I feel like when you grow up in certain northern cities in a fairly liberal family Race is about absence. There were no people of color in our neighborhood. The only Asian family ran a laundry. Grandmom took Poppop's shirts to them. I don't remember any attitude from her but she may have just been silent.
I know most of the Black people lived on another side of Pittsburgh but I don't remember what side. I did see them on the bus when we were down town. I remember one time when the only empty seats were beside Black people. The mommie directed me to sit in one and she took the other. I'm not sure if she said it then but I do know she told me that she didn't think there was any difference between us and them. I now think there are important differences in how our lives were shaped and it's important to think and talk about them. But at that time the mommie's attitude set the tone.
Grandmom was a proud member of the DAR. (Daughter's of the American Revolution) I was beginning the process of becoming a member when Uncle John told me he didn't approve because the DAR had refused to allow Marian Anderson to sing in Constitution Hall. Like so many stories that one is complicated. Lots of squirmy white people trying to pretend there was no racism. For me it was the strength of Uncle John's moral authority that turned me away from being the next generation in the DAR. And it was a moment of realizing that there was in fact racism. Some of which was a little too close to my family.
I'm not sure how old I was but one summer my paternal grandmother and I took a bus to St Louis to meet my Aunt. When I got on the bus I headed straight to the back where there were seats and ... it just seemed like a more interesting place to sit. I did not notice that there were all black people sitting back there. My grandmother did.
When we got off the bus she snapped at my aunt - she made us sit in the back with the niggers. I'm not sure I'd ever heard that word before. No one had to tell me that it was hateful. I could feel it like ice water in my blood. I tried to ask my aunt and later the mommie about it but they vacillated. It was a bad word. I should never use it. But Grandma was from a different generation and just didn't understand. I accepted that it was something old people thought until I heard my father say it.
There was a black man who worked my grandmother's garden. She had a very large back yard and more of a garden than she could keep up with. He would show up at the kitchen door with an arm full of tomatoes, corn and cucumbers. Grandma opened the door wide enough to take the vegetables and they chatted amiably but she never let him in.
I've written so much about my maternal grandmother and I hate to leave my paternal grandmother's story in such an ugly place. I'll keep thinking about her.
Saturday, June 09, 2018
Friday, June 08, 2018
Little Story #12
So. About that money for India story.
Like so many in my generation I became interested in meditation and (so called) New Age spirituality. I read Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda and decided that Babaji was my guru. Babaji is the immortal yogi Christ of India. I never thought I'd meet him.
I learned to meditate from a guy. His wife was a Rebirther. I got involved with Rebirthing. A woman in the group of early rebirthers went to India to meet a guru who was thought to be Babaji. She knew how to get to him.
At that time in my life there seemed to be an endless trail of one thing leading to another. Things seemed magical and guided. All I had to do was follow the clues.
For the next year or so I focused on getting the money to go to India and be with Baba. Which really meant following Leonard Orr (the inventor of rebirthing) around trying to "get clear". Leonard implied he would pay my way but Leonard did things like that and rarely followed through.
One day I decided I'd just get a job and work as much as I could to make the money. I was walking along sort of talking to Baba in my head. My "prayer" was that I believed money wouldn't keep me away form him and I needed him to help me figure out what was keeping me away. In the meanwhile I made a list of restaurants I could cook in.
Suddenly I heard someone calling my name and saying - did you get that money?
A few years earlier I'd been living in an apartment in an old house. That house had been moved. The whole house. When it was moved everyone who lived in it had to move out and somehow HUD was involved. I think HUD caused the move of the house because they build a senior facility on the property or something. HUD was supposed to have given us money to move. That money was still available. A woman who had also lived in the house was there telling me about how to get it.
I mean.
The timing was cinematic.
I got enough money to get a plane ticket. I went to India with 35 dollars in my pocket.
Do I think Baba directed that woman to tell me about the money somehow? Sure. Why not. I did then. Many of the stories from that time are frozen in amber. I don't have the same ... belief ... faith ... sumthin. But the things that happened were so real for me then. I do have an analysis about why I was so open to having a guru and wanting divine intervention. But I am not going to harsh on the many mysterious events of that time.
It was all very sweet.
