Stacy Bias

The Obesity Action Coalition: Busting the Bias of “Bias Busters”

The essay below was written for my Representation & Textual Analysis course at Goldsmiths, University. The main purpose of the essay is to show my understanding of myth-based semiotic analysis – thus it’s not really written in the conversational style I’d normally use for a blog post. I waited a couple of weeks to publish it here because I didn’t want to be accused of plagiarizing myself. ;) But now that the coursework is all done and dusted, I’m sharing it because I hate the OAC and the stupid, smug, capitalizing horse it rode in on.

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In the legitimizing form of a press release, the Obesity Action Coalition (OAC) recently announced its intention to form an initiative to “combat weight bias and stigma.” (Zervios, 2011) The release highlights the OAC’s commitment to engaging the public in an awareness-raising dialogue regarding weight bias and stigma by presenting news and media examples each month and inviting the public to respond. While it is difficult to argue with the mission of eradicating prejudice, the OAC’s approach undermines its own stated purpose by omitting relevant truths and by further naturalizing harmful myths regarding its supposed underdogs, the obese.  As well, through positioning itself as a champion against stigmatization, the OAC attempts to create an alibi of trustworthiness for its unspoken agenda, the legitimization of its bariatric (weight-loss) surgery advocacy. In this essay I will shed light on the OAC’s appropriation and introduction of myth to further its cause.

As stated by Roland Barthes (1984: 26), “myth is a type of speech defined by its intention … much more than by its literal sense.” By peppering the text of their press release with phrases such as “individuals affected by obesity”, by painting fat individuals as “bullied” and “targets”, and by choosing an authoritative tone that speaks for rather than with fat individuals, the OAC’s underlying intention is to ally these significations with the signifier of the fat individual, thus creating a larger connotation of passivity; the fat individual as a member of a downtrodden subculture, incapacitated by “disease” and helpless in the daily fight against their own oppression.  Once these associations are created, the myth of the ineffectual fat individual gives the OAC the perfect platform from which to position itself (as signifier) the trustworthy defender (the signified).

The OAC further naturalizes the already virulent myth of fat people as unquestionably unhealthy by stating as-if fact “the debilitating effects of obesity” and, thus, capitalizes on that assumption of poor health to add credibility to its portrayal of defenselessness. A recent study (Kuk, 2011) shows that fat individuals who are otherwise healthy have no higher risk of mortality than those who are thin. Omitting this as a possibility and casting all fat individuals in the same sallow light of sickliness empties the fat-individual-as-signifier not only of power but also of a right to a personal history of health.

As stated by Barthes, “When it becomes form, the meaning leaves its contingency behind; it empties itself, it becomes impoverished, history evaporates, only the letter remains.” (1984: 5) If, then, the tactic of myth is to empty the signifier of history in order to fill it with its own meaning, the OAC employs this technique as the prevailing function of this press release to rob the fat individual of her agency. Fat groups and individuals have been advocating for themselves with their own powerful movement called Fat Liberation since the 1960s. With organizations like the Fat Underground, the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance (NAAFA), and the Association for Size Diversity and Health (ASDAH) as well as publishing academics (Rothblum and Solovay, 2009), individuals campaigning for equal access to health insurance in the United States, for non-discrimination in the workplace (Solovay, 2000), and for social equality and empowerment (Wann, 1998), fat culture is not without a radical political history nor is it without its own league of champions and advocates. What the OAC’s press release omits by positioning itself as the heroic rescuer of a passive and defenseless community is a rich history of self-advocacy and determination.  The OAC’s approach appropriates and renders invisible four decades of language, research, and socio-political progress.

The OAC further omits the contribution of the weight loss industry (of which it is a participant) in the creation of the very stigma that it claims to seek to eradicate. A recent study indicates a growing concern about the ethics of a weight focused paradigm as “not only ineffective at producing thinner, healthier bodies, but also damaging, contributing to food and body preoccupation, repeated cycles of weight loss and regain, distraction from other personal health goals and wider health determinants, reduced self-esteem, eating disorders, other health decrement, and weight stigmatization and discrimination.” (Bacon, 2011: 1) Joe Nadglowski, OAC President and CEO, is also the Executive Director of the American Society for Metabolic and Bariatric Surgery (ASMBS), the stated purpose of which is to “improve public health and well-being by lessening the burden of the disease of obesity.” Further, all additional members of the board of the OAC are also bariatric doctors, nurses or related professionals with titles such as “Is Weight Loss Surgery Right for You?” (Goldberg, 2006), “Weight Loss Surgery: Finding the Thin Person Hiding Inside You!” (Thompson, 2003) and “Weight Loss Surgery for Dummies” (Kurian, 2005) under their belts.

