Another day, another group belittled by presidential candidate Donald Trump.
Women. People with disabilities. Muslims. Jewish people. Black people. Mexicans. Gay people. Prisoners of war. Transgender people. (Did I miss any?)
There's one group, though, that Trump has repeatedly, consistently mocked time and time again throughout his entire career, long before he got into politics — and it's one not enough people are talking about.
Trump has great disdain for fat* people. And it was on full display during and immediately after the first presidential debate on Sept. 26, 2016.
*Note: I will use the term "fat" to describe people in this article. Unlike Trump's usage, I am using "fat" as an adjective, not an insult.
Let's break down the three fat-phobic things Trump promoted at (and shortly after) the debate with some classic, cold, hard fact-checking.
Trump's two cents: After Hillary Clinton pointed out that Trump has called women "pigs, slobs, and dogs," Trump resurrected and defended his offensive, decade-old remarks against Rosie O'Donnell, claiming "she deserves it, and nobody feels sorry for her."
Fact-check: Calling O'Donnell a "slob" is a play right out of the Fat-Phobic's Handbook of Fallacies. Although our society pushes this narrative, the truth is that being fat does not mean a person is inherently lazy, unhygienic, incompetent, or any of the other negative stereotypes often ascribed to people with bigger bodies — including being a so-called "slob."
Trump's two cents: In a mind-bogglingly random aside, Trump suggested during the debate that "someone sitting on their bed that weighs 400 pounds" could have been the one who broke into the Democratic National Committee's email server — a not-so-subtle suggestion that any know-nothing, inept person could do so.
Fact-check: Again, Trump perpetuated a seemingly inconsequential — but actually pretty dangerous — connection between undesirable traits and having a body that happens to be fat.
"Trump didn’t just express the standard disgust for fat bodies," writer Lindy West penned in The Guardian. "He positioned fat people as dangers to national security. The implications are familiar, even if the context is outlandish: fat people are lazy, bedridden, unscrupulous, untrustworthy, antisocial, gluttonous (for secrets!) and worthless as anything but a punchline."
West wasn't the only one unimpressed. Former Republican rival and Trump supporter Rick Santorum was seemingly just as perplexed as many of us watching at home:
Trump's two cents: During the debate, Clinton said Trump allegedly once called former Miss Universe Alicia Machado "Miss Piggy." He doubled-down on his attacks against Machado the following morning — as though her weight would ever be a legitimate reason to condemn her as a pageant winner — explaining in an interview with "Fox and Friends" that Machado had gained "a massive amount of weight" and it had become "a real problem."
Fact-check: In his follow-up interview, Trump didn't even try to deny that Machado's weight had become an underlying issue for him. And that's ... an issue. Instead of using his platform to help change a sexist, fat-phobic industry standard, Trump allegedly threatened to take her crown away after she'd gained weight, and, astoundingly, invited reporters to film her exercising without telling her beforehand in order to show the public she was on a weight-loss regimen.
"It was very humiliating," Machado said years later of Trump's treatment. "I felt really bad, like a lab rat."
Of course, none of this is probably all that surprising to you — even if you're a Trump supporter. Voters have come to expect he'll spout whatever's on his mind, for better or worse. If that means saying something fat-phobic — like bullying overweight people at his rallies, demanding Chris Christie stop eating Oreos, or body-shaming Diet Coke drinkers — so be it.
But really, this isn't about Trump or whether his fat-phobic remarks will change the presidential race. It's about how those remarks hurt us — everyone watching at home.
Fat-shaming is often overlooked, sometimes because it becomes so frequent and so subtle that we get used to it. But we shouldn't.
Many of us have rallied together in defense of other groups — women, Muslims, military families — after Trump has insulted them, and rightly so. We should be doing the same right now for fat people.
Again, it bears repeating: "Fat" should not be an insult. It is an adjective. The problem isn't just that Donald Trump is calling people fat — it's that he uses "fat" as a catch-all term that implies a whole host of other negative, undesirable qualities.
The prevalence of fat-phobia continues to promote real-world discrimination, and comments like Trump's only add fuel to the fire.
