Growing up, the word “fat” was something I never heard from my mother. It must have existed somewhere in our home, hiding in the shadows, perhaps forming big, bold letters in her thoughts as she carried me, a hefty 9-pound baby. Maybe she worried about how her body was changing during those months, pondering whether she’d fit into her beloved bell bottoms from the late ’70s after I made my grand entrance. I can imagine her mulling it over as she stepped onto the scale or glanced at the slim figures of the women on magazine covers. “Maybe I should lose a few pounds,” she might have thought, even if I was in the next room, lost in the comforting world of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. My mother was always cautious about her words.
Though she may have harbored her thoughts, she never voiced them. I was blissfully unaware of what that word could signify for a woman. As a little Italian girl, food was more than nourishment; it was woven into the fabric of my childhood. I adored our family meals, where mostaccioli was as cherished as my favorite Little Orphan Annie doll. Food was synonymous with love—a love expressed through bowls of savory meat sauce and tender, breaded veal.
Thus, I grew up, transitioning from a skinny 7-year-old to a self-conscious 12-year-old, with my wispy bangs hiding behind novels during dinner. I ate when I was hungry and turned to books when I craved something beyond the physical. Little girls evolve into women slowly on the outside, but the internal transformation is often swift. One day, the world feels small—just your home, your parents, and the bus stop. The next day, your eyes crave the broader spectrum of existence, searching for vibrant experiences to savor.
I began to unravel the complexities of womanhood during visits to my grandmother’s house. There, my aunts lounged in dimly lit bedrooms until noon, waking in oversized nightshirts, their long, dark hair tied back. They painted my nails if I asked and dressed me in their clothes. I soaked in their conversations about beauty and their desires to be thinner. They shared tales of boyfriends with cars, diets that consisted of only tuna or hard-boiled eggs, and we sang along to The Supremes. My aunts provided me a glimpse into young womanhood, full of life and love despite their own insecurities.
At home, however, we never spoke of these matters. Diets were absent from our vocabulary, and exercise was not a topic of conversation. Food was pleasant and purposeful. My mother might have said, “Finish your meatloaf,” as I navigated mashed potato mountains on my plate, but she never uttered, “You really don’t need another cookie.” I wasn’t dieting, nor did I perceive myself as overweight. This word held no weight in our conversations.
It wasn’t until middle school that I began to hear my peers use the term “fat.” In the locker room after gym class, the chatter buzzed with phrases like, “I’m so fat!” and “What are you, a size 3? I’m the fat one.” I listened, intrigued yet confused. Did I need to engage in this ritual of self-criticism? Their banter seemed a competition for who could express the most self-doubt, a puzzling exchange that didn’t resonate with my own experiences.
Feeling the pressure, I found myself retreating to the bathroom at home. I stood on my little brother’s step stool to examine my reflection. I had developed large breasts and wide hips by 13, but my waist was small, and my face was round. Was I fat? I struggled to understand how to navigate this new language. I practiced saying the words: “You are so fat.” They felt harsh, almost cruel. “I am fat.” I watched my lips move, but the conviction wasn’t there.
Suddenly, my mother knocked on the door, calling me to dinner. I quickly put my shirt back on, leaving my doubts behind. Dinner was a comforting plate of steak, creamy mashed potatoes, and broccoli, accompanied by a glass of milk. As we chatted about school and the latest book I was reading, I tried to push aside those nagging thoughts that didn’t belong at the table. I might have appeared distracted, lost in a world of questions that even adults struggled to answer. My mother may have noticed the changes in me, but she had already gifted me her carefulness, understanding the strength found in unspoken truths.
In the end, my mother never said a word.
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Summary:
The piece reflects on the author’s experience growing up in a household where discussions about weight and body image were absent. It explores the contrasting environments of home and the outside world, highlighting the confusion and pressures faced by young girls as they navigate their self-image. The author ultimately recognizes the strength in her mother’s silence regarding weight, which shielded her from the societal pressures that often accompany the term “fat.”