Like so many in my generation I became interested in meditation and (so called) New Age spirituality. I read Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda and decided that Babaji was my guru. Babaji is the immortal yogi Christ of India. I never thought I'd meet him.
I learned to meditate from a guy. His wife was a Rebirther. I got involved with Rebirthing. A woman in the group of early rebirthers went to India to meet a guru who was thought to be Babaji. She knew how to get to him.
At that time in my life there seemed to be an endless trail of one thing leading to another. Things seemed magical and guided. All I had to do was follow the clues.
For the next year or so I focused on getting the money to go to India and be with Baba. Which really meant following Leonard Orr (the inventor of rebirthing) around trying to "get clear". Leonard implied he would pay my way but Leonard did things like that and rarely followed through.
One day I decided I'd just get a job and work as much as I could to make the money. I was walking along sort of talking to Baba in my head. My "prayer" was that I believed money wouldn't keep me away form him and I needed him to help me figure out what was keeping me away. In the meanwhile I made a list of restaurants I could cook in.
Suddenly I heard someone calling my name and saying - did you get that money?
A few years earlier I'd been living in an apartment in an old house. That house had been moved. The whole house. When it was moved everyone who lived in it had to move out and somehow HUD was involved. I think HUD caused the move of the house because they build a senior facility on the property or something. HUD was supposed to have given us money to move. That money was still available. A woman who had also lived in the house was there telling me about how to get it.
I mean.
The timing was cinematic.
I got enough money to get a plane ticket. I went to India with 35 dollars in my pocket.
Do I think Baba directed that woman to tell me about the money somehow? Sure. Why not. I did then. Many of the stories from that time are frozen in amber. I don't have the same ... belief ... faith ... sumthin. But the things that happened were so real for me then. I do have an analysis about why I was so open to having a guru and wanting divine intervention. But I am not going to harsh on the many mysterious events of that time.
It was all very sweet.
Thursday, June 07, 2018
Little Story #11
The mommie and I moved in with Grandmom and Poppop after she found lipstick on my father's collar. Both of my parents said they thought it was a temporary separation but it turned into divorce. My Uncle John was still living there.
He was waiting at the street car stop for the mommie one evening as she returned from work. He wanted to tell her that he had spanked me because he found me drawing on the wall. The mommie assured him that it was fine. I have a vague memory of the event. It may be more conjured than remembered. It was one of the mommie's favorite stories.
I do remember walking behind him one day. Keeping my eyes on his pant leg. I looked away for a minute and then found a pant leg and followed it. We turned into a bar. It was dark and smokey and filled with men. I turned around and my uncle was standing there looking at me. He asked - did you want a beer? Everyone laughed. Grandmom did not laugh when she heard the story. She was very anti alcohol. And anti smoking but she turned a blind eye to Uncle John's smoking. He was her favorite.
There is a lot of writing about memory. How much of our memory is true? It's interesting when you're trying to write a true account of your life. I know I was very young when I walked into my first bar. The memory feels true. It was another of the mommie's favorites.
I was the flower girl in my Uncle John's wedding. He moved out and began his family. Every year or so there was a new cousin. Four in all.
I loved him so much.
He was waiting at the street car stop for the mommie one evening as she returned from work. He wanted to tell her that he had spanked me because he found me drawing on the wall. The mommie assured him that it was fine. I have a vague memory of the event. It may be more conjured than remembered. It was one of the mommie's favorite stories.
I do remember walking behind him one day. Keeping my eyes on his pant leg. I looked away for a minute and then found a pant leg and followed it. We turned into a bar. It was dark and smokey and filled with men. I turned around and my uncle was standing there looking at me. He asked - did you want a beer? Everyone laughed. Grandmom did not laugh when she heard the story. She was very anti alcohol. And anti smoking but she turned a blind eye to Uncle John's smoking. He was her favorite.
There is a lot of writing about memory. How much of our memory is true? It's interesting when you're trying to write a true account of your life. I know I was very young when I walked into my first bar. The memory feels true. It was another of the mommie's favorites.
I was the flower girl in my Uncle John's wedding. He moved out and began his family. Every year or so there was a new cousin. Four in all.
I loved him so much.
Wednesday, June 06, 2018
Little Story #10
I don't remember Grandmom being a great cook. I have cousins who would argue with me. They particularly loved her ham loaf. I did not.
