Fat Chance, Charlie Vega

But my mind struggles to bridge the gap between the two ideologies. I’m fat, and I celebrate other fat people, but I don’t quite celebrate me. It makes me feel like a fraud.

Just—promise me girls you won't devalue yourselves for anyone. And I mean anyone. You can't. You have to really be kind to yourself and look out for yourself because the world can be cold and cruel. Don't feel bad, ever, about putting yourself first.

You can’t. You have to really be kind to yourself and look out for yourself because the world can be cold and cruel. Don’t feel bad, ever, about putting yourself first. Promise!

They say you can’t really be with someone until you can love yourself, but I’m learning that it can also sometimes take the admiration and support of someone else to help you get there. I was already on the path to seeing my own self-worth, but Brian took my hand and made the route less lonely.

I’m just over all these men! They want so much from you. Be beautiful but not too beautiful; thin but not too thin; feminine but not too feminine. On dates, it’s the same thing—talk, but not too much. Ask them questions about themselves, but not too many questions. I’m exhausted.

I would secretly give anything to be thin, while outwardly and openly rebelling against the idea that anyone should have to.

and to every Fat brown girl out there—I see you.

Whoa, whoa. Can’t a guy say hello?” “No, he can’t,” she snaps. “Not when he’s a fuckboy like you.” It’s like watching a tennis match.

Right! You see me as superhuman! That’s some serious pressure.” Amelia laughs a little. “Sometimes it feels good, yeah, that people like how I look and act. But sometimes it’s just so much. I already have a ton of pressure on me from my parents and from myself, so it’s extra hard coming from you. Because we’re equals, me and you. Imperfect equals. And you’ve seen my struggles and you’ve been there right alongside me for the ride. I mean, I was a hot mess when I was trying to figure out if I wanted to have sex with Sid. I couldn’t face my parents over a dinner with my new girlfriend. I sometimes don't have the courage to stick up to people or for myself.” “But those are just normal human things.” “Yeah, exactly! This is my point! You look at me and you see me struggle through things and you root for me regardless, thinking I’m, like, killing it out there in the world, but when it’s you, you don’t cut yourself any slack and you beat yourself up. But I’m a regular person, and so are you,” she says. “And a pretty badass one, too. You’re so good at everything. You get amazing grades and you’re an incredible writer and you’re so smart-sometimes so smart that teachers assume I am, too, just because I’m around you. When I nearly failed my bio test earlier this semester, Mr. O'Donnell told me I should try to be more like you. And you know what? Maybe that’s a shitty thing to say to a student, but I do find myself wishing I could be more like you all the time. Not because I’m inadequate as a person but because humans yearn! Humans want to be better than they are! Humans feel jealous! And I think it’s okay if sometimes I want to be more like you. Who wouldn’t? You’re smart and hilarious and fashionable and fierce and you would do anything for the ones you love. You put up with a lot of shit and you let it light a fire in you and I admire the hell out of that, babe.

You need to believe in your value for you, even if you’re not some flawless ethereal being, even if not everyone will see what makes you special, even if your story is a little chaotic. We’re all messy, Charlie. So when everything’s a mess, it seems to me like you just need to give yourself room to breathe.

For your own sake. All this Brian shit aside, you have to chill with yourself. Be kinder to you. Let yourself be human. And maybe stop chasing perfection. Because what the fuck is perfection anyway?

They knew two languages and there I was thinking I was hot shit because I knew what an Oxford comma was. Hey, internalized racism. How you doing?

For every Animal Farm and The Great Gatsby we’ve read, we’ve also read The House on Mango Street and The Bluest Eye. It’s incredible, and it’s in this class I’ve been exposed to some of my favorite books.

Actually…someday I’m hoping to write a book about a girl who looks like me.” What I mean is a book specifically about a fat Puerto Rican girl with glasses. I’ve never once read a story about one, and something about that has always made me feel devastatingly alone.

I nod. “I appreciate that. But that’s just how she is.” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t make it right.” “Amelia says the same thing, but it’s like, what am I supposed to do about it? That’s my mom.” Brian gnaws on his lip, deep in thought. After a moment, he says, “I honestly don’t know. I don’t have a good answer. I just—I need you to know you deserve better. Okay?

The world around me has reiterated that fact over and over in hundreds of ways since: the way people eye my body and shift uncomfortably away when I’m getting on the bus; the way the gym teacher loudly tsks me—and only me—every time I have to get weighed at school as part of the “physical fitness test”; the way my doctor doesn’t even hear me when I’m complaining about sinus pain, and instead assures me that if I “try and lose weight” that’ll fix my problems; the way most stores refuse to make clothes that even fit me and then if they do, they’re much more expensive, as if my fat body comes with a fat wallet, too.

Because I deserve it.

I’m fat, and I celebrate other fat people, but I don’t quite celebrate me. It makes me feel like a fraud.

That seemingly small moment made me acutely aware of my body and its bigness, and it was then that I realized that being fat is a thing: A Very Bad Thing, according to most.

So I write about how I will find the strength to respect myself. I will find the courage to be kind in the face of hurt. I write that I will put myself first. I write that I won’t succumb to - or believe - my mother’s feelings about me. I write that I will muster the strength to say goodbye to those who don’t deserve me. I write that in the face of my sadness I will find the sunlight. I write about how I don’t know how, but one way or another, I’ll be fine.

And if there is one thing I can tell you, one thing you should learn from me, it’s that you can’t spend your life comparing yourself to other people. Okay?

I just let my horrible self-doubt get the best of me and I let you go and I’m sorry. You mean so much to me.

Mr. O’Donnell told me I should try to be more like you. And you know what? Maybe that’s a shitty thing to say to a student, but I do find myself wishing I could be more like you all the time.

I’ve been doing my best to just handle it, but I’m not Olivia Pope. You straight-up said you felt inferior to me. I was totally and completely blindsided. I mean. Shit, you know?

You can’t know; you’re not a girl. The way we’re compared and how fat girls are treated and how there’s all this impossible, suffocating pressure. Can you imagine what it’s like for your own mother to prefer your best friend? No, because you actually have two parents who care about you. So you have no idea. You haven’t lived this!

Because my whole life, it’s felt like I’ve never been as good as Amelia. My whole life, Brian. I was never as pretty or as charismatic or as anything. I’ve had boys chase after her time and time again—or use me to get closer to her. Or pretend to like me just to be near her.

In the way he pursued me, proudly and publicly; in the way he supported me during fights with my mom; in the way he believed in me and in my writing; in all these little and big ways, I thought Brian showed me again and again that he really cared. For me. Only me.

She knows that my relationship with Brian has meant so much to me. She knows that I’ve been in a lovesick stupor experiencing all of these firsts. She knows how happy this has all made me. She knows, and yet she still set off a grenade and dropped it in my lap, not caring about the aftermath.