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 have new book coming about living well in a broken culture
Looking for the Boston scapegoat? You’ll never find perfect security
What if most money spent for university degrees is useless?
If elections could bring freedom, voting would have been outlawed
Do we choose to be free people? Or will we live as slaves to mobs?
In a culture that worships youth, we’re scared to look in a mirror
What happens if a vampire bites your neck? Vampire mythology tells us the victim can become a vampire, too.
Am I betraying the truth if I don’t preach to the converted each day?
Barack Obama’s effort to imitate FDR’s ’36 campaign full of danger
Healthy partner will always ask, ‘Who do you really want to be?’