This is a performance piece by Kim Selling called Fat Bottomed Girls. It singlehandedly defined my year, and the struggles I’ve gone through to finally come out the other side and love my body. I think it’s an important piece for anyone involved in fat positivity to watch. Transcript below!
If every bastard who had ever judged my body
were lined up in front of me
and I was given the right
to do with them as I pleased,
I would be at a loss.
I would probably yell
because I love a good fat girl pun,
but there’s nothing else left inside
to make them understand
the extreme ignorance and misspent pain they embody.
You can all just fucking EAT ME.
devour my scarlet throbbing flesh
like junior high vultures
like sorority pledge councils
like debutante beauty queens.
I don’t look like you.
What the fuck else is new?
There is no footnote
in the regulations index of my life
that tells me I have to sleep on ellipticals
and suck down the hopeful semen
of boys named Jimmy.
Until you understand my body,
you won’t ever understand my body.
I am Miss Piggy, I am Mama Cass, I am fucking Aretha.
And I love being these women.
I love being fat.
My thighs shriek rough and ready sex
like downtown thunder
my ass drips vanilla milkshakes
and my personal style is baby gay madonna
meets crop top goth
AND IT DOESN’T FUCKING MATTER.
being fat doesn’t make me different,
—fuck, I look like America!—
but loving that I’m fat
makes me a Pillsbury rebellion.
I hold protests in my mouth
when I eat in public
picket signs wallpaper my willing body
when I dance naked in my apartment.
RIOTS NOT DIETS is tattooed across my chest,
and I live for the moment
when I shock you into silence,
because being me is political
and you never voted for this shit.
Body image is just bad english for
how hard you stomp the sidewalk
or how many cracks in the mirror
I may have been picked last in softball,
but I was nationally ranked in tennis,
and you’ll never be ready for this jelly
because all you nibble on
are sad-ass spoonfuls of
organic low sodium peanut butter.
Yeah, I tend to date black guys
and I rarely say no to a homemade baked good
but that says no more about me than —
how you chew big red compulsively when you’re nervous, or
how you can never say no to your mother —
says about you.
So just let it be.
We’re grown-ups now, (I think).
There are no more lunch time kickball teams,
and I already have a date to the next dance.
So when you feel the need
to pretend to be concerned
about my health or well-being
just know that I’ve already let go of the trigger
Just know that you don’t have
to count the calories
when I tell you
to fucking eat me.