my weight ever been a topic of conversation. My health concerns are considered completely independent of my weight. It is such validating and affirming atmosphere that I teared up after my first appointment because that is something I have never experienced in a medical setting.
Six weeks ago, I stopped using the terms “curvy,” “plus size,” and “body positive” to describe myself. I am a human being with a body; I had curves when I weighed 100 lbs less than I do now, just as I would have them if I weighed 100 lbs more. The term “plus size” has truly never made sense to me. Plus? “Plus” in comparison to whom? Moving away from the phrase “body positivity” was hard until I started reading and listening to Audrey Gordon’s essays, books, and podcasts.
Gordon argues that “body positivity” is a thinly veiled version of healthism, which is a sibling of the other “isms” (racism, classism, sexism, ableism, etc): they are all rooted in power, privilege, and oppression. It is good – even empowering – to use the word “fat.” It only has a stigma because we have given it one.
Six days ago, I found myself unable to catch my breath as I cried in therapy about how I feel when I do yoga. For many, yoga is a solo practice rooted in relaxation and meditation that happens to be done in community with others. For me, yoga is anything but relaxing and meditative; it is something that I push myself to do despite the bodily shame, discomfort, and embarrassment that take over. The worse pose for me, without question, is downward dog. I always slip into child’s pose instead so that my face is already hidden in case hot tears roll down my cheeks. In therapy last week, we developed a plan and a mantra for the next time that the flow turns to downward dog, and I feel more prepared now.
Today, I remembered that when I was in high school, my parents rediscovered their love for John Prine, a country-folk singer-songwriter. As a teenager who liked only the best emo pop-punk songs of the 2000’s, listening to John Prine’s songs felt like I was stuck in one of Dante’s circles of hell. Now, I still agree with my younger self that his voice was not the best, but he was a phenomenal songwriter. His song “Sam Stone” is often ranked on lists for “the saddest song ever.” The song tells the story of Sam Stone, a Vietnam veteran who struggles with an opiate addiction when he returns home to his family. One line in the song about Sam’s kids, “little pitchers* have big ears, don’t stop to count the years,” has stuck with me.
Pitchers, big or small, are designed to hold whatever is poured into them, and we have all been a little pitcher with big ears at some point in our life. What would happen if we changed what we pour into them? How would that change who we are and how we move about in the world? What if at the age of 4, I had been called “strong and fast” and had that poured into my pitcher instead of “bony butt and thunder thighs?” What if at the age of 12, I had had “you do not need to be on a diet to be worthy” poured into my pitcher instead of silence? What if at the age of 21, “your mental and emotional health matter more than your looks” had been poured into my pitcher instead of praises for losing 40 lbs?
As they say, hindsight is 20/20 (although, I move we retire that phrase entirely after the mess that 2020 turned out to be!), so my questions for myself are purely hypothetical at this point. However, I can change what I pour into other’s pitchers, especially if I am able to be a parent. Little pitchers really do hear everything with their big ears, and if I have the chance to change this for them from the start? God, I really don’t want to mess that up.