Fritura, Fajas, and Feelings

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Fitting in is such a funny concept when you realize everyone is packed in like salchichas with no room to move—but what about when you’re the biggest salchicha in the can? Growing up Fat in NYC, my size became most evident when it was time to get my ass on the train—literally and figuratively. I'd be running up the train stairs, heaving, trying to catch my breath, only to have to stand firm on the platform. You’d think it's common courtesy to let people out before you step on, but the 7 express could leave the moment you were letting someone off. So I’d be standing there, heart racing, breath ragged and feet standing firm to get myself on before it filled up and I couldn't fit in. Someday’s it felt like it was my body or my book bag, never enough room for both.

I'd hop on and suddenly feel myself stared down, met with rolling eyes or a shove at my jacket where people thought there’d be air and not belly underneath. I had to become accustomed to molding around people if I wanted to make it to school on time. Every attempt to mold and every person around reminded me that there was so much more of me. During the winter we could blame it on the puffer, but when the warmer weather came we were all forced to realize my body was just built too big to take a single seat or slide my way through the middle. So for those express stops I’d hold my breath and hope to shrink enough to make space for someone else to hop on.

Since I was already skipping breakfast, I had to eat on the way to school. Eating outside while Fat is like a show to the people around you. Eyes following your every bite, sometimes with laughter or plain judgment. I had to eat during that train ride so I could walk up the hill and 5 flights of stairs to my first class. Everyday oddly felt like a punishment when I'd eat, go through that experience, and then do intense physical activity. This was one of the many ways I found tricks for “vanishing”. I just wanted to make it onto the train and into class without feeling like the asshole that kept the train doors from closing.

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Ashley, around age 5, in Corona, Queens in the early 2000’s. Ashley is posing in a one piece bathing suit in the middle of Mommy Dee’s living room. Growing up, I would look at this photo and focus on how the light bounced off the roundness of my belly.

From the salon to the sala, I was aware that the adults around me saw something wrong with my body. The ladies at the salon always told me I had a pretty face while doing my blow out, which in the fat world means “such a pretty face despite that body”. When did I go from cute and chubby to whatever this is? I'd be on my way to say ‘ción Tío and the first thing before a dios te bendiga is a remedy to cut my water weight. I'd be at the bodega and watch my cousins peep my snacks on the counter like, you getting all of that? Family events where my mouth would water and my eyes would look at a plate, watering too ‘cause I knew I wanted seconds. But seconds meant choosing the stares and comment; choosing to be “this way.”

Mommy worked late so I'd stay with Mommy Dee,the matriarch for 97th St. who would bring folks together, food the center of it all. Cooking was her love language. Shame kept me from filling my hunger, so I ate enough to respect my elder but not enough to disrespect myself. Mommy would get home and I’d feen for another plate ‘cause I was hungry but then she’d hint at where I could be (obese) if I kept eating ( I was already at the fat stop of the gene train). This would be that time of night when I’d be so hungry I’d sneak to the kitchen closet, scolded for the hour. So I’d lie. I’d lie and say I was packing this for school tomorrow only to lick wrappers in the dark, in front of my backpack. If I got caught I could throw it in and say it was leftover from the day before.

At this point, all of the late night lunches kept my body growing at a pace it couldn't catch up to, my arms lined with bright pink stretch marks that looked like lightning bolts.

P.S. 19 was filled with kids that looked like me and nothing like me. The kids at school didn't have these lightning bolts but I just thought it was ‘cause we were all built different. I had already gotten used to hearing fat jokes about me by my so-called-friends, but I thought this was how we clicked. I thought if I laughed with them, I could say I wasn't laughed at.

Again a space where this body was too much.

In the 4th grade, when it got hot enough to wear short sleeves, kids asked about the cat scratches on my arms. I looked around confused, only to realize the bright marks looked like I had been slashed by a fierce feline. It was really skin stretching from the late night snacking. That was the last year I wore short sleeves in school. Sweaters covered my marked shoulders to avoid the stares.

Ashley, around age 10, sitting in front of a Christmas Tree while wearing a purple gown and shawl. I would look at this photo for years and think of how that little girl was always the “fat friend” of the group.