Fat-phobic biases by medical professionals means fat people are more likely to receive poor health care services. Being fat means you look more guilty in jurors' eyes. If you're fat, you're more likely to be seen as unhealthy despite the fact you can't actually tell much about a person's health just by looking at their waistline. And because workplace discrimination is a thing, fat women are more likely to get smaller paychecks than their skinnier counterparts. (Isn't it fun when sexism and fat-phobia collide?)
To be clear, Trump's certainly not the only politician who's made fat-phobic remarks — although maybe he's the worst offender? — and expecting him to change his tune before Nov. 8 is unlikely.
I'm not holding my breath, hoping Trump transforms into a body-positivity champion — but I am hoping his fat-shaming will spur some backlash from all of us and the way we treat fat people as a society.
I'm hoping Trump's blunt, non-P.C. style will actually shed a light on how hurtful, ignorant, and dangerous this "tell it like it is" mentality can be when it comes to fat-shaming.
When reality TV show hosts make fat-phobic remarks, it's a problem — but when those remarks are coming from someone who wants to be the leader of the free world, it's an utterly unacceptable show of disrespect and discrimination.
It's hard to date when you're fat, but not for the reasons you might think.
"You know what I like about you? You’ve got fat pride. I felt that way, too, until I realized I wanted anyone to fuck me ever."
We’d been talking online for weeks — he was funny, erudite, nerdy, kind. He’d told me he’d lost weight in the past. I’d done my due diligence of telling him how fat I was, working hard to avoid repeats of past hurt and disappointment. I’d weeded through dozens of profiles about wanting to meet "healthy," "active" women and several that pointedly instructed that fat women weren’t welcome. Many men had sent graphic, sexual messages, and when I politely declined or didn’t respond, they issued lengthy screeds. "U SHOULD BE GRATEFUL." "I wouldn’t even rape you."
In amongst all of that, I’d found someone who seemed like a gem. And then, on our first real date, this. It was frustrating, isolating, and made me feel so big and so small, all at the same time.
I gently pushed back. "You know you’re saying that about me, too, right?"
"What?"
"When you talk about no one wanting to fuck fat people, you’re talking about me, too."
He shook his head. "Don’t take it personally. It’s not personal."
I got quiet then asked for the check. He said he’d walk me out. When we got outside, he tried to kiss me then asked if I wanted to go back to his place.
Years later, I was falling for a new partner.
We’d been dating for several months, and she was extraordinary: full of life, wildly intelligent, absurdly beautiful. I’d tell her often — maybe too often — how stunning I thought she was. With equal frequency, she’d talk about my body. "You’re so brave to dress the way you do." "I want you to feel empowered."
At first, her responses sounded like reciprocity, but they always seemed to sting. I felt deflated every time she said it. Like that first date, she couldn’t see past my body. She valued me, but she didn’t desire me. When she spoke, she never spoke about my body — only about my relationship to it. She was amazed that I wasn’t sucked into the undertow of self-loathing and isolation that she expected from fat women. Those comments were a reminder of how frequently she thought of my body, not as an object of desire, but as an obstacle to overcome. She was impressed that I could. She could not.
When you and I talk about dating, dear friend, we have a lot of overlapping experiences because dating can be difficult and awkward for anyone.
It’s a strange auditioning process: all artifice to find someone who can respect your uncrossable lines, and failed auditions usually mean those lines get crossed. It’s easy to feel judged, stalled, alone in the process. It can get exhausting, exciting, frustrating, exhilarating.
But dating as a fat person means contending with so many added layers of challenge.
You told me once you imagined it was impossible to date as a fat person. It’s not; it’s just a lot of work. Lots of people are willing to sleep with fat people. Many are willing to date a fat person.
Few are willing to truly embrace a fat person. Almost no one, it seems, really knows what that means.
That first date, dear friend, is such a frequent moment.
My sweet, funny date was abruptly overthrown, overtaken by years of the same anti-fat messages all of us hear. He couldn’t reconcile being fat and being loved. All of that, suddenly, was visited upon me, as it so often is.
