The word “fat.” I never heard my mother speak it. It must have lingered somewhere in our childhood home, hidden yet omnipresent. Perhaps my mother internalized it in bold letters as she carried me, a robust 9-pound baby. Maybe she worried about her own changing body during those months, fretting over how she would fit into her late-’70s bell bottoms after my arrival. She might have even contemplated uttering it in frustration while standing on the scale or while skimming through magazines showcasing the slim figures of the day. “I should lose a few pounds,” she could have thought, even if I was in the next room, absorbed in the adventures of Mister Rogers. Regardless, my mother was careful with her words.
Even if she harbored thoughts of it, I never heard her say the word aloud. I didn’t understand the implications it held for women at that time.
Growing up as a little Italian girl, food was not just sustenance but an essential part of my identity. I cherished mostaccioli as much as my home or my beloved Little Orphan Annie doll. It was the centerpiece of every family gathering and the embodiment of love—a love expressed through bowls brimming with rich meat sauce and thin, breaded veal.
As I transitioned from a slender 7-year-old to a self-conscious 12-year-old, I navigated my own complexities. I would hide behind a book at the dinner table, eating when I was hungry and reading when I craved something more elusive. The transformation from girl to woman felt both gradual and sudden. One day, my world was confined to my family and my route to school. The next, I was hungry for the vastness of the outside world, ever-searching for vibrant experiences.
I began to unravel the complexities of womanhood during visits to my grandmother’s house. There, my aunts would sleep late in dimly lit rooms, waking up in oversized nightshirts, their hair tied up in messy ponytails. They would paint my nails if I asked nicely, dress me in their clothes, and share their thoughts. They expressed their desires for beauty while lamenting their bodies; they had boyfriends and spoke of diets, eating only tuna or hard-boiled eggs for days. My aunts offered a glimpse into young womanhood, full and vibrant, even if they wished for changes in their appearance.
At home, however, discussions about weight or dieting were nonexistent. Food was a source of joy and necessity; it wasn’t scrutinized. My mother might say, “Finish your meatloaf,” but never, “You really shouldn’t have another cookie.” Weight wasn’t a topic of concern; it was simply a word devoid of significance.
It wasn’t until middle school that I first heard my peers utter the word “fat”—in locker rooms post-gym class, as they fumbled with their late-’80s Levi’s. “I’m so fat!” they would exclaim. “Really? You’re a size 3! I’m the fat one!” Their conversations were a mix of self-deprecation, yet I found them perplexing. I observed from the sidelines, trying to understand this new narrative. It felt like a competition to declare oneself the most “fat,” even as they looked perfectly normal to me.
At home, I locked myself in the bathroom, stripped off my sweatshirt, and scrutinized my reflection. I stood on my little brother’s step stool for a better view. Did I look fat? My body had developed early; I had large breasts and wide hips, but my waist was small and my face rounded. I wondered if I needed to believe I was fat to even say it. I whispered the words to myself in the mirror: “You are so fat.” They stung. “I am fat.” The words felt wrong.
Suddenly, my mother knocked on the door, interrupting my thoughts. “Dinner.” I descended from the step stool, dressed, and turned off the light. Dinner was steak with buttery mashed potatoes, broccoli, and a glass of milk. I pushed aside my swirling thoughts, focusing on our conversation about school, music, and my latest book. In those moments, we assigned value to what truly mattered, not the fleeting notions of size. My mother had gifted me the understanding of strength in silence, in what remained unspoken.
So, my mother never uttered a word about it.
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In summary, this narrative explores the complexities of body image and maternal influence, highlighting how unspoken words can shape our understanding of self-worth and beauty.