But I didn't like meat much at all. Hated fat and gristle. I'd carve out the middle of a pork chop and leave so much wasted on the edge. Not a nice thing to do when she was trying to feed us on such a limited budget.
Nothing that she made stands out except maybe her mac and cheese. She made tuna noodle casserole, which I tried to remake once a few years ago just for fun. I don't think we had salads, except jello salads. Vegetables were frozen or canned. Asparagus came out of a jar. It was years before I tasted properly cooked asparagus and realized that it did not have to be yellow and slimy. I don't think she liked cooking. It was just her job. But, for me, the ham loaf was the worst.
I developed a few ways to get rid of my meat. I'd cough into my napkin, carry it into the kitchen and dump it in the trash. I'd be careful to cover it with other trash. I didn't always get away with it.
There were two shelves under the table that held an extra leaf. Using the cough technique I could take a mouthful of meat and hide it on the shelf at my end of the table. I tried to remember to get the meat out and toss it later but I didn't always have the chance.
One day the mommie was dusting the legs of the table (who does that?!) and she found a bunch of desiccated meat that had been there for who knows how long. After that they watched me to make sure I ate the meat. I had to stay at the table until I finished. The longer it took the colder and grosser it got. One Friday I sat there slowly choking down some kind of meat and I missed Rawhide, my favorite show. I could hear it in the living room. What a misery!
My happy Grandmom food memories are all about snacks. On summer evenings she made rootbeer floats, which she served with pretzels. I'd scope the ice cream up on the salty, crunch pretzels. We sat on the porch with the radio in the window listening to the Pirates play baseball.
But I didn't like meat much at all. Hated fat and gristle. I'd carve out the middle of a pork chop and leave so much wasted on the edge. Not a nice thing to do when she was trying to feed us on such a limited budget.
Nothing that she made stands out except maybe her mac and cheese. She made tuna noodle casserole, which I tried to remake once a few years ago just for fun. I don't think we had salads, except jello salads. Vegetables were frozen or canned. Asparagus came out of a jar. It was years before I tasted properly cooked asparagus and realized that it did not have to be yellow and slimy. I don't think she liked cooking. It was just her job. But, for me, the ham loaf was the worst.
I developed a few ways to get rid of my meat. I'd cough into my napkin, carry it into the kitchen and dump it in the trash. I'd be careful to cover it with other trash. I didn't always get away with it.
There were two shelves under the table that held an extra leaf. Using the cough technique I could take a mouthful of meat and hide it on the shelf at my end of the table. I tried to remember to get the meat out and toss it later but I didn't always have the chance.
One day the mommie was dusting the legs of the table (who does that?!) and she found a bunch of desiccated meat that had been there for who knows how long. After that they watched me to make sure I ate the meat. I had to stay at the table until I finished. The longer it took the colder and grosser it got. One Friday I sat there slowly choking down some kind of meat and I missed Rawhide, my favorite show. I could hear it in the living room. What a misery!
My happy Grandmom food memories are all about snacks. On summer evenings she made rootbeer floats, which she served with pretzels. I'd scope the ice cream up on the salty, crunch pretzels. We sat on the porch with the radio in the window listening to the Pirates play baseball.
Tuesday, June 05, 2018
Little Story #9
I walked to and from school every day. I used that short cut through over the street car tracks. (shhhh) One afternoon a man called to me from a truck. He was asking what street we were on. He was parked under the street sign. I pointed at it and said - Park Blvd ... politely. Then he said - come closer. I took a step toward him and realized he was holding his erect penis.
I think I was eight, nine, maybe ten at the time. I had never met my father. I grew up with my Poppop and my Uncle and my male cousins but I didn't really know much about male anatomy. I had no idea what was happening. I was someone who was raised to be polite. So I sort of backed away and said something about needing to get home. He asked me if I'd ever seen anything like that. I said I had seen my cousin in the bathtub.
Looking back I am so worried about myself. I was being polite to someone who had nothing badness in mind. I should have just run. I made polite conversation.
He asked if I wanted to touch it. I said - no thank you. No ... thank you.
Sigh.
I kept talking about my grandmother and how she would be watching for me as I backed away. When I was too far away to grab he sped off.