If these are the myths—the fat individual as passive/weak/helpless, the fat individual as debilitated and in poor health, the fat individual as requiring outside intervention to achieve health and happiness, the fat individual as without agency or history, the fat individual as all of the above and singularly representative of the whole—then a simple examination of the authors of this press release clearly reveals their motivation. The intention, it would seem, is not to eradicate weight bias and stigma but to eradicate the status of obesity from the individuals themselves. The method by which the OAC seeks to achieve this is through the recommendation of expensive, controversial bariatric surgeries that the members of its board perform for profit without regard to the fact that they have not been proven to create any long-term reduction in mortality (JAMA, 2011). The purpose of the outlined mythemes then becomes to first disempower their fat constituents and then to gain their trust in order to more convincingly recommend bariatric surgery, as stated in another OAC publication, as the “only treatment for morbid obesity proven to be consistently effective.” (Rogula et al, 2011)

The use of myth-based semiotic analysis to critically examine the OAC press release reveals their effective though unethical use of myth in attempts to naturalize the connotations of fat individuals as a signifiers of weakness, debilitation, constant victimization, passivity and ill-health. The OAC’s further use of myth to signify itself as heroic interventionist serves to both protect the otherwise obvious agendas of its board members from further scrutiny and to solicit the trust of its target audience and in turn legitimize its advice regarding bariatric surgery.

References:

 Bacon, L., & Aphramor, L.,Weight science: evaluating the evidence for a paradigm shift. Nutrition journal, 10(1), (2011): 9. BioMed Central Ltd. doi:10.1186/1475-2891-10-9

Barthes, R., Mythologies. New York: Hill and Wang, 1972. 1-26.

Brolin, R., Bariatric surgery and long-term control of morbid obesity. JAMA : the journal of the American Medical Association, 288(22), (2002): 2793-6. Retrieved from http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/12472304

Obesity Action Coalition., Educating and Advocating For All Those Affected by Obesity, Morbid Obesity and Childhood Obesity: 2006 Annual Report, Obesity Action Coalition. Surgery. November 7, 2011, <http://www.obesityaction.org/aboutus/annualreports/2006 Annual Report.pdf>

Goldberg, G., Is Weight Loss Surgery Right For You?, Eight Stories To Help You Decide. iUniverse, 2006. Print.

Kuk, J., Ardern, C. I., Church, T. S., Sharma, A. M., Padwal, R., Sui, X., & Blair, S. N., Edmonton Obesity Staging System : association with weight history and mortality risk. Applied Physiology, Nutrition, and Metabolism, 36(4), (2011): 570-576. doi:10.1139/H11-058

Kurian, M. S., Thompson, B., Davidson, B.K., Weight Loss Surgery For Dummies. For Dummies, 2006. Print.

Maciejewski, M. L., Livingston, E. H, Smith, V.A., Kavee, A.l., Kahwati, L.C., Henderson, W.G., Arterburn, D.E., Survival Among High Risk Patients After Bariatric Surgery, JAMA : the journal of the American Medical Association, Published online June 12, 2011. doi: 10.1001/jama.2011.817

Rogula, T., Brethauer, .S, Chand, B., Schauer,P., “Bariatric Surgery as a Treatment for Type 2 Diabetes”, Obesity Action Coalition, November 7, 2011 <http://www.obesityaction.org/magazine/oacnews11/diabetesandsurgery.php>.

Rothblum, E., Solovay, S., Fat Studies Reader. 1st ed. New York: NYU Press, 2009. Print.

Solovay, S., Tipping The Scales Of Justice, Fighting Weight-based Discrimination. 2000. Print.

Thompson, B., Weight Loss Surgery, Finding The Thin Person Hiding Inside You!. Word Assn Pub, 2003. Print.

Wann, M., Fat! So?, Because You Don’t Have To Apologize For Your Size!. Ten Speed Pr, 1999. Print.

Zervios , J., “Obesity Action Coalition (OAC) Unveils “Bias Busters” to Combat Weight Bias and Stigma”, Obesity Action Coalition, November 7, 2011 <http://www.obesityaction.org/news/2011/biasbusters.php>.

FatGirl Speaks – Fictional Monologue – The Ballerina

Back in 2006, I took a road trip to interview 42 women in 16 states about their experiences of being fat – from childhood to present day.  I had intended this to be stage 1 of a multi-phase plan to interview women all over the planet and then to amalgamate and fictionalize their experiences into a book of monologues for stage performance, not unlike the Vagina Monologues.  I was thrown off my path by both a lack of funds to continue and a series of deaths/losses in my social circle.  I also lost my aim for a bit because I noticed that the major undercurrent in all the conversations wasn’t necessarily fatness, but shame. I wanted to explore this further, to separate it out, to explore the intersections of shame among all oppressed communities.  This, however, is a lifetime task. And in the meantime, there is still the boundless and constantly deepening pressure of Fat Shame.

