Informed Consent
by Lara Zeises
September 13, 1990
I don’t want this. I don’t want people picking on me & I don’t want to be fat . . . I just want to be me.
Here’s one of my earliest memories: I was standing in my grandparents’ bedroom, in front of the full-length mirror that hung on their closet door, looking at my naked body. I was supposed to be trying on clothes they’d gotten me, but instead I was pinching my stomach and crying. I thought, Why do I have to be so fat?
I was four years old.
The worst part? I wasn’t even fat (yet). Chunky, maybe. Chubby at best.
That didn’t make a lick of difference to Tony*, the classmate from kindergarten who insisted on teasing me. Every. Single. Day. I wasn’t Tony’s only target; he was pretty much an equal-opportunity offender. Nor was he the only school-yard bully I’d have to deal with between kindergarten and my high school graduation. But to this day, I remember his face with crystal precision. And to this day, I still want to slap the shit-eating grin off his smug little mug.
It’s no secret that fat kids attract some of the worst bullies. Probably because hating on fatties is one of the last socially acceptable forms of prejudice. Even today, when more than 50 percent of Americans are classified as obese, it’s still considered basically okay to make fun of a kid who shops in the plus-size department. Fat people are fat because they eat too much. Fat people are fat because they don’t get enough exercise. Fat people are fat because . . . well, does it even matter? Fat is bad, thin is good, and if you’re the former instead of the latter, then it’s probably your own fault.
This was what I thought for most of my young adult life. That I was fat because I didn’t have any willpower. That I was fat because I was lazy. This was what I was told by . . . well, by everybody. So I believed it. Mostly.
Throughout middle and high school, there were a lot of people who made fun of me because of my weight. But there are two I’ll never, ever forget: Alex and Henry Short.
The Short brothers were not, in fact, short. Henry was super tall and super skinny. His brother, Alex, was of average height and kind of stocky in an athletic sort of way. I tried to stay as far off their radar as possible, but we went to the same small private school, and there were less than thirty-five students in our entire grade. If the Short brothers wanted to make your life hell, there wasn’t a whole lot you could do about it.
I spent the first two years of high school trying to pretend that their constant taunts didn’t hurt me. They liked to refer to me as the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man—as in the super-huge, sugar-spun “villain” of the movie Ghostbusters. They’d make booming noises whenever I walked. If their comments about my weight weren’t riling me up enough, they’d start in on my clothes, my glasses, my hair.
The summer after my sophomore year, I transferred to a large public school and, thankfully, never had to deal with the Short brothers again. But I never forgot about them. And I certainly never forgave them.
Then, one recent night, through the magic portal that is Facebook, I actually found Alex Short. The Alex Short. And me being me, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to send him a message. It went something like, Hi, you and your douche bag brother were really mean to me, and now I’m a successful author and you’re not. If I’m going to be completely honest, my message was a whole lot nastier, but that’s not entirely relevant. Because here’s the thing:
Alex Short didn’t remember me.
At first, I didn’t believe him. I wrote back, expanding on all of the terrible names I remembered him and Henry calling me. Alex apologized. I didn’t buy that apology, so I wrote him again, laying into him even harder. Finally, he responded:
I feel even more like an absolute douche bag for not remembering [because] taunting someone like you say we [did] is WRONG! I have done some screwed up things in my life and karma has seen to it that I get paid back. I DO apologize and wish you the best in life. I again congratulate you on your success. It is good to see you take the negative and change it to a positive. You should be commended over and over! Again, good luck!
I. Was. Speechless.
I was also quite embarrassed. I mean, here I was, spewing out some ugly, hateful words to a boy I hadn’t even seen in more than fifteen years. And there he was, offering what ultimately seemed like a sincere apology for some stupid things he said when he was a mere teenager. Things he didn’t remember saying to a girl he didn’t remember. Period.
How is it possible that I had every detail of our biology classroom burned into my brain, down to which desk I sat in as he and Henry sang out, “Who you gonna call?” over and over and over again, but Alex Short didn’t so much as remember my name? How? Seriously, how?
I don’t know how. I really don’t.
But here’s the thing: in the end, it doesn’t really matter.
Kids are mean. Kids are cruel. But the sad truth is, I was my own worst bully.
It’s true. I was the one whose cheeks flushed red whenever the Short brothers serenaded me with the Ghostbusters theme song. I was the one who let their voices get inside my head—who let their voices stay there for so many years, long after I’d fallen out of their collective consciousness.
Adults will tell you that bullies are only as powerful as you let them be. And when you’re a teenager, you’ll think they’re full of shit. I know I did.
But in the end? They’re right, you know. It’s like that quote from Eleanor Roosevelt: “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”
So don’t give it to them. After all, there’s a good chance they won’t even remember that you did.
* Names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.
Silent All These Years
by Alyson Noël
It started the moment I stepped onto the bus.
The sidelong glances. The not-so-hushed whispers.
“New girl.”
“The one who moved into that house.”
Words directed at the back of my head as I claimed the first available seat. Aware of them leaning over one another, craning their necks, widening their eyes, hoping to see something they could add to the story they were already forming.
Something worth talking about.
I fought to overcome my shyness. Forced myself to look around and smile. Tried to work past the nervous twitch in my belly, to look accommodating and friendly. My efforts were met by curious looks, piercing glares, dissecting stares—causing me to hunker down and retreat, keeping quiet, keeping to myself, staring out the window, praying it soon would be over.
A long, bumpy ride on a bus with bad shocks.
A quick trip to the office and then on to class with a pink slip clutched in my fist.
An awkward introduction in which I was forced to stand before the chalkboard, stand before my new classmates, stating my full name and where I’d moved from, while my gut clenched so badly and my face turned so red, I swung my long brown hair before me, hoping I could somehow hide behind it, pretend I wasn’t really there.
A move I’d soon learn to regret.
A move that haunted me for the next five years.
“Did you see the way she swung her hair?”
“Did you know she lives in that house?”
And by lunch, a group of older girls, girls who were ten to my nine, had taken it upon themselves to rename me.