The Shaming Things People Say

She was so fat she couldn’t fit into a telephone box. How could anyone be that big? It didn’t seem possible. But it was. It was common knowledge. How did she feel? Was there anything wrong with her? Unfortunately, we didn’t wonder. Instead, we felt sorry for her daughter. Who wants to have a mother so big everyone talks about her?

People talked about my mother too. But not because she was fat because she wasn’t. She was beautiful. People said, “Surely, she can’t be your mother?” It didn’t seem possible. She looked more like my sister.

There was another mother. She wasn’t fat either. She had the opposite problem. She couldn’t put on weight. She ate and ate to prevent herself from disappearing. She could eat donuts by the boxful. My friends and I wished we could eat as many cakes as we liked. Well, I suppose we could have. As long as we didn’t mind not fitting into a telephone box.

The skinny mother belonged to the tennis club. So did mine. (I don’t think the larger mother did.) During the school holidays, I went to the tennis club too. I’d sit quietly in the corner listening to the women chatting in between games. They often talked about their weight and other people’s. “Did you hear about the woman who lost a lot of weight? She and her husband are getting a divorce. He says she’s changed, become a different person.” A better person? A worse one? I don’t know.

All my life, the issue of weight has been at the back of my mind. Am I too fat? (Never too thin.) Can I afford to eat a helping of this? Yes? No? Perhaps not.

I come from a less-than-average family. We’re not tall. We’re not wide. We were made to be small. Small is who I am. Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if I put on lots of weight. Would I become someone else? What would people think if I became round and wobbly? Would they talk about me: “What happened? She used to be so small. Why did she let herself get that way?”

Yes, people might talk. I couldn’t bear that, so I watch what I eat. I also run. But even though I do all that, I still weigh more than I should. Not much. Not so you’d notice at first glance. But if you look closely, you might see that I’m not quite what I used to be. I’m not happy about that. How did it happen? A lack of self-control? I feel ashamed.

I’m ashamed of quite a few things. My strong legs carry me up steep hills, but you should see my arms and my soft pillow middle. If I weren’t so lazy, I’d lift some weights, do some Pilates, tone up this body of mine. Perhaps some exercise would send everything back to where it belongs. Or could it be too late? I could tighten up all my muscles, but what about my skin?

My skin is sliding down my face. There’s a nice pool of it under my chin. Why didn’t I buy the necessary lotions that would have kept me looking young? The anti-ageing ads warned me. But I didn’t listen, so it’s my fault that I’m looking old. I feel ashamed.

Of course, I don’t feel ashamed all the time. I’m not that wrapped up in myself. I know there are more important things in life than what we look like. But still, feelings of shame lurk at the back of my mind. They’re always there waiting, hoping to spoil a happy moment. If I’m not careful, they can control how I feel.

Have you ever thought about how shame controls?

Shame is used all the time in schools to make kids work: “If you don’t pass your exam, you’ll be at the bottom of the class. What will your parents say?”

Parents use it to control their children’s behaviour:

“Don’t ever do anything that will bring shame to the family.”

“How could you have done that? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Or sometimes parents don’t have to say a word. It’s all in the look. We don’t even have to open our mouths.

I hate feeling ashamed. I don’t want my kids to feel this way. I don’t want them to live with this burden. So I watch what I say. And I thought I was doing okay until the other day.

Sophie and I took a trip to Sydney together. As soon as we arrived, we bought coffee from a kiosk in the park outside the art gallery. As we sat sipping, we took photos of each other. And we soaked up the happy moment.

When we got home, Sophie showed her photos to me: “Aren’t these great, Mum? You look so beautiful!”

I looked. And instead of smiling and accepting the compliment, I said, “Oh no, look at the wrinkles around my jaw! I look old.” The happy moment we’d captured turned sour.

I often say, “I look so old!” and “I feel so fat!” With those words, I’m passing on old mother and fat mother stories to my children. This time, the stories aren’t about telephone boxes and donuts and someone else’s mothers. These ones are about me.

Passing on the stories. Passing on the shame.

Will my kids’ happiness be controlled by their weight, their age, their appearances? Or can I do something to prevent that? Perhaps I need to accept myself just as I am. Like my kids do. They think I’m beautiful. Maybe I am.

So I have a new story. I don’t mind if it’s passed around. It goes like this:

I’m Sue Elvis. I’m not as young as I used to be. I have wrinkles and crinkles and skin that’s sliding south. My muscles are soft, and my middle is a bit like a pillow. But that’s okay because however old I am, whatever I look like, I’m still me. And that’s who I’m happy to be.

Yes, I don’t want to be anyone else.

“I look better when I smile,” I say to Sophie as I scroll through her photos. Yes, a huge smile lifts my skin high, putting everything almost back in place.

I think I’ll keep smiling. This won’t be difficult to do. You see, I’ve got a lot to smile about. Have you?

Photo

One of my Sydney photos. I took a photo of Sophie taking photos of the runners exercising during their lunch breaks.