Grandmom was in the tub. In our family many conversations happened in the bathroom while people bathed so I went in, leaned on the sink and said - well, you'll never guess what just happened to me. I wasn't really afraid. I thought the guy was weird. Crazy. I had no idea that I had been in any kind of danger. Grandmom stood up rather quickly and dramatically, which I thought was funny. I imagine she called the mommie at work. The mommie walked me to my Brownie meeting that night. Normally I would have gone alone. It was in a church at the top of our street. She came to walk me home. When I got there a police man was waiting to ask me questions. I remember feeling bewildered. Why was everyone so worked up? I was a little bit embarrassed to describe what happened. I think the cop was very kind but stern.
Apparently the guy had stopped two of my class mates a little farther down the road.
This is one of those stories that doesn't come up very often. I don't think about the impact it had on me. I still feel like I was safe but why do I feel that way? I knew enough to keep my distance but I was being so ... polite. I knew enough to say my grandmother would be watching for me. I like who I was in that moment. I also am now aware of how much worse it could have been.
The adults were just whacked out. They did not have the skills to handle it. I'm sure there was conflict between the mommie and Grandmom about how to handle it. It was like something that was happening around me.
I'm not sure what might have been better. I don't really remember what they did tell me. It was a time when we just didn't talk about things.
I think I was eight, nine, maybe ten at the time. I had never met my father. I grew up with my Poppop and my Uncle and my male cousins but I didn't really know much about male anatomy. I had no idea what was happening. I was someone who was raised to be polite. So I sort of backed away and said something about needing to get home. He asked me if I'd ever seen anything like that. I said I had seen my cousin in the bathtub.
Looking back I am so worried about myself. I was being polite to someone who had nothing badness in mind. I should have just run. I made polite conversation.
He asked if I wanted to touch it. I said - no thank you. No ... thank you.
Sigh.
I kept talking about my grandmother and how she would be watching for me as I backed away. When I was too far away to grab he sped off.
Grandmom was in the tub. In our family many conversations happened in the bathroom while people bathed so I went in, leaned on the sink and said - well, you'll never guess what just happened to me. I wasn't really afraid. I thought the guy was weird. Crazy. I had no idea that I had been in any kind of danger. Grandmom stood up rather quickly and dramatically, which I thought was funny. I imagine she called the mommie at work. The mommie walked me to my Brownie meeting that night. Normally I would have gone alone. It was in a church at the top of our street. She came to walk me home. When I got there a police man was waiting to ask me questions. I remember feeling bewildered. Why was everyone so worked up? I was a little bit embarrassed to describe what happened. I think the cop was very kind but stern.
Apparently the guy had stopped two of my class mates a little farther down the road.
This is one of those stories that doesn't come up very often. I don't think about the impact it had on me. I still feel like I was safe but why do I feel that way? I knew enough to keep my distance but I was being so ... polite. I knew enough to say my grandmother would be watching for me. I like who I was in that moment. I also am now aware of how much worse it could have been.
The adults were just whacked out. They did not have the skills to handle it. I'm sure there was conflict between the mommie and Grandmom about how to handle it. It was like something that was happening around me.
I'm not sure what might have been better. I don't really remember what they did tell me. It was a time when we just didn't talk about things.
Monday, June 04, 2018
Not That It Matters
I just stopped following Roxane Gay on Facebook and Twitter. I doubt she'll notice. And ... it really doesn't matter.
I haven't really enjoyed her much on either format. She mostly does a lot of self promotion, which is exactly what she should be doing I suppose. I was reading an interview she linked when they mentioned she'd had weight loss surgery. There was a link to something she'd written about it. I was furious.
I don't really know why. I've been reserved (or something) about her since I discovered her. I wrote about it. Everything I felt then I feel now. Except then she hadn't had the surgery. She wrote that she knew it was dangerous and it didn't work. And then some asshat yelled something hateful to her in the parking lot of a grocery store and she crumbled.
I get it. Been there. She does get a ridiculous amount of fat hatred aimed at her in really stupid ways on Twitter. Not that there are smart ways. And she gets it in life. I am sympathetic. Or maybe I'm empathetic. I don't really have sympathy about the hate people get for being fat. I have rage. I am empathetic because I share the experience. But she knew the surgery was not going to change anything.
