The term “fat.” In my upbringing, it was a word that remained conspicuously absent from my mother’s vocabulary. It likely lingered in the shadows of our home, a silent specter. Perhaps she contemplated it in bold letters as she nurtured me, a robust 9-pound baby. Maybe she worried about her own figure as her pregnancy advanced, anxious about slipping into her beloved bell-bottoms from the late ’70s after my arrival. She might have been tempted to vocalize her frustrations while standing on the scale or when glancing at the slender figures of models in magazines. “I should lose a few pounds,” she may have thought. But regardless of her internal dialogue, her lips never formed the word “fat.”
As a little girl of Italian descent, food played a fundamental role in my life. It was intertwined with love and familial bonds, present at every gathering and cherished Sunday dinner. I adored my mostaccioli just as much as I loved my home or my cherished doll. Food symbolized affection—rich meat sauces and tender, breaded veal were the expressions of our family’s devotion.
As I transitioned from a slender 7-year-old to a self-conscious 12-year-old, my relationship with food remained uncomplicated. I read books at the dinner table, lost in my own world, while enjoying meals prepared with care. My mother rarely mentioned food in terms of value or judgment. I was free to indulge without worry; the phrase “You shouldn’t have that cookie” never crossed her lips. To her, “fat” was a meaningless term.
It wasn’t until middle school that I heard my peers use the word “fat.” In the locker room, it was a common refrain among girls, often expressed in a competitive manner. “I’m so fat!” “You’re a size 3! I’m the real fat one.” I observed with curiosity, feeling somewhat detached as they held court over their self-deprecating banter. Unlike my aunts, who discussed beauty standards and diets, these conversations lacked substance. It seemed the one who claimed to be the thinnest yet felt the most “fat” won some unspoken prize.
I was puzzled. To me, the girls appeared average, perhaps even slimmer than I was. Home alone, I sought answers in the mirror, scrutinizing my reflection. I noted my body’s changes, grappling with the unfamiliar term I was learning. “You are so fat,” I whispered to myself, feeling the weight of the words. They felt harsh. I questioned my self-image, feeling adrift in confusion.
When my mother called for dinner, I left my thoughts behind. We shared a wholesome meal of steak, mashed potatoes, and broccoli, filling the space between us with conversations about school and books. These moments of connection were what mattered, overshadowing any concerns about body image. My mother’s silent strength was evident in the way she chose not to assign value to my appearance or that of others.
This carefulness, this unspoken understanding, was a gift. My mother’s choice to remain silent about the word “fat” taught me something profound about self-worth and the importance of love over societal standards.
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In summary, the absence of certain words can speak volumes about the lessons we learn from those who love us. My mother’s carefulness shaped my understanding of body image, proving that love and acceptance often prevail over societal pressures.