Little Fat One

When I was 11, the boys in my sixth grade class started calling me "Little Fat One." During Social Studies class one day, we were discussing Native Americans, and I mentioned that there were some Native Americans among my French Canadian ancestors. One boy said, "What is your Native American name--'Little Fat One?'" I got upset, so of course the name stuck. None of my teachers came to my aid, even when I was taunted so mercilessly that I wept openly in class. I wasn't actually overweight, not that it matters. The one nice boy in my class that year invited me to a pool party at his house, and the rest of the boys at the party called me "Little Fat One" in front of the host's mother. They said, "Hey, Mrs. F., that's 'Little Fat One.'" And she said, "Oh, really?" That was all. I was just standing there, minding my own business, waiting to be picked up.

My sixth grade experience marked the birth of my hatred of my own body. I remember drawing an outline of my silhouette with all of my newly developed curves over-exaggerated as I perceived them. I was deeply ashamed of my body, to the point that I refused to let my own mother see me naked because I feared that she, too, would be ashamed of me. I would wear large, baggy shirts to school every day, and underneath them I would fasten a belt around the waist of my pants so tightly that it would squish my stomach in. At home, I would sometimes hide in my room to eat a snack because I had somehow convinced myself that if anyone saw me eating a snack, they would blame me for my appearance. In seventh grade, some girls who had been friends of mine decided to gang up on me and start calling me "Little Fat One," too. The shame and pain and fear grew larger, like a black pit of hatred festering in my stomach. I hated myself. I hated my body. I hated the cruel children who harassed me, and I hated the adults who didn't stick up for me even more.

It is more painful for me to write this than I thought it would be. Sometimes I am able to think of the name "Little Fat One" and laugh about it. I've considered using it as an album title or a screen name more than once. I am sometimes able to see the humor in taking the name and really making it my own, thereby eliminating its power over me. Still, 20 years later, when I write about how awful it made me feel, I get that hollow, frightened, empty feeling in my chest.

Recently, six Massachusetts teenagers were charged with bullying a classmate, 14-year-old Phoebe Prince, to the point that she committed suicide. A lot of people have questioned these charges with comments along the lines of, "Kids can be cruel. Phoebe had mental problems. Bullying is normal." My question is, how many children have to become depressed or die before we as adults stop regarding bullying as an acceptable norm? I'm not suggesting that the six teens involved in bullying Phoebe Prince should be the scapegoats for all bullying throughout the history of the world, but I do believe that it is right that the enormity of the impact of their actions should not be allowed to escape them. Why is it that people so often rush to defend bullies? Is it because they need to believe that their own mistreatment of others is acceptable? Is this life truly a popularity contest? Are some of us less human than others?

To be continued....