Eventually, going to the doctor started to get uncomfortable. The number on the scale started to matter and there were always suggestions to watch what I eat. Hearing that made no sense to me ‘cause it felt like people were always watching what I ate. After these appointments though, I got to spend time with Mommy and Mommy Dee. There's a spot near the doctor by the Main Street stop of the 7 called Lucia Pizza, that became a staple for my family to connect. Standing at that counter, hot slice in hand, grease dripping down, the two most important women in my life would eat with a vigor I only saw them inhale cigarettes with. The steam of the slice replacing the smoke of a loosie from the bodega up the block. I'd watch them smiling ear to ear, time and time again in this same spot. There I could eat without being watched but feeling seen. I could be honest here. We could exist in a space where I could admit to wanting a third slice. Here at this counter my body could exist without caution or eyes filled with concern.¹

Everything I could ever need was on Junction Boulevard and suddenly Young World was a relic of the past. It's the early 2000s and I'm in that weird, in-between phase of puberty. The face and brain of a child but a body that men down the block suddenly stared at. I noticed these developing parts as I moved to a size Medium at Rainbow, Pretty Girl and Point. My cousin would come shopping with me and I’d peep how what she wanted was always at the front of the rack, while I had to dig deeper to find what fit me. At this point I’m well aware that I'm developing not just ‘cause I’m getting older but because of all the platanos, rib tips, and rabo. Things started feeling tighter. Next thing I know I'm a size Large and worry about what happens if I stop fitting into the clothes at these stores.

Getting bigger meant Mommy could start sharing some of her tips and tricks with me. Compras turned into conversations on calorie intake. We’d shop at Key Food, cart full of things Weight Watchers said had low points and stuff I wouldn't dare eat in the daylight. Unless they were these diet chocolate cakes we always bought in the freezer aisle. At first, Mommy and I would eat them when we watched Lifetime on the couch after work. Not only did they taste good but it was a moment where we could bond over food. We could sit and do a thing that usually felt hard or like something to hide. I guess the taste and warm feelings associated with these cakes made me build an attachment. I craved the comfort of enjoying without guilt in front of Mommy’s watchful eyes. I started to want that feeling more and more. I wanted to exist how I could on this couch or at the counter of Lucias. So I’d grab these cakes ‘cause I knew Weight Watchers and Mommy approved them, telling myself it was okay ‘cause they were diet. They were diet and let me still have points to spare for the day. When Mommy wasn’t looking, I'd grab another and use the same reasoning even though I knew I was hiding. By cake 4, I’d be full of cake and guilt, later in life learning this is what you would call a ‘binge.’

Getting big enough for others to notice is hard when Señoras always think they have a say in what they see. I'm standing at the corner of a busy block on Junction, waiting to leave Key Food with my mom and our cart full of points. All of a sudden a woman who looked my mom’s age stopped right in front of me.

“Oh my god, you poor thing!”

I look at her confused.

“How could they let this happen to you?” she says as she puts her hand on my stomach.

I flinch, move back.

“How many months are you?” she says, shaking her head.

In that moment I put two and two together: she thinks I'm a baby holding a baby in me.²

I see my mother crossing the street and rush towards her, with what feels like a golf ball in the center of my throat. I can't swallow it. I won't let myself. I'll keep this golf ball here forever and never eat anything ever again.³

I tell my mom what happened. She shakes her head and we make our way home, shame ringing in my ears.

Am I to blame for looking this way? For being this small but looking so big? Is there too much of me? Why did that women look upset? Am I in trouble? The Señora said ‘they’, how did ‘they’ let this happen? Who is ‘they’?

(Later, I’d blame Mommy Dee, Mommy, Papi, myself, the lady at Seba Seba, the guy at May Chun who always picks up the phone and knows my apartment number by voice, the Mr. Softee guy who saw me two days in a row, the coco and mango icey lady in front of my school, the lady at the bakery who bagged my empanadas…)

By the time I'm in middle school, I measure my size by how the desk fits around me. By 7th grade I know there are some I have to suck my stomach for. Suddenly, I’m wondering what it's like to slide into a desk with ease like the girls in my class.

When Mommy got me my first faja, it felt like a right of passage. I had seen my mother suck herself into one. It was like ritual to watch her take a breath, pause, and use all this force to fit in. One of the few moments I could see her look in the mirror. My mother avoided pictures for a chunk of my life but with a faja on it gave her the power to be seen. A faja felt like a magician's cloak. With this extra material she allowed herself to be captured in a moment of time; hidden those parts she hated. This was how she wanted to be remembered. I started to believe all of the moms did this. At least the Dominican ones. Corona was filled with them on display in storefronts, glasses with your reflection, and the possibility of shaping yourself into something acceptable, even desirable. I saw a faja as a gateway to confidence.

I thought it was funny how the Colombian spot up the block displayed fajas and downstairs you could get the fritura Papi ate on late nights. A block filled with places to help transform yourself - botanica, faja store, the tienda where you could get skin bleach. Places where certain cultures and beliefs are upheld. Cultures where it's a sign of respect to finish a plate but a source of shame for those of us told to eat less. So when my mom asks me which faja I want, there is no choice but to have an answer.