I woke up this morning remembering how many people talked about being kicked out of ballet class as a kid for being too fat.  I was amazed how often it came up. So I decided to try my hand at writing one of those monologues to see how it felt – and to see if I could at least use the information I have to make a start on this project, even if I don’t have at hand what I need to complete it.

I won’t be sharing all of these publicly.  But this is the first and it is very clearly a draft.  I would love your feedback. Imagine it performed aloud as you are reading it.

- Stacy

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The Ballerina

Ballet class. 2nd grade. Mama arrives to pick me up and I light up as she enters the room. I want her to see what I’ve been learning. I wave my arms to catch her attention and start dancing on tippy-toes around the room. I’m mostly making it up but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know that.

Mama pulls a smile that doesn’t make it all the way up to her eyes and turns her back as the teacher catches her elbow.  They’re talking with heads bent toward one another. The teacher has an open stance and she keeps pointing at me. Mama has her arms crossed across her body, curled in and frowning. That’s her angry look. I’ve seen it enough to know. I stop dancing.

I wonder if I’ve done something wrong. The teacher keeps waving her hands and Mama won’t look at me.  I drop my gaze and turn my little pink shoes in towards one another. I wait.

In a habit that, even at my young age, is already too familiar – I leave myself.  I tuck up from my skin and climb into my head. I’m listening to the music and, in my mind, I am twirling and twirling, my arms are curved into perfect shapes and my legs leave trails of glittering light behind me. I am in pink lace with a crown of diamonds in my hair. It’s the court of a beautiful queen and she rapt with delight as I dance for her.

“Let’s go.” Mama says. I drop into the room again as she roughly grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. “My shoes!” I say “I can’t wear them outside!”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” she snaps. “You don’t belong here.”

A hot flush of humiliation burns into my cheeks. I pass a group of girls, clustered together near the door.  They whisper and giggle and stare, except one. She looks at me with pity. That feels even worse.

I don’t know why it happened yet.  As Mama buckles me into the car, I start to cry.  She’s storming but she’s not saying anything.  I know better than to ask but I can’t help myself. I’m crying too hard to make sense. These are new feelings and I don’t have enough words for them yet. All I manage is a plaintive “Why?” and “What did I do?”

“I told you you were getting fat.” she said “And now you can’t dance. You’re too fat to do ballet. The teacher says you’ll damage your feet and you’re holding the other girls back because you can’t go en pointe like them. GODDAMNIT!” she shouts. She pummels the steering wheel. “All that money, for classes and costumes and driving you here every week.  Do you know how much this costs? This was supposed to HELP you lose weight. Do you know how embarrassing it is to have your parenting questioned because your kid won’t stop sneaking cookies in the middle of the night?”

I am horrified. I’ve never seen Mama like this. I look down at my little belly. It pooches out a bit. It’s round. Soft. I know I don’t look like the other girls in class but no one seems to really care.  Jasmine can’t go en pointe either because she fell off her bike last month. And teacher won’t even let me try. I know I can do it if she’ll just let me try. I say this to Mama.

“Didn’t you hear me? You’re TOO FAT! You’ll hurt yourself! And your teacher can’t take responsibility for that. Do you understand? She doesn’t want you in class anymore. Not unless you lose weight. And by then you’ll be too far behind and you’ll have to start all over again.  I’m not paying for this twice. You can’t dance any more. It’s over.”

The reality sinks in.  No more ballet. No tiaras. I will never dance in the court of the queen. A sick, hot feeling fills my stomach.  Shame.  I am ashamed. Not just ashamed, I am changed by it.  I have never before thought to question what my body is and is not capable of.  I have never thought of my body as a danger to itself.  I’ve never really given much thought to my body at all, except to dress it up in silly clothes and use it to climb trees.  I have always been chubby, since the day I was born–but suddenly my own soft belly seems foreign. Alien. I poke it with one finger. It bounces back defiantly. There is something on my body that shouldn’t be there and it’s my fault.  I stop crying. I wipe my face and something in me hardens. It’s my own fault. I don’t get to be sad.

These years later, I keep re-living that moment because it’s exactly then that everything changed for me and my body.  My mother apologized for yelling at me but she never took back the meaning behind what she said. It could have gone so differently. And that’s the thing that kills me.  I was never going to be a ballet star–not because I wasn’t capable but because I really wanted to be a journalist.  None of those other girls in my class ended up being Prima Ballerinas either.  In fact, there isn’t a single girl who came out of that town that ever amounted to anything on stage — I did the damn research!  But that’s not the point.

