When I walk down the street (particularly in the vicinity of the universities), I let music shoot through my tiny plastic ear buds and directly into my brain. It used to be to drown them out because their words hurt. Their words were, to me, a realistic appraisal of my self worth. The words they yelled confirmed for me that the world did, indeed, notice that I was fat. Until they yelled it, it was something I thought I could (and should) conceal. I thought that if I could just prevent others from noticing my fatness, I could prevent them from experiencing some sort of negative reaction based on the size of my body. Then the music protected me from feeling the hurt that resulted from their inane, self-righteous, to-loud words, shouted from the cowardly confines of their mommy and daddy's brand-fucking=spanking new minivan. Now, however, the music serves a different purpose. It blocks the yelling still, but the purpose of this blockage has changed - now it is to prevent me from wasting the time and energy it takes to get pissed off. Yes, the world has noticed that I'm fat; there's no hiding that fact. What bothers me is that their words imply a twisted ownership over my body and my identity. The songs don't block the possibility of emotional hurt - I'm really, really over that. The music simply saves me time because, hell, getting pissed off, wound up, irritated - these things are exhausting.
One particular day I was walking home from a meeting at the university. As always, I left campus, turned on my ipod, untangled my headphones, did the standard keys-wallet-bus pass check, and plugged my ears with the music. While I walked, I sang along (in my head, of course) and thought about what I would make for lunch. Lily Allen's words "fuck you, fuck you very, very much" rang through my ears and over the blare of this very appropriate song, I heard the words "FAT DYKE" emerge from a passing vehicle that was driving too fast and was filled with more testosterone and self-righteousness than anyone knew what to do with. My first reaction was "well, you got it half-right, you fucking little shit. I sure am fat, but dyke? You're slightly off the mark there". As the van drove away filled with the fervent laughter of barely-out-of-adolescence-and-too-much-free-time, I had the desire to sit down with these young douchenozzles and have a conversation.
I know, it would probably take every ounce of my energy and self control to not kick them squarely in the nuts, but upon overcoming that desire, I'd like to talk to them. What made them think I'm a dyke? My awesome hair? My entirely not weather-appropriate high tops? I mean, the fat thing I get. By their standards (which are based mostly, if not entirely, on the standards they see on whatever dumb-fuck T.V. shows they watch or the dip-shit gossip magazines they buy "for their girlfriends"), I am not worthy. I'm fat, and rather than a simple description like short or tall, fat means something entirely different to these little pricks. Far means greedy, slovenly, disgusting, ugly, unhealthy, and sure-as-shit not attractive. i'm really, really okay with the fact that these young men are not attracted to me sexually because, fuck, not only would I break them in half, I'd likely blow their stunted, closed, little fucked-up minds all to hell. Let's face it - their mothers would hate me. But really, I'd like to ask these boys some questions. Why did they feel that it was important to announce to the entire street filled with noon hour traffic that there was what they thought to be a fat dyke walking down the street? Is this breaking news? Is this not a normal occurrence? I mean, if you see a panda bear waltzing down the street in the middle of the day, you might want to notify someone, but a fat dyke? I just don't get it.
I don't think I ever will.
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