My Year in Thickness
By Nayani Thiyagarajah Â
34: Bust.
34: Waist.
41: Hips.
12-14: Size.
175: Weight.
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Numbers. These are the numbers that would accurately reflect my body, as I write this today. Tomorrow, those numbers may be different. They likely were yesterday. And next week, when my period arrives, the bloating will also cause a shift in digits.
In todayâs world, these numbers suggest that I am plus size. Whatever that means. As if it being bigger is plus âaverageâ, plus âregularâ, plus ânormalâ. Essentially suggesting some type of abnormal, which I feel many types of ways about.
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Like many of us, all my life I have been reduced to numerical digits that are supposed to tell you a lot about me. Except they donât. Those numbers donât hold experiences. They donât reflect my story. They donât tell you how those ever-changing numbers have haunted me.
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This past Thursday, I read a timely and poignant essay by Anshuman Iddamsetty, entitled âThe Year in Thicknessâ, published by Hazlitt Magazine. As a self-proclaimed and increasingly proud THICK woman, I clicked on the link the moment it appeared on my Facebook timeline. (Shout-out to Anupa Mistry for sharing it. Social media, for many reasons, often saddens me. But shares like this are what help me maintain some sort of faith in the possibilities of this medium.)
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As Anshuman explored his own long-held attraction for âfat people, plus-sized people, however you want to define people with such figuresâ, and examined the idea of 2014 being the year of âthick bitches onlyâ (I should note that I personally donât identify with the word âbitchâ or this phrase by Chris Brown, but Iâll save all that for another discussion), I must admit that I was moving absentmindedly between sitting on the edge of my wobbly black pleather rolling chair and leaning far back with my hand to my chest dramatically, thinking, âDamn, this Brown guy went inâ (Iâm really glad I didnât slip off the chair and hurt myself, which is something that wouldnât be abnormal for me).
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Let me start with what moved me the most: as a Brown, South Asian, Tamil woman, Iâve never heard, let alone read, a Brown man showing love and admiration for THICK girls. Never in my 26 years has this happened. Thatâs over two decades of never being publicly admired or respected for my thickness by men in my suggested âcommunityâ or family. Not even from my own brother or father. And that shit has hurt.
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In a diasporic culture obsessed with âcurvy, but not too curvyâ, I was always too curvy, too chubby, too big, and too fat. Since the age of 4, Iâve always been âtoo muchâ (in size and in my theatrical tendencies â the latter, proudly so).
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And I wasnât even the biggest girl. I was always somewhere in between. Iâm still somewhere in between. And I mean in between the WIDE range of body sizes and shapes. Not the 0-12 range that most womynâs clothing stores offers the general public. So you can only imagine what thicker womyn have experienced. And I must re-iterate that. Because true talk, you can ONLY imagine. You will never know.
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In 2014, I saw many hashtags pass me by, as I scrolled seemingly endlessly through Facebook. And Twitter. And Tumblr. And Instagram. These hashtags included (but are certainly not limited to):
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#thickthighssavelives
#thickncurvy
#bbw
#thickalot
#curvy
#plussize
#chubbybunnies
#plussize
#effyourbeautystandards
#fatbabe
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I must admit that at first, I was ecstatic, thinking, âFINALLY!â I felt affirmed by a mainstream audience. Excited. Valued. Grateful. Beautiful. I still feel these types of ways.
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Iâve felt beautiful in ways I have not before. And it wasnât because of a song lyric or a hashtag, really. It was because I was consistently seeing all these self-identified big-bodied womyn affirming their thickness, which ultimately helped me to affirm my own in new ways. My iPhone has countless photos Iâve saved of THICK womyn; the reason for my questionably creepy habit is that these photos serve as reminders for me, images that I can turn to during the many moments that I forget I am beautiful too.
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My journey with THICK acceptance started in 2009, at the age of 20. Allow me to do the math: thatâs only six years ago.
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It was while travelling in India, during my first trip back to the subcontinent of my ancestors and elders, when I started to feel a new and challenging sense of validity for my thickness. As I walked through Hindu temples in Chennai with my dear friends Rakhi and Natasha, I couldnât help but notice that most of the statues of womyn resembled me in some way. Wide hips. Big breasts. The sides of their waists like curvy clouds, the front of their midsections marked by subtle rolls. During our trip, Natasha, a fellow Tamil woman, started calling me âDravidian Hipsâ, noting the similarities between my body and those of the suggested bodies of our Dravidian ancestors, as documented through these statues.
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Throughout 2010, I silently adopted the term âDravidian Hipsâ, to encourage my own self-validation. Natasha would continue to affirm me with those words, thankfully (shout-out to mindful sister-friends who donât have to be asked to do so). Slowly, I began to examine photos of my grandmother, with her big bosom and wide hips and chubby face. I looked at images of baby me by her side in Sri Lanka, noting the thickness that persisted through her body, even as she was approaching her last days of life. In my adoption of that term, I had concluded that even though my family largely failed to affirm my beauty, at least the lasting relicts and ruminants of my ancestors seemed to do so.
