baby weight

whore

by Bre

You see it all the time.

A girl stumbling off with a man after a night out.

She was sweet-talked into this. Tonight she is beautiful, intelligent

and a purely brilliant girl that is just a pleasure to spend time with.

They will go off into the night and have and hold each other. It will seem meaningful. This all seems worth it.

He cries to you. He says the most beautiful and meaningful things. He makes you feel the way you should every single moment of your life.

This time things are different,        this time things will change.

Now it’s tomorrow

and in tomorrow she is just another whore, a notch on your bed post.

You got a high five. A pat on the back and celebration all around

She’s been called easy, a slut and a whore within the past hour.

She lay on her back and took it like the whore she is.

                        Apparently 

Why? She’ll lose everyone close to her, he’ll gain a reputation spiked with machismo

  Her reputation is that of a 

fat is a feminist issue

by Catherine Partin

Should 'Fatties' Get a Room?  (Even on TV?)

                A recent blog post by writer Maura Kelly for women’s magazine Marie Claire, a publication often hailed for its progressive coverage of women’s issues, has generated considerable controversy within the feminist blogosphere and amid the mainstream media.  Published online in October 2010, the main premise of Kelly’s article is that the spectacle of the obese expressing affection is a repulsive and disgusting one; furthermore, she claims that television programs such as Mike and Molly promote obesity merely by portraying characters whose excessive weight does not appear a hindrance to their romantic or personal fulfillment.  Her argument boils down to this offensive conclusion: obesity is an abomination, and overweight people should not be entitled to basic human experiences of love and desire.  Beyond its weakness as a work of journalism, “Should ‘Fatties’ Get a Room?” displays a total lack of feminist consciousness while revealing the disheartening extent of fat hatred in America.

                The offensively-titled “Should ‘Fatties’ Get a Room?” came to my attention via Jezebel, which published several reactionary pieces following the Marie Claire controversy.  The post begins with the question that prompted Kelly’s protest against the romance between Mike and Molly: Are viewers disgusted by scenes of affection between overweight characters on television?  Kelly phrases her prompt and affirmative conclusion thus:

“Yes, I think I'd be grossed out if I had to watch two characters with rolls and rolls of fat kissing each other...because I'd be grossed out if I had to watch them doing anything. To be brutally honest, even in real life, I find it aesthetically displeasing to watch a very, very fat person simply walk across a room…” 

Interestingly, the characters that so repulse her are nothing less than sitcom stereotypes: white, middle-class, heterosexual adults whose only deviation from the Hollywood mold is the size of their bodies.  Although they are an anomaly in television, Mike and Molly actually represent the reality of life for an increasing number of Americans, 68% of whom were found to be overweight or obese in 2008, according to the Centers for Disease Control.  Kelly’s stance is surprising given her role as a relationship blogger for Marie Claire, which targets young women and portrays itself as a more enlightened and “woman-positive” magazine than its competition (i.e., magazines like Cosmopolitan and Women’s Health) .  While disdain for fat is rampant in our society, the MarieClaire.com article comes as a shock because of its unbridled honesty in expressing Kelly’s derisive opinion of the overweight.

      The idea of the personal-as-political that arose from radical feminist theory is one that has always resonated with me, especially in light of the crusade against obesity-related diseases, which has become a highly-charged political issue in the United States.  Currently in recovery from an eating disorder, my personal interest in women’s issues has been largely influenced by my own experiences as well as a desire to understand the cultural forces that have historically supported women’s oppression by casting the female body as sinful, dangerous, an entity to be strictly contained and tightly controlled.  Naomi Wolf notes in The Beauty Myth that ideals of femininity remained bound up in fertility and domesticity until the Second Wave of the 1960s and ‘70s, at which point the subjugation of women evolved into a subtler form of oppression: the imperative to remain thin.  As Wolf argues, "The more legal and material hindrances women have broken through, the more strictly and heavily and cruelly images of female beauty have come to weigh upon us."  Although women today enjoy more liberties and opportunities than ever before, the pressure to conform to societal beauty ideals has grown stronger than ever.

                Although Kelly does not directly target women in her hateful criticism of Mike and Molly, the issue is at its core a feminist one, because of both the article’s intended audience and the immense pressure our culture exerts upon women who fail to meet current standards of thinness and beauty.  The collective impact of media messages such as those so explicitly expressed in “Should ‘Fatties’ Get a Room,” and others more subtly insinuated, cannot possibly fail to affect women’s views of themselves as scrutinized by the male gaze.  Obesity may affect both sexes equally, but eating disorders remain, as always, an overwhelmingly female concern.  The history of Western philosophy is rife with misogyny as well as disdain for the human body; articles like “Should ‘Fatties’ Get a Room,” merely express the thinking that still permeates our culture in these modern times.  Kelly’s tone is shocking in its contempt only because she dares to openly articulate the subtext beneath every article published by magazines like Marie Claire urging readers to mold themselves into the false ideal marketed to us as the epitome of female beauty.

