If this plane goes down I’ll be the first to die. This thought thunders through my brain with such force that for a moment I think I have opened my mouth and spoken the words out loud into the recycled air around me. Looking to my left, straining my eyes so my head doesn’t move, I see that no one is attempting to leave the plane in a panic, so no one has heard my thoughts. I relax as much as I can, relieved that I have not upset any of the other passengers. As usual, whenever I am the least bit nervous I yank on my hair, ready to whip any stragglers audacious enough to misbehave right back into shape. My cousin Precious had braided my hair the day before and my scalp is still seething from the tightly twisted extensions that took five hours to complete. When I yank on a braid, pieces of the third and first twisted strands that have become entangled resist and the resulting pain is instant.
The airline stewardess on my Delta flight fits the stereotypical image of what a stewardess used to look like. You know, like the one you saw on old television shows; tall, blond, blue eyes, white skin, and of course so thin the delicate blue lines underneath the skin of her neck are visible. Her legs, though thin as the rest of her body, are nicely shaped and defined. Those legs deserve three-inch heels instead of the humdrum navy shoes she wears. Nowadays most airline stewardesses come in all shapes and sizes (healthy looking, but still not fat), even different races attend to your flying needs, but this one is definitely old school. She has a pretty face, but the number of creases that frame her mouth contradict the smile drawn on with wine lip pencil. The smile on her face has become routine and so has the pretty, pale face. She’s straight up and down, beanpole thin, with bumps for breasts. I bet she’d have no trouble fitting this seatbelt around her tiny waist.
I am fifty-one years old and this is only my second time on an airplane, the first being an emergency trip to visit Uncle T, Momma’s baby brother who was sick from some sort of ailment that stole almost fifty pounds from his already lean frame. I am really hesitant about making this trip, but not for the usual reasons why some folks don’t want to fly; like being afraid of heights, or fear of dying in a crash caused by a misguided bird, or a lack of money. No, my reason for not wanting to fly is I am too fat for the seat, more specifically for the seat belt that anchors the body to the seat in order to prevent injury during turbulence or, God forbid, an emergency landing. I hate to visualize the damage my big fat body might do to other passengers as I’m being tossed around the cabin unrestrained.
At three hundred and forty eight pounds, I am a big-boned woman. That’s what I tell myself and others who love to comment on my size by saying, “You’re a real big girl, but you sure do have a pretty face.” Even though comments like this one sting my pride, I take extra time to make my face as pretty as possible—like most women. I almost instinctively project what I think people want from me. I never step out of my house without my made-up face and being in full color-coordinated dress. My hair is always perfectly styled. I change its color frequently always with an eye to how it complements my caramel skin. And I make an effort to always walk with my head held high. You know, like an African Queen, though come to think of it, I’ve never seen a fat African.
My reason for accentuating my face and body is that if I look extremely well dressed and perfectly put together, people will not notice how overweight I am. It usually works. I’m cool with my weight. After all, most women in my family have the same huge breasts, heavy thighs, and still manage to walk with a stride that says, “Don’t mess with me or underestimate me.” My Aunt Rowanna and my Grandma Lessie are perfect examples of women not hindered by overweight bodies.
They have both carried over a hundred extra pounds on their frames, and still managed to enjoy active everyday lives. They’ve cooked and cleaned every day for their own families and families of the white farm owners for whom they sharecropped, a common method for southern blacks to pay for the homes they all lived in. They even worked the fields some days when harvesting was going on. They gave birth to big husky babies, sometimes as many as ten, drank plenty of home brew on the weekends, and basically took care of business. No one sneered at them for being overweight; their weight defined them as excellent cooks and dependable women, more than able to take care of children, home and also work alongside their men in the fields.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
DEDICATION
CHAPTER
- I. FLYING FAT
II. BEFORE THE FAT HITS THE FAN
III. REALITY IS A B.I.T.C.H
IV. DISMANTLING THE FAÇADE
V. SWIMMING AGAINST THE TIDE WITH MY MOUTH WIDE OPEN
VI. BOOBS DON’T BELONG ON THE TABLE WITH THE FOOD
VII. MY BODY HER BODY
VIII. RAINING ON THE DEAD
IX. LEAPING OUT ON FAITH WITH A CROCHET PARACHUTE
X. THE NIGHT CINDERELLA WAS A SISTUH: PART ONE
XI. THE NIGHT CINDERELLA WAS A SISTUH: PART TWO
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Flying Fat