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In reflection of my growing self-acceptance, I also began to excavate forgotten memories of comments made by my father about my mother, noting her âthick strong legsâ, her ârunnerâs legsâ. Still, my mom was never a big woman. She was not called too fat or too chubby. Thatâs when I began to understand the idea that it was okay to be âthick in all the right placesâ â thick in the thighs, ample in the breasts, and big in the booty â but not THICK overall.
This all happened before my first-ever experience with a boy. Iâm grateful for that. Because I could have so easily been seeking affirmations in the bodies of men at a younger and more naive age, before I ever had a chance to do so within me.
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But one of the main reasons I was such a late-bloomer was because of my chubbiness. When I was growing up girl in the 90s and early 2000s, I was always the âchubby girlâ or the âfat girlâ. It was not socially acceptable to publicly date me or even desire me. So I became the âbest friendâ, the âhomegirlâ, or the âlittle sisterâ to many of my male peers. It was okay to be my friend, but never my boyfriend.
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As I look back, I imagine that the many ways in which Iâve been infantilized as âcuteâ or âadorableâ may be connected to my size. Itâs not until 2011 that a man called me âbeautifulâ. And it was only this year when a male partner remarked that I was âsexyâ. To me, that speaks to something.
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Needless to say, that shit also hurt. I was always haunted by size, ostracized for it, shamed for not being ânormalâ, and made to feel guilty for not âmeasuring upâ. Not only did the men in my family fail to recognize or affirm my innate beauty, but also the boys I grew up with. And because of the pain I experienced from not being affirmed by anyone, including many womyn in my family, I started to internalize that shit, so much so that in the seventh grade, I created the email address â[email protected]â. It stuck with me until the ninth grade.
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I started to internally accept my multiple roles of âbest friendâ and âhomegirlâ and âlittle sisterâ. I figured if I couldnât date them, I could at least be a great friend. Even when I felt hints of desire or attraction or interest from boys, they never let themselves admit it, nor did I. I assumed that they didnât want to be with me. I accepted the idea that someone may never want to be with me. I held this idea as a truth, clung to it like many do with scripture, believing it as a gospel, making it my mantra. I cannot tell you the number of times I repeated to myself, âHe isnât interested, Nayani. Get over it.â
I know this is not solely the fault of the men of my present nor the boys of my past. I would never fully blame them. This is the sick culture weâve been raised in. Even if they were attracted to me, which thinking back I believe some of them were indeed so, it was not socially acceptable for them to accept their attraction or their desires for me. They didnât want to be called the âchubby chaserâ. So they remained closeted about their admiration. I sincerely hope this is not still the case for all of them. âCause they really are missing out on the many THICK womyn they could have had a chance with, the many sacred womyn who could they could have loved and be loved back by genuinely.
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Ultimately, my experiences and internalized colonial standards of beauty â yes, these beauty standards are connected to colonialism (Iâll save that discussion for another offering) â affected my sexuality, my sensuality, and my overall intimate relationship with myself. I failed to see myself as a sexual or sensual being, because my body was not being affirmed by anyone in my life, especially not myself. The fact that I did not allow myself to kiss a boy until I was twenty going on twenty-one, reminds me of this.
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Through the years, I repeated to my disheartened mother over and over again that I wasnât planning on getting married and that I wasnât looking for a boyfriend anytime soon. And this wasnât because I didnât sincerely hope for partnership, but because I didnât believe I was deserving, because I didnât believe it was possible. It took me years before I realized this was the reasoning behind my proud proclamations about not wanting to be in a relationship. I had ruled out partnership because of my body. Because I had been shamed into believing that I was not enough â by my family, by my peers, and by the media, equally so.
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In 2010, on the same day of my undergraduate convocation, I attended a community barbeque where a friend told me that she was trying to set me up with her boyfriendâs homeboy. She told me heâd seen me and he was interested. I ignored her at first. I didnât believe her, really. I didnât want to in many ways, because I had sadly grown comfortable in my world of sensual solitude.
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The next day, I received a Facebook friendship suggestion from her boyfriend. He was suggesting that I become Facebook friends with his friend, who until then was still a chosen mystery to me. Over the next month, we started to message back and forth on Facebook, exchanging hellos and daily recaps. But I still didnât believe he was genuinely interested. I entertained him, but I kept him at a safe distance.
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Soon enough, through her strategic plans, we all ended up on a double date. As I walked along Queen Street West in downtown Toronto, he and I began to speak of spirituality, which at the time was very cool for my newly esoteric self. I started to get excited about the possibility of where this was going, but I did not let myself fully show it. At the end of the night, as he walked me to the eastbound subway platform at Bloor Station, I started to feel things I hadnât felt before.
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Within a few days, we went on our first solo date. After talking over tea at a Tim Hortonâs, he invited me to see a movie that same night. So we hopped in my dadâs car and headed towards the movie theatre. For the life of me, I canât remember what movie we saw that night, but I do remember very clearly what it felt like when he rested his head on my shoulder, when his arm grazed mine, when he whispered to me during the movie. And it felt good. Real good. And new. So new.