I only bring up my feelings about being a fat person after knowing someone for some time. But, with startling regularity, new acquaintances, dates, and strangers offer diet advice, trial gym memberships, and, even once, a recommendation for a surgeon. My life as a fat person is a barrage of weekly, daily, and hourly offers of unsolicited advice. At first, the detailed answers, the constant defense, the explanation of my daily diet and medical history are ineffective — no answer is sufficient. Over time, it becomes burdensome, then exhausting, then frustrating. And it doesn’t seem to cross the minds of most people I meet that I’ve heard what they’ve said before — not just once, but over and over again, in great detail. I have a forced expertise in diets, exercise regimens, miracle pills, and the science of weight loss.
That may not be your experience, dear friend, because people may approach you differently.
You might not know what it’s like to feel your face flush or your heart race when your body so reliably becomes a topic of conversation during dinner parties, work events, first dates. There’s a familiar wave of frustration, hurt, and exhaustion. It’s all the visceral, invisible consequence of unintended harm because few of us — even you, my darling — have unlearned the scripts we’re expected to recite when we see a body like mine.
As a fat woman, I just want what anyone else wants: to be seen, to be loved, to be supported for who I am. To be challenged and adored. To be worth the effort for who I am.
When I meet people whose first response to me is about my fat body, I learn something important about that person. Whether their opening salvo is "Fat bitch" or "I’m concerned about your health" or "Have you tried this diet?" or "I think you’re beautiful," they all send the same message: that I am invisible. Rather than seeing me or getting to know who I am, they can only see my fat body.
It’s true of so many people I meet. They’ve got this deep-seated block: They can’t see fat people as individual people with individual stories because no one expects them to. Nothing in our culture indicates that fat people might have individual experiences, different stories, life experiences as rich and varied as anyone else. Instead, we’re met with diagnosis, prognosis, quarantine: an anthropological impulse to demand to know why we are the way we are and to figure out how to stop us from having the bodies we have. We’re reduced to figures in an equation, a puzzle to solve. But truthfully, we’re so much messier than that. We’re just as contradictory, real, and human as anyone else you know, and loving us is just as complicated.
When we have conversations like this, you often say, "I had no idea."
It’s heartening, dear friend, and it’s also hard to hear. It’s a harsh reminder that even those closest to me are subject to all those same influences and impulses.
There’s so much work in just working up the mettle to date at all. Building your own confidence and battling your own doubt enough to date at all can be difficult, in part because there’s no template. Media representation is seriously lacking for many communities; seeing thriving fat people in media is nearly nonexistent. Being fat means not seeing yourself reflected anywhere as being happy, healthy, or affirmed.
Being fat means taking on the Sisyphean task of creating your own world, one in which you can declare a truce with yourself and learn to feel OK or feel nothing at all about yourself when the entire world seems to be telling you that is not possible.
It means finding whatever you can scavenge to build yourself some makeshift shelter of thatch and driftwood. It’s brittle and dry, and it’s something. You try to build something that can withstand the gale-force winds of seeing an episode of "The Biggest Loser" or hearing a stranger offer unsolicited diet advice that you’re already taking. You build it slowly, painstakingly — testing methods and gathering rare, essential materials over time. It’s precious and fragile, a labor of love and a means of survival.
And finding a partner means opening that hard-fought home to someone else, over and over again, knowing that person might destroy it.
Usually, they do.
You’ve mourned it a hundred times. Your skin has thickened. Sometimes that person burns it to the ground, setting a fire to watch it burn. But more often, they just forget to extinguish their cigarette. Yes, when we look for love, some of us are hurt intentionally, cruelly, because of our bodies and because of overt fatphobia. But usually, we’re hurt without malice, through rote scripts about who we’re allowed to be and an expectation that we’ll devote our lives to meeting those expectations.
Often, when looking for friends and partners, I search for those who will be gentle with the home I’ve built, ramshackle though it is.
What made such an impression on my partner from years ago was that I didn’t stop there: I wanted someone who would help build that home, someone who would protect it, someone who would call it their home, too. Because a lack of harm isn’t love.
I want love. And as a fat person, there’s audacity in that.