I lost a bunch of weight once. I wasn't trying so it was a shock and also kinda fun. I fit into some old pants and was wearing them one day. Happily walking down the street. Just digging my pants. Some guy yelled something nasty out of a passing car. I remember feeling like it was so unfair. I had lost weight and yet ... it was not enough. I was still a target.
It is a shock when someone says a hateful thing to you. I think it's also a shock when woman who are seen as beautiful walk down the street and get hooted at. Why does anyone feel like they can express their opinion to us, loudly, in public? Step the bleep off.
The column she wrote (I'm not linking it. Use your Google machine if you want to read it.) makes her choice to do the surgery tortured and her post surgery life not much fun. The column does not sell the surgery. She says she does not want praise when she loses weight. But she will get praise. Her writing will be published. Her opinion will be sought out. She will profit.
I seriously and adamantly support people's right to do what ever they need to do to feel good in their bodies. I wish her well. I hope she gets some relief from the struggle she has lived with since she gained weight.
What.
Ever.
I made a choice. A very clear choice when I was still in my teens. I was fat. I was not going to try and lose weight. I was going separate my thoughts and feelings about food from the idea of losing weight. I was going to move my body in ways that made me happy and not because I might lose weight. I was going to ask my doctors to think about my health in the context of my size. I was going to pursue my dreams as if being fat would not make them impossible. It was a political choice. I was choosing to reject all of the nonsense about my fat body. It was a choice to revolt. It was part of the sixties, feminist revolution. And ... oh my. It has been a journey.
I don't even feel like most of my friends get it although some of them try. The size acceptance community was disappointing. I feel alone in this battle although I know there are other people fighting the same battle.
It is just not right for an entire body type to be so completely dismissed as a pathology. It is unjust because it impacts EVERY THING. Housing. Jobs. Health care. Relationships. Access. It is a battle. Roxane knows that. She articulates her outrage brilliantly. She is fierce. And in some ways she can be as fierce as is because she doesn't accept her size. She can have the critique of fat hatred and still be a public voice because she is still ashamed.
I don't really know why I'm so angry. I don't know if I'm angry at her or the culture that tortured her to the point where she did what she did.
I own all but one of her books. I've read them and enjoyed the writing. I haven't checked out her new project. If I see her on TV or hear her on the radio I'll listen. She's brilliant. But I'm not going to put myself on a trajectory to hear or see her. She made a choice that impacts me. She has a right to that choice. I do hope she gets where she wants to go. And I'm not interested in falling on that landmine again. It's hard enough to keep the faith.
And. It doesn't really matter.
It doesn't matter because life is going to go on.
The battle continues.
I haven't really enjoyed her much on either format. She mostly does a lot of self promotion, which is exactly what she should be doing I suppose. I was reading an interview she linked when they mentioned she'd had weight loss surgery. There was a link to something she'd written about it. I was furious.
I don't really know why. I've been reserved (or something) about her since I discovered her. I wrote about it. Everything I felt then I feel now. Except then she hadn't had the surgery. She wrote that she knew it was dangerous and it didn't work. And then some asshat yelled something hateful to her in the parking lot of a grocery store and she crumbled.
I get it. Been there. She does get a ridiculous amount of fat hatred aimed at her in really stupid ways on Twitter. Not that there are smart ways. And she gets it in life. I am sympathetic. Or maybe I'm empathetic. I don't really have sympathy about the hate people get for being fat. I have rage. I am empathetic because I share the experience. But she knew the surgery was not going to change anything.
I lost a bunch of weight once. I wasn't trying so it was a shock and also kinda fun. I fit into some old pants and was wearing them one day. Happily walking down the street. Just digging my pants. Some guy yelled something nasty out of a passing car. I remember feeling like it was so unfair. I had lost weight and yet ... it was not enough. I was still a target.
It is a shock when someone says a hateful thing to you. I think it's also a shock when woman who are seen as beautiful walk down the street and get hooted at. Why does anyone feel like they can express their opinion to us, loudly, in public? Step the bleep off.
The column she wrote (I'm not linking it. Use your Google machine if you want to read it.) makes her choice to do the surgery tortured and her post surgery life not much fun. The column does not sell the surgery. She says she does not want praise when she loses weight. But she will get praise. Her writing will be published. Her opinion will be sought out. She will profit.