                The very existence of a television series like Mike and Molly constitutes an audacious refusal to abide by the rules that the patriarchy has established and that women like Maura Kelly have so effectively internalized.  Kelly’s condemnation of Mike and Molly, poorly masked behind her claim that the show promotes obesity, is extremely telling in its blatant intolerance for those who fail to meet our society’s rigid definition of physical beauty.

                Shortly after the post appeared on MarieClaire.com, the blogosphere erupted in protest, and under pressure, Kelly issued a weak apology.  But by unabashedly declaring her views on obesity, Kelly has spoken only what society has long expressed, albeit in more subtle and perhaps even more damaging ways.  The original article can be read here.  Also check out some of the pieces later published in counterpoint to her argument.  What do you think of Kelly’s reaction to Mike and Molly, and/or the responses her article provoked?  And why has the concept of a happy overweight couple resulted in such controversy?


*References available upon request.

departure

by Catherine Partin

I leaned up against him in the dark, cradling a martini glass in my hand.  A thin wet ribbon of lemon peel clung limply to the shallow sides of the glass.  The taste in my mouth was soapy, alcoholic, stringent and powdery soft all at once.  The cloth of his dinner jacket rasped against my white shoulders, harsh and silky.  I could have easily watched the red end of a cigarette smoldering in the dark, tasted the ash on my tongue, had I had handy a pack, but neither of us smoked.  I kicked off my shoes and curled my stockinged feet up under me.  His fingers played with mine, distractedly.  There was not a single solitary thought in my head, just the night breeze on my skin, the glitter of lights in the square fourteen stories below, the tinkle of glass and distant murmers broken now and then by a muffled burst of laughter.  A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth and I let myself smirk.  What?  Nothing.  I’m just so happy.

rehearsal

by Catherine Partin

let’s just rehearse, okay? i hit a car on my way here, thinking about you, and then i lost myself in your part of town. mississippi albina, ash ash (you poke and stir flesh and bone there is nothing there?): stumptown coffee ground to a whir in slate-grey cups. flannel linens and a heavy boot, flushed fuchsia like a freshly bloomed bruise. sandpaper your whiskey jaw, ivory bones beneath david crownless king you a hot surprise in top-heavy gravity pull drag into a tomb cold with dew. round stone beneath gentle fingers, a moss-covered log under, inside rushing water but green pillows, musk. "i’m going to do something controversial." a glass dark thick wine, blood nectar spiny butter prickles under the tongue and tart with bittersweet pang between my teeth. we swigged reckless giggles before I pushed you down to kiss. there was a gleam a spark in your wet marble eye, the pulse in your throat - a leap, you cough, I die. my breath caught in your thorns and. fevered brow, shock of lips tingled buzz oblivion - the pointed v of your cotton shirt. those tender shards of glass reflecting beauty cruel and shameless. you noble vulture, you lean leather in blue shadows, rain-streaked city bus window no umbrella dripping forehead lined tan hide, hooded lashes you gentle brute with rose lips and soft eyes.

meanwhile a woman

by Hannah

Some mornings a man

gets up, eats a chapati

and carries his briefcase

to the Subway

while another man

drinks his no-pulp orange juice

behind the counter and doles

out cigarettes like lottery tickets

   kissing Mary with each sale.

Meanwhile a woman

ties a scarf round her rough hair

the perfectly good one left in room 102

by that no-good painted trollop

and her big boyfriend.

She pretends it’s a tip and tucks

    under the rosette end.

Later each stops by and looks up

to the green woman holding fire over the Atlantic.

Paying pricey respects;

line up, take turns stirring

    the big bronze pot.

goodbyes

by Catherine Partin

We were eating bratwurst and sauerkraut and whole litres of frothy piss-coloured beer in steins so heavy that my scrawny arm trembled uncontrollably when I tried to lift one to my mouth, nearly knocking over the plastic cup of tart white wine he’d uncorked especially for me.  The paper plate lying abandoned before me was heaped with soft strawberries, untouched because I couldn’t figure out an elegant way of separating the stems from the fruit, and the spiky remains of a bunch of pale green grapes, and a pile of mushy cantaloupe.  It was mid-June and uncharacteristically muggy, but a breeze ruffled the loose edges of the sky-blue tent pitched high above, and there was no heat radiating between the two of us as usual, but only an unpleasantly damp feeling under my arms and on the back of my neck.  He beamed down at me and mused, Whatever are you going to do without me, his eyes shiny black slits above a patronizing smirk.  Drunk, maybe.  I smiled and murmured something to the effect that I was quite at a loss now, simply all at sea as to what I should possibly do with the rest of my summer, the long months stretching ahead of me, arid and oppressive and hopelessly lonesome.  I suppose I should waste away pining for you.  My cup refused to empty and time was ticking, minutes slipping away and becoming vanished hours.  I sipped the wine slowly so that I would not grimace, and said, too quickly, oh yes, it’s delicious, I assure you, when he asked if it was any good.  I pursed my lips and sipped slowly because it was the worst sauvignon blanc I had ever tasted, and I cursed myself for agreeing to a drink at all, a drink poured by a man who doesn’t know how to eyeball a proper serving of wine.  I had to drive into downtown directly after the party.  I had a date, in fact.  We were going to try an Irish pub.  We were going dancing, maybe.

