Sticks and Stones

The questions and comments of "well-meaning" people regarding my weight over the years has been amazing, puzzling, upsetting, heartbreaking, even hilarious at times, but still I give them the benefit of the doubt. I don't want to be angry at these people or hurt, because no matter what they say, it's a huge step up the ladder from the ones who just stare disgustedly, or the ones who whisper to the person they're with who then swivels their head toward me, or those who call me lardass, or don't employ me, or avoid touching me.

Part of it is immunity - after all, if you're stung a thousand times, the next sting will either kill you or, if you're lucky, you won't feel it. It's another way those of us who are "different" come to accept ourselves in a world that's doing everything it can to reject us - you care less about what they are saying and doing and care more about the way you feel about yourself. The point is to maintain equillibrium regardless of the hurricanes coming your way. God knows this is a process - I'm so much more secure in my self-esteem now than when I was twenty years younger and prone to let people's stares and sneers and repulsion cause me intense pain. I've grown up. I've learned a thing or two. When I stand in the surf, I plant my feet firmly and lean into the waves, thereby lessening their impact.

All the possible answers to "well-meaning" questions, whether the response is funny, clever, huffy, sad, hurt, defensive, outraged, or matter-of-fact, I believe the best I can do is to let the question or comment serve as a reminder to myself how far I have come -- I hear the words and let them drift on through me, without triggering any anger or pain. I'm not ignoring the pain, putting on a false face, then sobbing into my Haagen Daz later. I'm really really okay, and I love myself, I really love myself, and anything anyone says that could be construed as an attack or an attempt to categorize me as "other" is not gonna budge me one inch from believing in myself.

I think about those little black children in Birmingham in the 60's, clutching notebooks to their chests and walking hurriedly into school while people yelled and screamed the most despicable things, and spit on them, and threw shit on them, and tried to hurt them, and huge police dogs snarled viciously just inches away. Somehow those children knew - they KNEW - that the only response was no response. With poise and resolve, they discovered a sense of self and a level of courage I can only imagine. If they had cowered in fear, burst out sobbing, angrily shouted back to the mob, whipped out a gun and blown a few heads off, or issued a well-worded press release, they would have been torn to shreds in seconds. Any of those responses would have been understandable under the circumstances, but the one response that saved their lives was no response.

In a similar way, I choose to survive the verbal sticks and stones thrown at me. I may be entitled to a more emotional response, but I make a different choice, and in so doing, I survive. Hell, I BLOOM! And nobody's gonna rain on my parade.