As soon as I tried on my faja I was made aware of my stomach, the pressure of it being pushed in. Hours in, I couldn't believe what I saw as ritual felt like punishment. Do they mean the same thing? Can I love myself through this punishment? Will I love myself at the end of it?

I told myself that it would be worth it in the end.

But then I took it off. My skin printed with the lines of the boning and zippers. My stomach bouncing forward back into its usual place. Is this pretend? Does it not stay? How do I make this forever?

There was celebration when you could move up one zipper for the workout fajas. They were meant to make you sweat more underneath your clothes. So I'd go to Lucille Roberts on Main Street with Mommy, ride the 7 down. We’d get to the gym and I'd wonder why I didn't see other girls my age in there. I'd look at my mom in the locker room, zip ourselves up into our second skin and remember this was the work to become like the girls who didn't need to come here.⁴

Freshman year I thought things would be different…bigger seats. When the desk dug into my stomach I flinched. The golf ball had turned to concrete at this point and I vowed to work on vanishing. There’s no way to make disordered eating sound good, but suddenly all the older women in my life were complimenting me. Suddenly I was the smallest pant size I’ve ever worn and the woman doing my hair at the salon would whisper in my ear about how beautiful I was becoming while she held the heat on my scalp. Growing up I was always tender headed, flinching away from the blow dryer and being shoved back into place. At this age, I learned to sit still through the pain. They saw it as progress, but it was really a destructive discipline. The familiar smell of burning hair filled the air, while the reflection I got used to seeing every Saturday shifted. Going to school with my hair straightened and my pants size getting smaller, I felt like I was doing something right. Maybe then I’d be beautiful and not need the detox teas, fajas, and Lucille Roberts membership.

I took the train daily to get to school. A speed walk from home and two express stops on the 7 train. Those two stops were always a journey in mind and body. First stop on the ride started at the Colombian bakery up the block where I’d grab a pan de bono or arepa de choclo. I got used to ordering these after Papi would bring them home after work. They became my morning ritual ‘til Mommy told me I shouldn't eat those everyday ‘cause I'll get bigger. Then Mommy Dee told me corn makes you fat while darting her eyes down to my stomach. The lady in front of the train told me to drop what I was eating, that this product would be better for me. That product would be Herbalife and one of the many ‘suggestions’ my elders would give me.

Poster shown of 2012 Strong4Life campaign by Georgia. Posters of a young fat boy with the words “WARNING: He has his father’s eyes, his laugh and maybe even his diabetes.”

In the morning my mind raced with these reminders, forcing me to acknowledge or avoid the rumbling in my stomach. On mornings where I chose to honor my natural hunger cue, I realized this wasn’t the only obstacle before getting to school. I’d have to ask myself if I was willing to deal with the stares. I knew all of the things that could be behind those eyes. The things I heard on the street, in the salon, at school, on tv, in movies: Ew; I could never; How could you let your kid get like that?; Is the family fat?; She probably has diabetes; Fat is ugly; Fat is greedy; Boys dont like you when you’re that big.

You’d be surprised at the layers of judgment when people think they have a say on your shape and size.⁵

At this age I'm on Tumblr accounts of other people who know what it's like to be fat. Or at least know what it’s like to spend time wishing you weren't. Most of us are running away from it but no one knows what it's like to be fat in Corona. To be fat, trying to unfat, while surrounded by all this food and all these stares. These accounts always talked about avoiding stares and shrinking. None of these people or accounts ever taught me that there are decisions that happen beyond the stares.⁶ That a stare can lead to a judgment that can lead to consequences.⁷

Ironically, the place where I’d compare myself to others was also the catalyst to my gay epiphany. During the countless hours of scrolling when I should have been sleeping or paying attention in class, I found an online community to navigate all the weird body shit with. Talking about body image led to talking about gender and sexuality. I had started to wonder why I didn't care about the attention I’d get from boys as I lost weight. I thought it was about competing with all of these beautiful girls online about who was recovering or not recovering the most. Something else sparked in me and I started to crave affirmation from girls about things other than my weight. After connecting with my first gay crush, another Latinx lesbian, my ego felt affirmed to say the least. For the first time I could imagine my body happily, as long as it was with her body. What really released me from the grip of generations worth of fatphobia and pro-faja wearing behavior was gay love. It made me cringe imagining linking up with my crush and her having to see me unzip a faja. There was nothing sexy about judging my body, which was so similar to the body of the people I wanted. I learned to let go when all I cared about was longing. Coming into my Lesbian identity, I was met with a newfound softness. A softness that made me strong enough to realize I didn’t have to keep the cycles of my family, culture, or community going.

