TRIGGER WARNING: LONG POST
Kaedasha here: Even though it’s Sunday, I’m still exhausted from the protest we had on Friday. We started it after school, first meeting in one of the rooms for a small solidarity rally before moving toward our first objective: the Donahue gym. We surrounded the main entrance to the building and linked arms in a human chain, blocking people from entering. A bunch of roided up meathead jocks were there, whining that they needed to get their “pump” on and that we were blocking the way. All those muscularly privileged white men and their condescending smirks triggered me. When I realized that they thought they were better than me because I was a fat black woman, I lost it. I grabbed Ashley’s megaphone, practically tearing it from her hand, got in the face of the biggest and whitest jock there, and screamed “YOU NEED TO GET UP OUTTA MY FACE AND STOP OPPRESSING ME YOU RACIST!” He and his friends were taken aback and, sensing weakness, the rest of our group struck. We started yelling at them, calling them fat shaming racists until Ashley came up with an impromptu chant. “1, 2, 3, 4, NO MORE FAT SHAMING ANYMORE!” we shouted for the next ten minutes before resuming our march to our second objective: the cafeteria.
I had forgotten there was a dance today, and we saw a lot of people gawking at us from the windows of a building. A small crowd followed us—mostly meatheads and people from the dance (apparently our cause was far more entertaining than dick-on-ass grinding). A few individuals occasionally shouted out hateful slurs, but for the most part, the crowd had less malice, merely making jokes at our expense. We ignored them and marched on. We reached the cafeteria and once again we formed a human chain across the entrance, refusing anyone entry. “HOW CAN YOU PEOPLE EAT THIS FOOD?” I yelled into the megaphone. “HEALTH FOOD IS A CRAZE PUSHED ON US BY THE WHITE RACIST PATRIARCHY TO SHAME FAT PEOPLE FOR BEING FAT! WE DEMAND AN END TO THE WEIGHT-SHAMING CONSPIRACY!” By now, students were coming out of the cafeteria in curiosity. Whenever we saw any of them carrying food, we smacked it out of their hands, telling them they were racist bigots and were oppressing us by eating that food.
“What the fuck, Laura?” someone shouted when I threw her organic fruit salad to the ground. “I thought you were vegan!” It was an old vegan acquaintance I hadn’t spoken to since last year. She had no idea I was transitioning.
“It’s Kaedasha now.” I said. “That was just a phase. I’m a proud transfat.”
“Ugh!” someone in the crowd exclaimed, overhearing us. “They’re TRANSFATS, everyone!” he shouted. Upon hearing this the crowd started grumbling and grew increasingly hostile. They drew in close, really close. It was like the protest in ‘64 when Jack Weinberg was arrested, except that instead of us surrounding our oppressors, they surrounded us. They scolded us for belittling actual social justice causes and said that we phonies claiming to be oppressed for attention and free stuff. One person got right in my face and tried to rip the sign from my hands, and I could feel her hot breath and spittle splash against my cheeks from the exertion.
By this point a lot of us were beginning to feel scared and dejected and I knew I had to act. I grabbed Ashley’s megaphone and started rallying the troops with a passionate speech I had prepared the night before just for these circumstances. “Transfats,” I began, “it is a pleasure to be with you today in a protest that will no doubt go down in history as one of the greatest demonstrations for freedom and justice. More than 2 score years ago, our proverbial forepersons stood on this very spot in massive protest for free speech. This momentous protest became a great beacon of hope to all the oppressed groups of the world, who, after they saw it, said to themselves “Si, se puede.” and then they said it louder for the whole world to hear “Yes, we can!” And they did. In the more than 40 years since then, every oppressed group has had its movement and its acceptance—African Americans, Native Americans, Mexican and Latin Americans, pacifists, environmentalists, gays and trangenders, feminists, disabled people, vegans. Every group except us. Until today. We have returned to this hallowed spot to let America know that there will be neither rest nor tranquility within her borders until we transfats can openly and proudly without ridicule and scorn indulge in every whim that makes our phantom fat a reality. I have a dream that a woman can purchase 20 cartons of ice cream without as much as a strange glance from the cashier. I have a dream that any speech that can even remotely be construed as hurtful to transfats is hate speech. I have a dream that medical science recognizes the benefits of fat and no longer encourages the fitness fad. I have a dream that stairs are replaced by ramps, elevators, and motorized pedestrian walkways. I have a dream that little transfat boys and girls will be able to hold hands with little skinny boys and girls and together share Snickers bars. I have a dream that people of all colors and body fat percentages rise up against the white racist misogynistic and thin-privileged patriarchy, smash it to bits, and bring about an era of ACCEPTANCE and TOLERANCE.”
Silence hung in the wake of my finish. Everyone was stunned. Even the crowd of hecklers stopped their fat shaming and stared in silence, the same looks of bewilderment on their faces. As the impact of my speech began registering, changes came over the people before me. My fellow protesters, whereas only minutes before they looked demoralized and visibly deflated, suddenly stood taller and wider. I saw their phantom fat materialized and hanging off their waists and hips. In those jiggling rolls was a strength more powerful than any hatred, which was fortunate because the hecklers became more wrathful. Because I had dared to equate our oppression with “actual” oppression, the crowd grew exponentially vitriolic. They called us racists and oppressors and pointed out our “white” privilege, which almost triggered me. Someone returned from the cafeteria with a big basket of food and the crowd began throwing it at us. USDA organic produce and fruits flew through the air—grapes, apples, tomatoes, beans, alfalfa, peaches exploded on our bodies and covered us in a medley of juice. Their tactics didn’t break our spirit, though. All this time we were chanting “Yes, we can!”, first softly then in a roar that drowned out the heckler’s slurs.
Energized, we pushed through the crowd toward the last part of our protest—the rally at Tim Moellering field. We stormed the field and interrupted the JV game against San Leandro, marching around the bases and encircling home plate. The parents in the audience were very supportive of our protest, until they noticed what we were protesting for. Then they immediately became hostile. They started throwing empty organic juice cans and refillable water bottles at our heads and yelled at us to get off the field. We stood strong until both teams stormed the plate and pushed us off the field into a group of waiting security guards. “5-0! Scatter!” I yelled. We ran in different directions with instructions to meet back up at the school for the party.
We all arrived back at the school a short time later. Getting away wasn’t too difficult because all the guards were biofats and they couldn’t catch us. We all sat on the floor and drank Coke and ate our pizzas, swapping our stories. Spirits were high and we felt like we had made real progress against oppressive societal norms.