There was a lavish cake on the laundry room counter, a sickly beige colour under the shrill fluorescent light; a tangled mound of tiny painted cups for espresso lay glinting faintly in a wicker basket next to the cake.  Against the opposite wall were a washing machine and dryer and a plastic bin overflowing with soiled socks and boxer shorts, and a grimy refrigerator covered with kitschy magnets.  The toilet seat had been left up.  Shallow lakes of water rimmed by oily-looking soap bubbles covered the counter, half-heartedly absorbed by a wet burgundy towel wadded limply beside the sink.  Here all middle-class suburban homes are the same: cheap tricycles and bright soccer balls litter patchy front lawns while dandelions flourish between the cracks in the sidewalk; the funereal odor of scented candles or musty potpourri pervades every humid bathroom, and the pantry always smells like stale cereal.  These neighbourhoods unnerve me; visits always leave me sad and frightened; but even so there is something almost comforting about the way you can open the kitchen cabinets and expect to find an odd variety of logo-emblazoned plastic tumblers and cheap mugs.  The faucet was a cloudy faux-crystal knob that sent scalding water spraying with undue force into the toothpaste-crusted basin.  I dried my hands on my jeans, and sniffed them; they smelled like cucumber-melon.  Then I shut off the lights on my yellow reflection, walked past the refrigerator, past the espresso cups, the cake, the dirty laundry, back into the darkened kitchen, down the uneven porch steps, into the lumpy backyard grass and across the lawn to where the men in lederhosen were sitting, telling vulgar jokes.

My car was parked around the corner.  He hesitated, and looked at the ground, and scuffed at the gravel with one foot, hands in the pockets of his oversized leather shorts, squirming like a nervous schoolboy.  Am I ever going to see you again? he asked, and his eyes were wide.  Of course, I said, but I was thinking: why don’t you tell me, you spineless worm; that is not my decision; whose idea was this anyway?  The sun had already set and I was going to be late, and I wished I hadn’t drunk that glass of wine, but my head was clear and my heart was cold.

It’s a beautiful day in the country and I’m sitting in the shade on the back porch overlooking a tranquil pastoral scene, like something out of a painting, one of those haystacks by Monet, almost – grasses rustling, cows grazing, jets leaving white trails across the sky.  Of course, Monet didn’t paint jets, and they’re not very picturesque in my opinion, but you know what I mean.  I don’t know if it’s because of the ravine at the edge of our property, or the fact that we’re surrounded by lots of other hills,but if you holler into the stillness you can hear your voice echo a few times, which is probably why I can hear dogs barking and a tractor droning away somewhere nearby and the neighbors’ rooster crowing even though it’s well past noon and aside from the cows I haven’t seen any other signs of life today, yet there seems to be an invisible chorus of birds determined to torment me with their incessant twittering, and thus hasten my inevitable descent into madness, because these noises are reverberating in my eardrums like glass marbles dropped all at once onto a hard tile floor, and the sky is a jarring shade of electric blue.  Someday, I am going to wring that rooster’s neck and eat him for dinner.  I’m wearing sunglasses and a thick blue bathrobe and the T-shirt you so kindly laundered for me, drinking Perrier out of a big stemless wine bowl and fitfully gnawing away at a few bland crackers, which I somewhat regret since I lost four and a half pounds last night and it would be a shame to gain it all back.  I was perusing your copy of Maxim around five o’clock this morning and in it there was this blonde bombshell claiming her last meal consisted of bangers and mash, which I’m sure you must be aware is British code for big greasy sausages and mashed potatoes.  Just so you know, there is no possible way that models in Maxim actually eat huge fatty English breakfasts.  I do feel a little bit like Hemingway, after that cocktail, sitting here with my bitterness and my god-awful hangover.  Stella wants to play tennis with me, but I’m not having any of it, as you would say.  I wish you’d shoved me from the car and yelled “Get it together, lady!” and maybe mentioned that my being drunk stopped being even minorly cute something like six months ago.  I haven’t the foggiest notion what was in those two drinks to convince me of both my complete fluency in French and the dire necessity of being transported directly to urgent care for an emergency liver transplant, but I humbly beg your pardon for last night’s disastrous events, and thank you fervently for shielding me from the passersby when I leapt from the car and began to strip.

Cut to present tense.  My mind leaps to the thick envelope radiating heat from the bottom of my purse, but I leave it there.  We have only seconds to find the right words; we gaze desperately at each other, like fish.  I turn to unlock my car and he is already striding away, a silhouette against a watery orange sky, comically long legs casting surreal shadows on the cooling pavement.  Have fun in Germany! I shout, a mangled cry.  I can’t hear what he says in reply.  I’m in the driver’s seat already, turning the key.