The point is, those girls, the ones that got to stay, they got to see the proud smiles on their mother’s faces at recitals.  They got to wear pink lace and tiaras. They got to be kids.  But most importantly, they got to maintain a sense of trust in their bodies. They got to form a relationship with it. They weren’t divorced from it by shame or chased out of it by the unfounded fears of careless adults.  Sure, they had pressures as they went along – all of us do – but no one ever told them that they couldn’t be anything they wanted to be with the bodies they had.

But me — my body went from being my favorite playmate to being a constant source of self-loathing.  I internalized that fear of “damaging” myself and I stopped being a daredevil, running and climbing trees.  I stopped being physical in general and curled up instead with books or music.  I loved softball but I never went out for the team both for fear of rejection and the simple belief that I was incapable of being competitive at anything.  I lost my skin.  I became a big, floating, disembodied head.

It took me until my 20s to even start questioning all those beliefs I had.  By that time, all the crash dieting had killed my metabolism and I was realizing that I might just have to deal with being this size indefinitely.  Something about the realization that it might never actually change felt freeing.  I’d been dragging myself begrudgingly to the gym for months as part of my diet plan and I hated the monotony of it. The boredom of the treadmill and the weightlifting and the stupid rubber ball squats was making me feel homicidal.  I liked feeling strong and I liked moving, but this all felt like punishment – over and over and over again – I’d been punishing myself for years and had gotten nothing from it but fatter and less joyful.

Suddenly, I had a thought.  I called my best friend and told her to meet me at the fabric store on her lunch break. No questions, I told her. Just be there.  I met her at the door holding yards of pink crinoline and elastic.  “We are making Tutus,” I said “And then we are going to do some goddamn ballet. Pick your color.” She thought I was insane but she was used to thinking that, so she played along.  I called every fat girl I knew and did the same. I was not taking no for an answer.  Three weeks later, in the basement of a local church, six fat friends and I started Fantasia Ballet.

We were terrible, but that didn’t matter. We were full of joy. We were grounded in our bodies.  We laughed. We wore sparkly tiaras.  We recaptured ourselves and that feeling of joy in our skin. We even started performing recitals for friends and family. Every time we had a recital, the number of attendees grew. Not only were we becoming better dancers, our joy was palpable. And we still meet every Thursday.

Even now, some days I still have to remind myself to climb down that long, winding staircase from my mind into my flesh. I am angry that it took me 20 years to undo the damage done in one afternoon. I am angry that the narrow-mindedness of this ridiculous consumer culture stripped me away from my body for so long.  But I embody living proof that it is never too late to take yourself back.

Dear Mr. Morally Superior, Bike-Riding, Middle-Aged, Middle-Class White Dude –

Let’s talk about what just happened. It’s an uncharacteristically gorgeous October day here in London and I was walking down the street in a fairly good mood, having just come from a lecture seminar discussing colonialism in its relation to ethnography in Africa. I was thinking about the subjectivity of the way we experience the world around us and how much effort it must take, if it’s even possible at all, to shatter the lens of our social conditioning and truly understand – and more importantly, respect – those who differ from us. As it happens, I quite like having these thoughts because it makes me feel hopeful that, even if I’m not successful in measurably shifting oppression in my lifetime, I can at least make myself less complicit in its perpetration by becoming more aware. Because I was happy about this burgeoning awareness, I was smiling.

As if on cue, there you appeared, Mr. Morally Superior, Bike-Riding, Middle-Aged, Middle-Class White Dude – the picture-perfect representation of Health and Good Citizenship in your khaki trousers and just-enough-to-be-distinguished greying hair. As you drew near, your eyes moved up and down my body. You would have noticed the bright patterns of my clothing, my long, unapologetic strides, and the generally uppity nature of my head-held-high posture. Of course, this could not stand.  As was your moral obligation as a representative of the People, you took it upon yourself to contort your face into a practiced ratio of 50% disgust and 50% reproach so as to shame me for my flagrant display of unrepentant fatness. You held your grimace and locked eyes with me as long as it was physically possible without riding yourself into traffic, the creases in your frown deepened by each second my eyes dared meet yours.

I have to admit, Mr. Morally Superior, Bike-Riding, Middle-Aged, Middle-Class White Dude, you had me there for a minute. But if what happened in the few seconds before your back tire paralleled my backside was a moral battle (and don’t be confused, that’s exactly what it was) then let’s talk about who actually won. (Hint: It totally wasn’t you.)

