When I was a kid, my mom told me a story. She told it like it was a fairy tale, and it was imperative that I understand the moral, although it was a true story about a friend of hers. My mother knew a girl who, like me, had been fat. My mom didn’t use the word fat. She’d always substitute “fat” with “plump” or “bigger” or “not thin.” Fat was a word one whispered, like the name of a boogeyman who would be summoned upon hearing its name spoken by human tongues. This “larger” friend had been like me: big and bullied. Mom looked at me, smiling reassuringly. “But when she grew up, she changed. By the time she was in her twenties, she looked like everyone else. …


E.E.W. Christman

Queerdo. Writer. Gamer. Witchy. She/Her. https://linktr.ee/eewchristman

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