I seriously and adamantly support people's right to do what ever they need to do to feel good in their bodies. I wish her well. I hope she gets some relief from the struggle she has lived with since she gained weight.
What.
Ever.
I made a choice. A very clear choice when I was still in my teens. I was fat. I was not going to try and lose weight. I was going separate my thoughts and feelings about food from the idea of losing weight. I was going to move my body in ways that made me happy and not because I might lose weight. I was going to ask my doctors to think about my health in the context of my size. I was going to pursue my dreams as if being fat would not make them impossible. It was a political choice. I was choosing to reject all of the nonsense about my fat body. It was a choice to revolt. It was part of the sixties, feminist revolution. And ... oh my. It has been a journey.
I don't even feel like most of my friends get it although some of them try. The size acceptance community was disappointing. I feel alone in this battle although I know there are other people fighting the same battle.
It is just not right for an entire body type to be so completely dismissed as a pathology. It is unjust because it impacts EVERY THING. Housing. Jobs. Health care. Relationships. Access. It is a battle. Roxane knows that. She articulates her outrage brilliantly. She is fierce. And in some ways she can be as fierce as is because she doesn't accept her size. She can have the critique of fat hatred and still be a public voice because she is still ashamed.
I don't really know why I'm so angry. I don't know if I'm angry at her or the culture that tortured her to the point where she did what she did.
I own all but one of her books. I've read them and enjoyed the writing. I haven't checked out her new project. If I see her on TV or hear her on the radio I'll listen. She's brilliant. But I'm not going to put myself on a trajectory to hear or see her. She made a choice that impacts me. She has a right to that choice. I do hope she gets where she wants to go. And I'm not interested in falling on that landmine again. It's hard enough to keep the faith.
And. It doesn't really matter.
It doesn't matter because life is going to go on.
The battle continues.
Little Story #8
I was raised a Methodist but I lived in a Catholic neighborhood. In the morning I went down the hill to go to school and everyone else went up the hill. They had uniforms. I thought Catholics were so much more interesting. They had special beads when they prayed. And they had nuns. I really wanted to be a nun.
After school we played together. One day a girl told me I was going to hell because I wasn't Catholic. I went home crying. When Grandmom found out why I was crying she grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to the little girl's house. I don't remember what she said or what the little girl's mom said back I know it was a scolding. I remember thinking that if I went to hell my Grandmom would come and drag me outta there.
My cousin and I were nervous kids. I'd say he was worse than I was but ... that would be a lie. I just acted like I wasn't nervous. We didn't like scary movies. There was a double feature at the theater up the street. One was a scary movie and one was not. Grandmom called to make sure the not scary was one was playing first and the sent us to the movie. The scary one was first. We tried to be brave but there were really big spiders. He was hiding his eyes. I said - lets get out of here. We went home in tears. Told Grandmom. She grabbed us both and dragged us to the theater where she got our money back.
It wasn't enough for her to scold someone who had done us wrong. It was important that we see her do it.
After school we played together. One day a girl told me I was going to hell because I wasn't Catholic. I went home crying. When Grandmom found out why I was crying she grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to the little girl's house. I don't remember what she said or what the little girl's mom said back I know it was a scolding. I remember thinking that if I went to hell my Grandmom would come and drag me outta there.
My cousin and I were nervous kids. I'd say he was worse than I was but ... that would be a lie. I just acted like I wasn't nervous. We didn't like scary movies. There was a double feature at the theater up the street. One was a scary movie and one was not. Grandmom called to make sure the not scary was one was playing first and the sent us to the movie. The scary one was first. We tried to be brave but there were really big spiders. He was hiding his eyes. I said - lets get out of here. We went home in tears. Told Grandmom. She grabbed us both and dragged us to the theater where she got our money back.
It wasn't enough for her to scold someone who had done us wrong. It was important that we see her do it.
Sunday, June 03, 2018
Little Story #7
The mommie did a lot of dieting when I was growing up. She drank various liquid diet thing like Metrical while the rest of us ate dinner. My grandmother was not feelin it. She thought dieting was unhealthy. On exercise her ideas were very clear. She'd sit up in bed. Do some arm circles. Sort of touch her toes. I think there might have been one more thing. Then she'd say - that's all you need!