Let’s start by deconstructing the look on your face and the degree of entitlement and assumed authority required to tender it.

Disgust:  That my body is physically unappealing to you.
Reproach: That I dare meet your gaze. That I dare walk with pride and take up space rather than relegating myself to hangdogging at any given perimeter. That my body represents excessive consumption.  That it implies an inability (and a related unwillingness) to engage in productive activities and thus I am not, nor do I wish to be, a contributing member of society. That I am clearly unhealthy and thus a drain on the economic system. That I am clearly unintelligent and unable to hold my baser desires in check and thus am amoral and unworthy of respect. That I am unwilling or unable to align with the beauty construct and thus am not prostrate before the mating mandate as all good women should be.

In response I say:

On Health and, in turn, Beauty: You are not concerned with my health or with health in general. If you were, as misguided and equally as unwelcome as it might be, your response would be to cheer me on in my movement. On my feet were trainers. I was flush with the effort of having come up 3 flights of stairs from the underground. I was swinging my arms quite vigorously. As a champion of Health, one would assume this would meet with your approval. And I dare say that were a thin and conventionally beautiful woman standing where I stood with her fingers tucked into a bag of Doritos, the look on your face would have born a sharp contrast to the one given me. You are not so concerned with health but with the representations of health insofar as they signify beauty and, in turn, the deference of women to male attraction. That I do not engage in all of the rituals of beauty is something you see as insolence and thus worthy of disgust and reproach.   So, Moral Victory – You: Goose Egg.  (Sidenote: Fuck you and your healthist/ableist bullshit anyway.)

On Excessive Consumption: Puhhhleeeze, Mr. Morally Superior, Bike-Riding, Middle-Aged, Middle-Class White Dude. Check your privilege (and that Bianchi bike) before you start talking about who uses the most resources on this planet. I don’t even need to say any more on this. Still: Goose Egg.

On Productivity & Good Citizenship: The capitalist definition of and requirement for productivity are morally subjective at best and oppressive and ableist at worst. And whether I am or am not a productive citizen can in no way be determined by the state of my body. Whether productivity is a virtue and what is defined as productivity in the first place are entirely arbitrary concepts and I am not beholden to you to determine either. I decide my contribution to society and how I will make it and it is no more or less valuable for its difference. If I am good to myself, I am productive. If I am good to others, I am productive. If I am a good student, I am productive. If I am a valuable employee, I am productive. If I am none of those things, it’s still none of your goddamn business.  Annnnd: Goose Egg.

On Intelligence: Um. Yeah. All it takes is reflex and muscle control to shame a fat girl on a friday afternoon.  But to actually take a look at your place in the world and how you’re using it to damage and oppress others requires a level of accountability, awareness and critical thinking that you are clearly not capable of engaging in. Big. Fat. Goose Egg.

You’re not lookin’ so hot in this competition, Mr. Morally Superior, Bike-Riding, Middle-Aged, Middle-Class White Dude.  In fact, I kinda think it’s over. Next time, just keep on riding.

Heart Attack Grill – Yay or Nay?

I read this here article today and had myself some mixed feelings about the restaurant in question.

On the one hand, while I can’t even imagine what an 8,000 calorie hamburger looks like, I’m pretty sure any self-respecting carnivore would at least want to take a whack at it. And the idea of an equivalent Yay Scale in the middle of a mainstream restaurant tickles and delights me, as does the idea of a non-queer-specific, non-political venue where people can go on reprieve from the puritanical requirements of health, productivity and good citizenship.

In addition, I can’t see any perceived failing that this restaurant has that is more pronounced than any pub/bar, smoke/cigar shop, confectionery, casino, etc. These are all consumer models based entirely on hedonism and excess. And in addition to that, if someone wants to eat/not-eat/drink/smoke/exercise/whatever-themselves to death, it’s no one’s business but their own and they’re likely to do it regardless of any venue provided to aid in their pursuit. Body autonomy is a messy business and it is one without exception.

On the other hand, I had the same reaction to reading about this restaurant as I did to Mauritanian fat camps. Whether the subjective ideal is feather light or heavy duty, it is just that. Subjective. If the goal (and it is my goal) is to truly bring that joyful sense of body autonomy to the general public then it stands to reason that the public glorification, or villainization, of any specific aspect of a human body is ultimately counterproductive.

Where the restaurant loses me is is in the celebration of those who are 350#+ whilst simultaneously upholding the sexist parlance of thin, scantily-clad, Hooters-style waitresses. Each one of those things is problematic on their own but the combination of the two is downright infuriating.

