See, I’m a cake person. In fact, I’m a sweet-tooth full on sugar-loving person. And everyone who knows me knows that simple fact about me. I don’t make a point to hide it. Not from my friends and certainly not from my family. But growing up in a white cishet thin-centered society (ahem Canada) means being well-accustomed to the body-shaming culture. This essentially means that I’m no stranger to hiding sweets under my bed, stuffing chocolate in my mouth when no one’s watching, and, you know, performing any other stereotypically “fat” behaviors.
I AM NOT ASHAMED TO ADMIT THIS.
And let me be clear — by saying that I’m not ashamed to admit this, I mean that I AM REALLY NOT ASHAMED TO ADMIT THIS. Yes, I hide from prying eyes that want nothing more than to humiliate me while I’m eating. From eyes that gawk at me as if I’m a creature of the lagoon. Eyes that voyeuristically consume my behavior for the instant gratification of knowing that they are NOT like me. But this in no way means that I feel remorse for hiding or that I’m ashamed of hiding. Yes, I hide out of shame, but I am not ashamed to admit that I hide! You get me?
This preamble is all necessary to emphasize the type of culture I grew up in. I was the kind of child that admired anorexic white models. For example, when news broke out in 2006 that a beautiful white Brazilian model who’d survived on only apples and tomatoes passed away from anorexia, I tore the article from the newspaper and posted it right up on my wall. Then I idolized her. And I tried to model my eating habits after hers. I starved, then binged, then purged. And no one observed the signs of mental illness.
I was 17.
It goes without saying that the model was a product of the thin-centered culture she grew up in, and so was I. The standard for women in white society is the docile woman who eats like she sleeps with people — that is, not because she wants to, but because she “has” to. She doesn’t do it in excess, and she certainly does it in silence. God forbid she be thick and black. Then, although filthy and animalistic by uncontrollably eating and having sex, she’s paradoxically acting within her nature.
Have I exaggerated anything?
But I traveled to Nigeria. And I left all that bullsh*t white cishet thin-centeredness. And I arrived in a country where 70 percent of the women are thick and have dark skin. And yes, while people leveled the words fat at me, it was in no way meant to harm me. Fat has a different connotation here. Depending on the context, it could mean wealthy, healthy or beautiful. Although we ought to do away completely with body standards, it felt nice to be the norm, to not be condemned or shamed for being heavier than the standard.
But then my mother-in-law sat pointedly across from me and said with all conviction: “Come child, you have to lose weight for your wedding. You must look good. I don’t want my friends to laugh at me when the time comes.” To be clear, I harbor no ill feelings toward her. She’s of a society that doesn’t filter their words. She’s used to saying point blank what’s on her mind, political correctness be damned. I admire that. And just like most of all our family members that say things at our detriment, she never intended to harm me with her words.
But immediately as she made the statement, I had an epiphany: The context in Nigeria IS indeed white universality, and although the paradigm of beauty remains the thick black woman, this beauty standard is fast becoming obsolete.
Traces of what is culturally considered beautiful still lingers across Nigerian society. You can see thick femmes with dark skin on billboards, in TV ads, in magazines, in culture and in life. But let’s not make any pretense of the fact that Nigerian society is post-colonial, meaning that the result of the colonial project is in full view. And the 21st century is the century of neo-imperialism. So even in the context of black dominance, the white standard of beauty has long inserted itself and continues to grow.
It took a night for my mother-in-law’s comment to sink in, but when it did, I was livid, writhing in rage, engulfed in anger so powerful it could break down structures. Not because she basically called me fat (God knows I’m used to that word), but because just when I thought I was free from that standard of beauty that had for so long been detrimental to my sanity, there it was, trailing after me in Nigeria all along.
And boy, is it ever creeping after me. Even now, I feel myself sinking back down to that point of silent starvation.
But I will fight it. Because that’s what I do.
My arsenal is rage. And, as always, I light it through writing and through resisting.
