The heels of my pumps clicked rhythmically as strutted towards the mall entrance—imagining the aisle of the anchor store as my own personal runway. The music pumping through the speakers of the Mac counter added to the fantasy I created as I added a little extra sway in my hips.
I knew I was looking sharp and was—in all honesty—really feeling myself. My hair was done up in a soft French roll with tendrils draping my full cheeks. My outfit was perfectly coordinated, and I’d taken extra time to ensure my make-up was done “just so.” I had come to the mall confident that I would be able to turn a head or two and rescue myself from the boredom (and singleness) I’d been drowning in lately. I strode further into the store draped in that confidence and the swagger that came along with it.
As I rounded a corner near the fine jewelry counter, I caught the eye of a small older woman and smiled warmly as the distance between us shrank. She reminded me of my grandmother Savannah: small, caramel-colored, and dripping in gold accessories. She was dressed, as many small-town southern old Black women do, in too many layers for the sweltering Georgia heat outside (my skin glistened with evidence of that heat). She was about six-inches shorter than my 5’2” frame. Her kind eyes drew me in and the skull cap sitting upon her pressed tresses sealed the look. She was definitely like my grandma Savannah who was always cold and always seemed to have her head covered. I guess that’s what left me unprepared for what was about to happen.
“Hi baby,” she drawled in my direction with kindness. I smiled even wider at her and slowed down to greet her properly.
“Hello.” I answered with my own southern drawl dripping in the honey that she deserved.
We both stopped and admired one another. Gosh, she really did resemble my grandmother. As she complimented my clothes, I shyly looked around to see who she was with. I’ve never really been fully comfortable with compliments, especially those from strangers, but this felt different. She was my grandmother in that moment. When she reached out to caress my arm while she admired my shoes, I felt myself relax into her aura.
But my comfort only lasted a second or two.
As we stood right there in the middle of the busy store, she squeezed my arm and loudly said, “you’re so pretty. I mean, look at you, sweetie.” I tensed slightly.
Squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze.
I felt my face begin to flush and I looked around a bit more frantically to see if her family would come to rescue me. Was she okay? Why was she being so loud?
Her hand rose and this time, she squeezed my cheek.
“Look at that skin. Look at your cheeks.”
Squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze.
She let out a soft giggle. “You’re so beautiful and you’re glowing. Your skin is so tight. You’re sooooooo fat.”
Squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze.
With every sentence her voice became louder. “It’s so tight, you look like a little suckling pig.”
Squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze.
“You look like you’re about to pop open. You’re just so beautiful and fat.”
Her warm smile never left her face. Her eyes told me that she was telling the truth.
Where the hell were her people? Why would they not come get her and stop her from harassing strangers in the middle of this store?! My southern manners and love for Black women elders wouldn’t allow me to be rude. Instead, I smiled politely, said thank you softly, and started to try and pull away so that I can make a hasty retreat to anywhere else.
She grabbed my arm again—her frail smallness betraying her strength.
Squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze.
“I mean, you’re so fat you look like all that pretty skin is just about to pop.”
I don’t even remember how the interaction ended. I do know that no one came to save me. Even now, I don’t even remember leaving the mall. All that I really do remember after that was lying in bed and crying. I’d felt so beautiful that morning. What had happened? Was this the payment the I owed for having the nerve to feel beautiful while being fat?
I wasn’t angry with her. After all, I really do think she believed she was paying me a compliment.
I’m writing this memory down now to tell you that years of being an overweight Black woman can take a toll on one’s self-esteem. The memory of that day in the mall is but one example of how I’ve lived my life constantly struggling to be comfortable in my skin. Now that I’ve released some of the weight, I have new struggles with loose skin and breasts affected by gravity and age. Lately, I’m coming to learn that my physicality’s beauty is more about how I feel about myself and less about how I look. Finding my beauty and shaping the love that I have for myself is not easy. There are days when I can begin a day feeling like God’s gift to the world and end it feeling as fat and ashamed as I ended that one long ago. I am not perfect.
I share this story with you, not for your sympathy, but as a gentle reminder that many of us struggle with our perceptions of self—even those of us who act like we do not. Not all of our struggles are evidence of people disliking us. Sometimes, the struggles come from people who say that they love us. Sometimes they come from well-meaning people who don’t understand how their words may trigger us. Sometimes we don’t even know where these struggles begin or end.
All that I know, and wish to share with you now, is that all of us must learn to see ourselves from our ownperspective and critically reflect on how even that perspective is shaped by the world around us… including by little, loveable old women in a mall.
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