Also, I’m trying to imagine a way in which offering free meals to those above a specific weight could be done well. The closest I can think of is as an honoring rite for those who move through the world with the least amount of privilege. But given the TGIF (Thank God it’s Fatties?) ambiance, I’m guessing that making nuanced political distinctions with their messaging isn’t #1 on their priority list.

I’m not so much interested in opinions on the article itself as it’s, largely, the same old excess vs. frugality bullshit that I grew weary of years ago, but I’m wildly interested in other Rad Fatty opinions on this restaurant and/or wild imaginings on what kind of place could exist in the world that did what this restaurant is trying to do without any of the failings!

NOLOSE 2011 – The Very Fat People are Coming

I’ll admit it. As I packed up and headed out to NOLOSE this year, I thoroughly anticipated severe social anxiety and feelings of isolation throughout the weekend. This has been my overall experience of the last few months and I saw no reason it should be different there (and in fact, I feared it may be worse.)

Imagine my surprise when, no sooner had I parked the car and dumped my suitcase, my heart just broke open. Deep in the muck and mire of me, my joy got all scrappy about it, grabbed fistfuls of hair, dug her muddy toes into the backs and shoulders of my fears, clambered up to the surface and took roost just behind my eyes, waiting for all the goodness that was coming. There was nothing for it but to be excited.

As I walked through what would soon become Fatlandia that first night, I saw in the faces of those who had arrived carrying those same fears. I saw the clumps of comfortable familiars and the shy ones skirting the edges. I saw the boundaries as false – the ones inside me, those perceived around others. We made room. We forced scootings. We added chairs. We sat. We ate. We shared bites. We talked. We invited. We laughed. I felt fearless and connected.

The feeling at NOLOSE this year, for me, was Abundance. So many people, some familiar, some not. Even those I already know and love I had precious few moments with. There were so many possible trajectories and at the end of each lay some manner of joy. It was hard to stay focused.

The workshops were each powerful in their own right. The pool was a shimmering pile of silly and sweet. Everywhere I looked, people were connecting, though I did see some who weren’t, or couldn’t. I know what that’s like, too. Abundance can be overwhelming and it can be easy to stick to what you know. Even in my joy this year, I only ventured slightly outside the familiar. For those who are brave enough to come alone or with fewer built-in connections, especially those who may be shy or in a rough emotional space, the instinct to be passive about interaction can be hard to break through. I was glad to hear that there was a NOLOSE “buddy” program this year that hooked up first-timers with old-hatters but perhaps there should be a broader buddy program for those who generally find it harder to meet folks/make connections. A Shy Caucus?

My favorite moments of the conference were…well, it would actually be easier to list the moments I didn’t like since there were so few of them but I’m feeling too happy to bother with it. The keynote was challenging in a very good way, the salon performances were heartbreaking and hilarious, the workshops were insightful and inspirational, the flirting was fun and funny, the open-hearted abundance of hugs and affection were much-needed and healing, the fashion was breathtaking, the conversation was political and mindful and also dorky and delightful. Most importantly — the conference felt different than I’d ever felt before. The board was a new kind of presence. Their connection with one another was obvious and affirming. Their unity and commitment to the direction of NOLOSE was apparent. The conference felt IMPORTANT again. It was equal parts rest and reminder of the path that still lies ahead. I felt nurtured and challenged and like I’d been given the tools I’d need to see the work through. I’ve never felt that before at NOLOSE, even though my experiences have been powerful. There was something different about this year. Something stronger, deeper, more passionate, more loving and more profound.

I’m tired and haven’t been in the world much in the 24 hours I’ve been home but the little I have has felt different. I am moving through it with less fear and a more critical and more open mind. I am feeling stronger at my core. I have been reminded of my power and I have been reminded how to use it. I couldn’t ask for anything better, especially as this may be my last NOLOSE for a while.

Thank you, Fatlandians. And to those I met this year for the first time, I am so glad to have the chance to know you.

Fatty Goes to London

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I am moving to London in August to begin an Undergrad in Anthropology & Media and, ideally, an eventual Master’s course in Visual Anthropology. It’s my hope to mix anthropology and new media in my activism, though I remain open to the idea that this experience might alter my future direction entirely. The possibilities are infinite and I’m excited to see what will come of this adventure.

Because moving to London is a BIG DEAL for me personally and because not all parts of it will be related to size or activism, I’ve decided to separate posts of a more personal nature from those on this main site. If you’d like to follow along on this adventure, you can bookmark the secondary blog here:

http://pdx2ldn.stacybias.net

The RSS feed is here: http://pdx2ldn.stacybias.net/?feed=rss

If any of you are in London and want to meet up or if you know rad fatties or just generally awesome people there, I’d welcome both!

The Badass Fatass Fat Superhero Name Generator!

