When I remember my childhood, the first person that comes to mind is my beloved grandmother. My mama meant the world to me when I was a little girl. I can remember her scent, her voice and how loved I felt when I was with her. She was the first person that made me feel alive. She saw me and loved me. She kept me safe, and fed me. By fed me I really mean it. My mama was a chef, not the kind who gets paid and recognized in articles and reviews, the kind that you rarely find in my generation of Hispanic American women. I loved her cooking. Everything she made was wonderful from her arroz con leche, to her dumplings, bacalao con guanimos, her sancocho with the bolas de platanos, her cremita, I could go on and on. Her food was an experience, and I loved her for taking the time to feed me. With that said I know that my love of food, from a very young age, gave birth to a kid who just loved to eat.
Around nine years old is when I remember the comments; "Chellita estas gordita", I would shrug and continue on because I didn't understand that it wasn't viewed as a good thing that I was chubbier than my cousins, or even my older sister. As the years went on and life in my family became chaotic I found great comfort in food. I didn't gorge myself but I never missed a meal, and thanks to the guilt trips about other kids starving in other countries I ate whatever was put on my plate. One day I went with my mom to a doctor for a physical and that was the first time an outsider made comments to my mom that I was a bit overweight being that I was only in 3rd grade and already 80lbs. I had to be put on a diet. I remember my mom sending me to school with half of a PB&J sandwich and a fruit, and having to exercise at home. It didn't last long.
Fast forward to middle school. I remember that fifth grade introduced me to boys and all of these strange and new feelings about them and my own body. I became a "senorita" at ten years old and I was so humiliated when I had to tell my mother. I swore her to secrecy, but of course she told all my aunts who made sure they brought it up the next time they saw me. I became very self aware after that. My hair, too curly, my body too chubby. So came the relaxers, and the baggy clothes to hide what all the slimmer girls worked hard to show the boys. Tight jeans and tight tops flooded my fifth grade class. I hid my breasts because I was embarrassed I had them. I hid my legs because I was ashamed of them. I wore extra large shirts because I couldn't bare anyone making comments about the body I was taught to not like because it wasn't good enough. This continued for a long time. It caused a lot of self doubt and self hate throughout junior high and high school, and later on as an adult.
The suggested remedy was lose weight, not for health reasons, God forbid, but so I could be prettier, sexier, more attractive, to get attention. I needed to fry the life out of my hair to make it acceptable, to make it "normal" and slather my face with so much makeup I would not be able to rub my eye if a darn eye lash got into my eye because then I'd look like a raccoon (too much mascara anyone?) It was an exhausting ritual. And I felt lost, I didn't know who I was, who I wanted to be. So much time was wasted on thinking about my weight, my hair, how I looked. It took a lot of time and energy.
I am now 29 years old. Im finally at a place where I can love all of those things I once hated about myself, because after all I am me, and those superficial things don't define who I am inside, finally.
