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.
I support MLK’s original goals, but not what his birthday represents
Money isn’t evil, but obsession with it brings out worst in us
Political systems built on coercion will always produce cheats, liars
Do you believe you’re free? Slavery by any other name is still slavery
Shared misery: Nobody can have air conditioning unless everyone can
Are modern Americans tough enough to survive in united nation?
What happens if a vampire bites your neck? Vampire mythology tells us the victim can become a vampire, too.
Keep trying: The squirrels are pedaling as hard as they can
To see how I’ve changed over time, notice which women I’ve fallen for