You’re out there every day, Rad Fatties – fighting for equality and fat justice! Isn’t it about time you had a name as badass as your fatass?

Check out the Badass Fatass Fat Superhero Name Generator!

Things I Keep Telling Myself, Volume 1: It’s OK to be irrelevant.

It’s easy to get in a huff over things. Little slights. Big rejections. It’s easy to beat ourselves up over our perceived flaws or failures. It’s also easy to over-congratulate ourselves on our success and good fortune. Over and over I see power struggles, battles of ego and intelligence, marked like graffiti on the walls of social media. Over and over, self-appointed experts are challenged and react defensively, posting long diatribes discrediting any who dare disagree with them. Over and over, facts and figures are spouted as if they have merit when we all know deep down that truth is exactly as transient as the next thing we learn — and we’re always learning something. We struggle and fight for the limited resources of visibility, credit and congratulations, but what we do not know yet is infinite. What we haven’t yet thought to say is immeasurable. There is enough. There is enough truth for all of us, even the truths that contradict. The trick is holding that space when others cannot. And when I need to hold that space and fear I will be unable, this is what I tell myself: (this can also be applied on days when you feel like everyone is staring at/judging you – and I find that quite a lot harder to put into practice. It’s great when it works, though!)

Sometimes there is relief in knowing exactly how irrelevant you are. No matter how much you achieve – or do not – you are a speck of a speck of dust in the infinity of the universe. However much you know, there is infinitely more to know. However great your loss, there is infinitely more sorrow. However much you are hailed or exalted, however much you fail or are slighted – take solace in the vastness around you. There is freedom in anonymity. There is release in insignificance. We’re here. And then we’re not. Live.

Saying No Sucks. Do it Anyway.

Let’s be real, saying NO is no fun for anyone. But, for some of us, it can be downright excruciating. I’m talking about the chronic over-givers, the tender ones who haven’t quite grasped their own inherent worth and who quietly supplement their relationships with altruism in order to feel valuable. I want to have a private conversation here with my compatriots in compassion, my partners in provision, my sweet sisters in self-sacrifice. The rest of you can just bugger off. ;)

Because I don’t feel that I know enough about this subject to write an ‘expert’ article, I am going to speak from my own personal experience. Consider this article #1 in the Wounded Healer Series: Lessons I Learned the Hard Way. Take what you want and leave the rest, ‘cuz my perspective on this is definitely a work in progress.

Confession time:

Somewhere in the last year, I realized that I have been supplementing my own self-loathing by over-giving in friendships. Fearing that I wasn’t valuable enough on my own, I would generally say yes to any request (direct or implied) that was made of me (loans of money, time, space, energy.) Making myself ‘useful’ subconsciously allowed me to feel more secure in my relationships. It also helped me to feel that momentary relief of being a “good person” when so often I was convinced otherwise. Not all of my giving came from this space, of course, nor was this the case with every relationship. But hindsight examination certainly unearthed a tendency.

That realization brought with it a huge wave of emotional and physical exhaustion. After all, not only did it mean that I had a lot of work to do in shifting my behavior, it also meant that I didn’t like myself as much as I thought I did. It was disconcerting to realize that I have been unconsciously apologizing for myself for decades. Frankly, it made me furious – both at myself for missing it and at everything that made me feel as if I needed to in the first place.

Nothing to be done about the past, of course – so, after a few days of storming around the house with a sour expression, I got to work setting things right. It wasn’t so hard, really. I made fewer offers of support, began prioritizing myself when necessary and saying No with as much kindness and compassion as possible where warranted. It was scary, but I was doing it. I made new, more reciprocal relationships and some of my older friendships evolved along with me. Some of them didn’t, though. I came to the unfortunate realization that attempting to shift the dynamics of pre-existing friendships can go awry. And by awry I mean, it can seriously frick’n suck.

Let’s do a compassionate exercise in understanding what it’s like for friends who are used to hearing yes to start hearing no. Here’s a frivolous example:

Let’s say one of your friends begins showing up at your door with a fully-cooked meal nearly every Sunday evening. Eventually you begin to expect their visits and stop buying and preparing your own Sunday meals. With the money and time you save, you start getting manicures every Sunday afternoon, which makes you very happy. Then, one day, your friend calls and says they’ve decided they need to just cook for themselves for a while. Disappointment! Not only do you now have to prepare your own meal, but you no longer have time or money for your weekly manicure. Even though some part of you realizes that your meal-bringing friend never actually owed you that meal in the first place, no longer having it means less fun and more work for you.

That they’ll show up has become an expectation that you’ve built behaviors around. When they stop, rather than falling into a place of gratitude for what they have given you in the past, it can be easy to become annoyed at the changes their absence require you to make.

