Gorda with Love, Hairy with Pride
I started writing this piece when I was around six months pregnant and furious. And I’d like you to know that, as I was writing it, I was eating a BFF-made peanut-butter brownie and I didn’t even care that my sticky fingertips were beschmutzing my keyboard ‘cause, you know what? I fucking deserved it. I was also in the process of mentally planning my first post-partum sugar-feast, a fantasy that involved me, all alone in a room with a giant Red Velvet cake and absolutely no one there to watch me scoff it down and comment on the assembly of crumbs and cream cheese filling covering the entirety of my face. In fact, I imagined it much like the encounter between the Vicar of Dibley and the chocolate fountain[1]. I’d hand the baby off to the husband and announce, “I’m going in!”. I would then close the door behind me and, just like Geraldine, dig straight into that bastard, face first and with great passion. I would downright refuse to share even the tiniest fraction of my cake. I would, however, invite the husband to lick the remains off my face once I had satisfied the urges I had been repressing for nine whole-ass months, if he so desired.
It's now been fifteen months since I gave birth and I’m still pissed off. Don’t worry – I got my Red Velvet cake, and I ate it too. At the table. With a fork. Like a decent human being. I even shared it with the husband, the wonderful man that made it happen for Mother’s Day. Because he knows what’s good for him. And I dug into that edible piece of Vegabonty art each evening for almost a week, with absolute genuss [2]and not a single regret. The way it should be. In measures, of course. The fractions of which should not be open to any kind of judgment or commentary. Lest you want the wrath of a pregnant woman and her gorgeous kilos or the protective rage of a Mama bear on you. Come on, I dare you. Throw me a line like, that’s very fattening/full of sugar/are you sure you wanna eat that? just as my buttered croissant lubricates my vocal cords, and I’ll tell you right where to redirect the hangryness you’re feeling because you don’t trust yourself to eat intuitively. And you don’t trust yourself to eat intuitively, because diet culture thrives on telling you that you’re doing it all wrong. And you buy into diet culture – under whichever disguise it is currently circulating social media feeds – because you want to be – INSERT “PERFECT” BODY IMAGE HERE.
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When my daughter was just a few months old I discovered the Bob Ross of baking and cooking on YouTube. I spent many a wee morning hour listening to his soothing voice and that charming accent of his, making mental notes of ingredients to stock up on. His slogan, be happy, be healthy is spot on – his recipes offer a healthy alternative on munchie classics such as Oreos and brownies that do indeed make sweet tooths such as myself happy. Which is why it’s so sad that, upon handing my friend a giant, homemade Snickers bar, I made a point of defending it, practically apologizing for it, by saying, “don’t worry, the only thing “bad” in there is the chocolate”. At least the fact I used quotation marks implies that, deep down, I knew what I was saying was nonsense – and yet somehow the anxiety over being shamed by the food police ran deep enough for me to feel I had to justify a gift made with a lot of cariño. Because it pops up everywhere, blue patrol lights wailing in the form of insistent voices at breakfast and dinner tables, filtered faces on screens. But come on. I don’t want to live in a world where the words “chocolate” and “bad” live in the same sentence.
I was truly taken aback by this automatic response of mine, my rushing to my Snicker’s defence. It highlighted just how entrenched this negative dialogue around food, this bullshit divide between “good” and “bad” foods, has become. My reaction was as immediate as the irrepressible urge people feel to let the entire table know that, the dessert they just ordered is a special treat or that, at home, they would never eat this sort of thing. And by people, I am, of course, mainly talking about women. This is hardly surprising seeing as women and their weight are scrutinized throughout every stage of their lives. Freely. As though it were a public right. It starts before they even hit their pre-teens when the “baby-fat” that was once so loveable and commented on with heart-shaped eyes and drooling mouths becomes a cause for concern. Suddenly, indoctrinated relatives and shitty strangers try to reassure unconcerned parents and carefree, young girls by saying things like, “don’t worry, she’ll/you’ll grow out of it,” through pursed lips and frowning foreheads. No wonder girls start wishing they were thinner when they are as young as six years old (Tiggemann & Lowes[3]). Six. Years. Old.
We have gotten to a point where kids reaching for one too many chocolate bars will no longer be fearmongered into constraint with stories of Karius and Baktus[4], but the danger of becoming fat. Where an extra slice of birthday cake is turned down with mathematical equations cumulating in the day’s current calory intake and talk of other diet regimes. Where exercising is no longer about the exhilarating adrenaline and mental health boost, but how many grams a long walk will burn off our scales by the evening. Where the very first risk a doctor mentions in terms of pregnancy weight gain, is the difficulty of losing it again post-partum. Are you fucking serious, right now? That is the most important thing to consider? Not how it might impact our joints or our birth – but how quickly we can “snap back”? Like we don’t have anything better or healthier to do? These kinds of attitudes we have adopted as a norm are not just infuriating and depressing, they are also downright dangerous. I don’t want my girl growing up getting shamed into turning down that extra piece of cake – at least not for fear of getting fat. And, should she want to have kids one day, I want her to enjoy every single second of her baby, her toddler, heck, her teenager, without wasting a single thought on “bouncing back” – at least not to fit any ridiculous ideal for anyone other than herself.