Of course we lived in a house that required steps to get into, steps to get to the bathroom, steps to get to the laundry machines. For some time Grandmom didn't have a drier so she hauled laundry up the steps from the basement and then up more steps to the upper back yard where the lines were. She also gardened and cleaned. Her life had natural exercise.
Grandmom had bridge club once a month. I'd walk in from school and the ladies would discuss my weight. They'd squeeze my arm and say - she's big but she's solid. They'd talk about the possible reasons for my weight. I ate too much. It might be my thyroid. I didn't get enough exercise. Grandmom would smile, give me a kiss and say - she's fine.
When I was eleven or twelve I was inspired by Teen magazine to go on my own diet. I put the page of what to eat every day on the refrigerator. The mommie helped me make Jello for my dessert. Grandmom was not happy.
Grandmom and I were at the bakery where we got our bread and occasional dessert. She decide to buy eclairs. I love eclairs but I told her not to buy me one. I reminded her about my diet. She said it wasn't healthy for me to be on a diet and bought me one anyway.
I sat at one end of the table and my Poppop sat at the other. Grandmom was on one side and the mommie was on the other. Grandmom would pour tea, hand me the cup and I'd pass it to the mommie, she'd pass it to Poppop. And then one more from Grandmom to me to the mommie. That night the eclairs were on the table from the beginning. With each cup of tea she pushed my eclair toward me and I'd push it back. With every serving dish she'd push the eclair toward me and I'd push it back. When I was done eating I asked the mommie if I could be excused and she said yes. I carried my dishes into the kitchen. That eclair sat in our kitchen until it rotted. No one else was allowed to eat it.
I've read a few things lately about the shame that fat women feel. Even women with a strong critique of body politics. I felt that shame from time to time but it was a never a default. My grandmother's strong belief in the idea that my body was OK just the way it was lives in me still.
On my maternal side I am a generationally fat woman. The mommie was taller and fatter than her mom and I am taller and fatter than she was.
If I'm in a bakery and see an eclair I usually buy it. But only really good ones. And only ones with custard.
Of course we lived in a house that required steps to get into, steps to get to the bathroom, steps to get to the laundry machines. For some time Grandmom didn't have a drier so she hauled laundry up the steps from the basement and then up more steps to the upper back yard where the lines were. She also gardened and cleaned. Her life had natural exercise.
Grandmom had bridge club once a month. I'd walk in from school and the ladies would discuss my weight. They'd squeeze my arm and say - she's big but she's solid. They'd talk about the possible reasons for my weight. I ate too much. It might be my thyroid. I didn't get enough exercise. Grandmom would smile, give me a kiss and say - she's fine.
When I was eleven or twelve I was inspired by Teen magazine to go on my own diet. I put the page of what to eat every day on the refrigerator. The mommie helped me make Jello for my dessert. Grandmom was not happy.
Grandmom and I were at the bakery where we got our bread and occasional dessert. She decide to buy eclairs. I love eclairs but I told her not to buy me one. I reminded her about my diet. She said it wasn't healthy for me to be on a diet and bought me one anyway.
I sat at one end of the table and my Poppop sat at the other. Grandmom was on one side and the mommie was on the other. Grandmom would pour tea, hand me the cup and I'd pass it to the mommie, she'd pass it to Poppop. And then one more from Grandmom to me to the mommie. That night the eclairs were on the table from the beginning. With each cup of tea she pushed my eclair toward me and I'd push it back. With every serving dish she'd push the eclair toward me and I'd push it back. When I was done eating I asked the mommie if I could be excused and she said yes. I carried my dishes into the kitchen. That eclair sat in our kitchen until it rotted. No one else was allowed to eat it.
I've read a few things lately about the shame that fat women feel. Even women with a strong critique of body politics. I felt that shame from time to time but it was a never a default. My grandmother's strong belief in the idea that my body was OK just the way it was lives in me still.
On my maternal side I am a generationally fat woman. The mommie was taller and fatter than her mom and I am taller and fatter than she was.
If I'm in a bakery and see an eclair I usually buy it. But only really good ones. And only ones with custard.
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