I still remember the first time my father called me “fat.”
I was 9 years old. He and I were standing in the driveway of our home in Meridian, Miss. In just a couple of months, we would move yet again — to Anniston, Ala., this time.
He poked his finger into my little chest as we stood there. I don’t remember his exact words, but I remember being very confused at his anger. Nobody had ever said a word about my weight before. I seemed to be about the same proportions as all my friends, although I was slightly taller and was built bigger than they were. But my father angrily told me I had to start running — so I wouldn’t be fat.
I felt very ashamed of myself.
Not only did this mean I must look terribly ugly to everybody, but I had obviously disappointed my father. More than anything else, I wanted his approval — and I couldn’t ever seem to do enough. Or be enough.
Fly your freak flag: You’re not going to ruin your kids with ‘crazy’ genes
Meet the new neighbors: Why rules aren’t always such a bad thing
Deputies too busy to work accidents, but have time to raid bingo halls
Identity politics is the cancer behind Elizabeth Warren’s lie about ancestry
If you’re still able to read this site, Harold Camping is wrong yet again
What happens if a vampire bites your neck? Vampire mythology tells us the victim can become a vampire, too.
To think clearly, turn off the tube: Your television is not your friend
Do political labels make things clear or just confuse everyone?