Now, as an adult, I'm only catching the 7 train when I'm visiting home or running errands. Fajas are still in the stores and at home, but my body hasn’t felt one in years. These days I'm rocking stomach tattoos on my belly instead of bodice stripes and zipper lines. The top of my stomach where the curve starts reads inolvidable, the Spanish word for unforgettable. I carry this belly differently and let it know the warmth of an arepa without guilt. When I go home to visit Mommy there's still that store above Quisqueya that has fajas on display, reminding me that while my shamelessly mouth waters for fritura, being a fattie once meant sucking up those feelings and molding myself to others desires. The restaurant and store display are the same but my feelings shifted with age. I could be fat in Corona without guilt or concern. I can now smell the food carts and restaurant doorways knowing food is connection,not a curse.

Being a few years into my recovery from my vow of vanishing, my belly has once again grown to a size where I’m sure some Doña thinks I’m carrying life. These days I’m focused more on a bigger picture, a thing beyond a scale. ‘Cause when I look back, all the people who thought I should shrink were the ones filling me up. When I look back and imagine all those morning train rides trying to shove myself on, faced with rolling eyes and heavy sighs, sometimes a push or a shove, I realize even these people have probably loved someone fat. A reminder that love does not have to mean like, as they show such hate for our bodies.

Thinking about the size of Amparo, my maternal Grandmother, the meaty arms on the elote lady up the block, or the cook in the back whipping up my pork fried rice. You can’t erase us because we have always existed. The very food that brings us together has been passed on by bodies built like mine, round belly, thighs that rub like sticks building a fire, and chins that double over. For all the remedies and fajas in the world, there is no way to erase what I was always built to be.⁸

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Notes

¹ “We remember: food is comfort, ceremony, / connection, culture, / pleasure; food is life & / food is a gift / we remember / the body is food & muscles & organs / the body is bones & scars & memory / the body is injury & disability & aging / the body is safe & power & healing / the body is ancestors / the body is a celebration / & i have had a lot / to celebrate” Caleb Luna, Revenge Body, pg. 55.

² Poster shown of 2012 Strong4Life campaign by Georgia. Poster of a young fat girl with the words “WARNING: It’s hard to be a little girl if you aren’t”. What We Don’t Talk About When We Talk About Fat, Aubrey Gordon, pg 39.

³ / ‘Do you remember the first person to call you fat / like its a bad thing?’; / & ‘How many times did it have to happen / before it stopped hurting?’; Caleb Luna, Revenge Body, pg. 35.

⁴ In 2013, First Lady Michelle Obama Launched ‘Let's Move! Active Schools’ event. This was one of the many initiatives she made to ‘fight’ Obesity. Michelle Obama would discuss the necessary ‘work’ of working out. Amy Erdnam Farrell, Fat Shame, pg. 134.

⁵ Poster shown of 2012 Strong4Life campaign by Georgia. Posters of a young fat boy with the words “WARNING: He has his father’s eyes, his laugh and maybe even his diabetes.” Aubrey Gordon , What We Don’t Talk About When We Talk About Fat, pg 39.

⁶ “fat people are less likely to be hired for a job; that fat people in america can legally be fired from a job in 49 states for being fat; that fat people are more likely to be homeless; that fat women are more likely to be sexually assaulted; that fat people often die from having our illnesses undiagnosed.” Da’Shaun L. Harrison, Belly of The Beast, pg 18.

⁷ The story of Anamarie Martinez-Regino, a 3-year-old from New Mexico, who experienced developmental delays (i.e. difficulty communication and walking). Anamarie was tall and fat for her age. Hospitals reported her parents for giving Anamarie solid food after the doctors suggested a liquid diet for weight loss. Amy Erdnam Farrell, Fat Shame, pg 161.

⁸ “Just 0.8 percent of fat women become thin in their lifetime.” American Journal of Public Health. Aubrey Gordon, “What We Don’t Talk About When We Talk About Fat,” pg 83.

Ashley M. Lagrange (They/Them) is a queer neurodivergent fat Black Dominican American nonbinary femme. They are currently a pre-licensed therapist and collage artist, born and raised in Queens, New York. They’ve previously been featured in interviews that discuss the intersecting parts of their identity (i.e. queerness and neurodivergence). They have been featured on the Black.Queer.Alive Podcast, the Alicia Keys Soulcare Blog, and more. You can find more of their work online at ashleymlagrange.com.

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