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In our three months of courtship before our eventual partnership (side note: he asked me out on my birthday â how romantical), I experienced so much more newness. The sensual side of me had awakened. I experience my first kiss, following by my first hickey, followed by many other firsts.
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Looking back, I realize that I was experiencing a new kind of euphoria, an excitement that led me towards a lot of new things, some of which I think I wasnât ready for. But it didnât matter. This man liked me, he desired me, he wanted to touch me, and most of all, he wanted be with me. ME! He eventually even told me he loved me, and it was true, by all accounts. It didnât matter that I didnât always feel good about what I was doing. This was in part due to the years of shaming with regards to sensuality, which I had endured as a girl and a woman. But it was also in part due to the fact that he never wanted to hold my hand or touch me in public. And whenever he slipped and caught himself doing so, he would instantly retract his gesture and retreat. It seemed like a natural reflex for him; he didnât want to touch me when other people were looking.
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Whatever his personal reasoning was, I thought it was okay that he had no problem squeezing my ass in the passenger seat of my car, while refusing to hold my hand or hug me in public. I made myself believe it was not a big deal, that it didnât mean anything, and that it was nothing to be concerned about. But it was. It should have been. Once again, I was internalizing a male reaction and normalizing it, because I wanted to be loved, because I wanted to be held (even if only in private), because I wanted so badly for him to want me, never mind wanting myself.
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Eventually, our relationship reached its breaking point, as many have before us, and as many will continue to, for many reasons. But what didnât break was the feeling he left me with â of not wanting to be publicly acknowledged, of not wanting to be publicly loved up. In many ways, I felt like a secret lover, even if our relationship was not so private.
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In the four years since our breakup, I have been involved with a total of two men. With the first one, he initiated post-meeting contact. I didnât even know how to react when a mutual friend said heâd asked for my contact details, because in many ways, I had retreated into my old and seemingly safe style of holding back. But eventually I came to trust him with so much of me. Iâm still find new and beautiful ways to trust him slowly. And I must admit, the first time he took my hand into his own in public meant something to me. It signalled something to me, some sort of change, which challenged me to open up to the idea of something more with him.
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The other soul was the first person who I ever mutually extended myself to. I didnât wait for him to kiss me; I didnât wait for him to admit to his feelings. I trusted what I felt. I donât know what exactly shifted inside me to inspire such courage (yes, it was a courageous move for me), but I do suppose my 2014 filled with thickness-affirmations had something to do with it. I felt surer of myself, worthier of admiration and affection. And I am grateful for that shift. It was as if something fell of the shelf inside of me, and awoke a long silenced sense of both self-love and sensuality.
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Still, in my encounters with both of them, I struggled internally through many moments of touching and kissing and general loving-up. My mind was full of doubts. As heads rested on my chest, as legs intertwined, and as hands grazed the curves of my belly, tracing my mid-section scar affectionately and tenderly, I sighed and I shivered. Not just because it felt good, but also because I questioned them. I doubted their motives. Because I was scared. I genuinely wondered and worried about whether it was only momentary, whether I was only satisfying some temporary desire for thickness. I was scared that they too only wanted to be with me sexually but not intimately beyond the body. Thankfully, this was not the case. They both loved and affirmed and respected me for more reasons than my body. But still, I will never forget the doubts and fears that clouded my mind.
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Now, at the age of 26, things have changed but not entirely so. I will admit that I still struggle at times to remember that it is not the affirmation of men that I need. Nor is it the support of other self-identified womyn. But I wonât lie and say that I am not grateful for both when they do show me genuine admiration.
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Throughout 2014, I had countless mid-day g-chat conversations, texts, Facebook messages, and in-person conversations with a dear friend about what it means for us to affirm each other as curvy, THICK, beautiful womyn. Weâve noted that the journey is its own for THICK girls all over the world, where affirmations are not as common off the internet, especially as young girls. To get to here and now has taken courage and love and patience and tears and laughs. We have had to unlearn and learn how to affirm our own and each otherâs beauty, and come to respect ourselves as we were made, as we continue to grow, perfect as we are at all stages.
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As I close up this reflection of my year in thickness, I encourage all the THICK girls to continue loving each other in word and deed. I request that you continue taking your fabulous bathroom/bedroom/public restroom mirror selfies. I ask that you explore your own bodies and learn about what feels good for you. I pray that you document yourselves in all the ways you can, so that you can continue to (and in many cases, begin to) affirm yourselves. Love up yourselves, for the sake of yourselves. These all may seem like small acts, but they are actually THICK victories for each and every one of us.
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Ultimately, this offering in writing is dedicated to all the THICK girls out there, a reminder that men and trends do not have to be our source of validation. We are more than a Drake lyric or a hashtag. We are more than the male gaze or the Internet gaze. One day soon, thickness may not be the trend. But you, my love, you will still be beautiful when all the hashtags disappear.
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Please remember, we are not trends. We are more than a trend. We always have been. And we always will be more than what others make of us.
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Nayani Thiyagarajah
THICK girl in progress
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