Since my pregnancy, it feels as though my body is constantly being assessed. While no sane person would ever think to ask a non-pregnant person how much they weigh or how much they’ve gained, turns out, it’s all perceived to be fair game when you’re growing a human. From being told I had “some melons on me”, to being told I looked “positively fecund” and “beautifully expanding” to being called gorda [5]– I heard it all. Once my daughter was born, the script flipped and within just a few months people started commenting on my “baby weight” – that I had shed it quickly, that I was still carrying it in my face; asking whether I had been exercising and “working on it”. Gee Margret, between recovering from a c-section, taking care of a tiny human and leaking boobs, the last thing on my mind is whether I will fit into my pre-pregnancy jeans anytime soon, but thanks for asking how I’m doing. At least we’ve got your priorities straight. Mine are currently elsewhere – loving my body exactly as it is. As it should be. That’s what I’m working on.
We have normalized treating physical appearances as accomplishments or failures. We are praised for losing weight regardless of – and often oblivious to – whether it was a conscious effort or a side-effect brought on by unwanted circumstances. The fact that we are highly complimented on the procurement of one body-type, suggests that the other – our former self – was undesirable or even unhealthy. Weight gain is commented on just as freely, albeit in a negative light, the connotations of which are often masked behind humour most recipients will find unfunny. And not only have people suddenly become experts on what constitutes a healthy physique – which obviously cannot be generalized, contrary to what diet culture says – they also have a clear and extremely warped idea of what is deemed attractive or unattractive. Of what is deemed worthy of praise – praise for something that should never be viewed as an achievement or a mirror of our physical and mental well-being.
*
Hair is sprouting from my armpits like soft grass palms in spring, announcing a new season. It’s a new dawn, baby. And I’m feeling good. I used to wake up scratching my shaven pits with the same furious gusto as a soccer player tugging at his sweaty scrotum after a game of scorching futbal veranero. It was like feeling the crumbling, drought-stricken earth under my fingernails. Years of stripping my skin of its natural resources and slathering it with chemicals had finally taken its toll. Ditching the deodorant and razorblades wasn’t really a conscious decision at first. They just sorta started ghosting themselves out of my daily/weekly routine, until they no longer formed as little as an afterthought. It wasn’t until I recognized the benefits of their absence that it became an active choice not to shave or mask my corporal scent. And my, my how good it feels, and my, my, how badly it is perceived.
Up until about three hours before our wedding ceremony, I was walking around on bare, perfectly pedicured feet that were holding up a blissfully happy, slightly filthy, and totally unshaven body. Of course, I had always planned on showering and doing a bit of landscaping eventually but, in the moment, I actually saw the fact that I wasn’t stressing about it as a) a testament to our relationship and b) my growing confidence in finding what feels right for myself. Others saw it as a sign that I was “letting myself go” [before I’d even gotten married]. And when my brother raised a concerned eyebrow, carefully asking whether I was still planning on shaving my armpits, I wish I could have sat him down to explain that, if “letting go” means shedding the unnecessary mental load we carry around our physical appearance, I’m all for it.
Don’t get me wrong – I have my moments of – almost – full-body smoothness. When the hair around my ankles starts looking like a pair of ruffle socks that clash with my outfit, for example. Or when the punk in my pits overwhelms the prep in my dress. But those choices are all mine. I feel the looks and, at times, I feel the discomfort of judging eyes resting on what they have been taught to deem unpretty. And it’s ridiculous – I mean, why are we groomed to enhance the length and curl of our lashes, but shamed for not trimming, shaving or lasering pretty much everything else? It all serves the same purpose, and as far as most zones are concerned, an important one at that. Not that the beauty industry would ever advertise it. Obviously. So now, when I catch a glimpse of that friendly fuzz in my peripheral vision as I stretch my naked arms above my head and sink deep into my best crescent, I give it a little pet with a little pride. Because they are like souvenirs I picked up on a long journey away from unhealthy standards set by society, and towards a new place of love and acceptance. Of healthy humanity.
Now that I am a mother, I am glad I started on that trajectory prior to bringing a little female into this world that looks to me for guidance. My husband is right when he says we cannot shelter our daughter from a world so deeply focused on appearances – and I’m not gonna lie; I hate it when he’s right about these things. We can’t protect her from the subliminal messaging in all forms of media and advertising, of the assholery of many kids and adults she will encounter in life, of the pressures she is going to feel at different points of her life simply for having been born a woman. But I can teach her how to feel confident in her body and her choices. I am still far from being able to pass the mirror every day and flirting with the irresistible, often granny-pantied image staring back at me. But I fist-bump her with great respect on the daily; sometimes I’ll even give her a cheeky little wink cause, damn Mama, you’re so fine when you drop those negative mental narratives and see yourself for who you really are: a tired but healthy body absolutely brimming – positively gorda – with love, and hairy with pride.
[1] A Chocolate Covered Vicar | 2004 Christmas Special | The Vicar of Dibley (min 1:48)
[2] Relish
[3] The Contribution of Peer and Media Influences to the Development of Body Satisfaction and Self-Esteem in Young Girls: A Prospective Study
[4] The stories of Scandinavian “tooth trolls” who scared generations of children into brushing their teeth.
[5] Literally translated as “fat/fatty” – a strangely common term of affection in Spain and South America that, supposedly, has nothing to do with physical appearance, but will always ring wrong on foreign ears.