In a real-world scenario, this would likely not be enough to cause the end of a friendship. But if the sunday meal is an analogy for something deeper — emotional or financial support especially — the shifting dynamic can cause much deeper and more intense reactions on both sides. Fight or flight instincts can be triggered on the part of folks who have come to rely on/expect specific kinds of support and that can result in some ugly behavior — shaming/judgment, anger, manipulation or just plain cutting the ties of the relationship once their needs are no longer being met.

I’m going to let someone else write the article that helps the folks on the receiving end learn how to adjust their expectations gracefully because, I’ll be honest, I’m bitter right now. Writing the compassionate exercise above represents 3 days of angry typing and erasing, approximately eleventy-jillion cuss words, and some serious chain smoking.

What I can do, however, is line-list some of the things I’ve been telling myself over the last few days as I’ve been dealing with the loss of another long-term friendship that imploded when I had to pull back from an offer of support in order to take care of myself. Hopefully some of it will help you, too.

1) I believe in the concept of Imperfect Family. This means that I will attempt love without condition and without expectation. This does not exclude striving for equality/reciprocity in my relationships, nor does this mean that I will always maintain contact with everyone I love. It does, however, mean that I will aim towards compassion in my interactions and will always be open to and invested in working through problems as they arise to the best of my ability.

2) While I will always give, and give generously, I will no longer give past my desire or capacity to do so. I will not cater to expectation nor any sense of obligation. I will say no lovingly, but I will say no.

3) Neither the circumstances of my life, nor my ability to cope with and/or adjust to them, are open for debate or critique. Neither will I minimize (or have minimized) the stressors of my life in contrast with any of the larger traumas and injustices of the world. Perspective is good, but pain is relative . The fact that others are going through something more stressful does not mitigate the realities of my own life – and it is not for anyone else to pass judgment on how I practice self-care through my own stressful times. I will not internalize the judgment of others’ on my self-care.

4) I will not take it personally. If people react negatively to my saying no, I will allow their reactions to be their own. I will be compassionate and non-assumptive regarding their reasons for doing so and, while I will shield myself from hurt, I will continue to hold loving space for them for as long as I am able.

5) I will accept my share of responsibility for creating the dynamics that no longer serve me. I will also hold space for my own anger and grief at those who choose to end their relationships with me when I begin to prioritize my own well-being. These two things are not mutually exclusive.

Whether true or not, this feels like the longest blog post I’ve ever made. It was also one of the hardest to write. I hope it offers some helpful insights for others – and thanks for reading along with me as I’ve worked this through.

Love Letter to Yourself

Someone is putting together a zine with the premise of love letters to your body. Lovely!!

Here is the call for submissions:
http://innerfatgirl.tumblr.com/post/3933436991

Here is my submission. Can’t wait to read your love letters! Feel free to post them in comments if you like.

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Baby Girl -

This is your BodyMama calling. Remember that day when you were sitting at the stoplight, having that same old tired debate about stopping to get a cheeseburger or not stopping to get a cheeseburger — between being a “bad person” and being a “good person”, between comfort and piety, worthiness or unworthiness, assignations of happiness or perceptions of health. Remember that voice that came into your head, that gentle, loving voice that put her big mama hands on the hearts of your scared-little-girl-that-wants-a-cookie and your spittle-spattering-red-faced-drill-sergeant and pushed them apart, sent them to their corners, and talked to you. Remember what it said?

“Oh baby girl, hush now. Hush now. It’s alright. Take a deep breath and quiet your head. There’s so much in here. So much shame swirling around in your head. So many expectations. You’re so tired. Be patient. Someday you’ll have it all figured out. You’ll know that you don’t have to choose between comfort and self-care. You’ll realize how much you’ve grown, how strong you are, how fierce and capable you’ve become. And when that happens, maybe you won’t need those outdated rituals that kept you safe when others couldn’t. When that happens, you’ll make a whole new path to move you forward. Until then, my sweetest girl, and even after then, have the damn cheeseburger when you need it. Hell, have two. It’s OK. You’re OK. This is a process and you’re doing it. You’re doing it so well. I love you. I’ve got you. Keep going.”

Remember how that voice reached in and pulled your heart out through your chest. Remember how the kindness and the gentleness were almost unbearable. Remember how the car behind you honked and honked and you just sat there crying, gutted by your own compassion, shocked by how badly you’d needed it and rocked by waves of grief and gratitude. Remember how strange it felt to be believed in, especially by something within you, and how you totally forgot to get the cheeseburger?

That voice was you. That’s how beautiful you are. Don’t forget.

XOXO