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There is little precedent for fat androgyny.
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Learning to embrace the hyperbole of my own body has liberated my gender expression, but also made it more difficult for others to understand. Culturally, we understand androgyny to be the ability to shift between gender expressions with a facility that highlights their outlandishness, and sometimes their closeness to each other. I do not know why fatness flattens gender expression, but I think it has to do with the predetermined expectations of bodies. Yes, things are complicated, but you would think that in the queer community, that complexity would be welcomed. In no way do I understand myself to be “masculine presenting” “butch” or “dapper” because of these preferences. I embrace my wide shoulders along with my thick hips, I get no pleasure from the ritualistic practices of womanhood, and I have an affinity for button-downs.
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I have opted out of the idea of femininity that is built on a set of standards I feel incapable of meeting. Here’s the twist: I’m not doing it anymore.
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It was a relationship to my gender created by fear and social policing, built on a logic that “if you are not one thing than you are another.” To be feminine is to be small and delicate to a fault, so if you are already thick, you are fighting an uphill battle to meet norms that are already elusive. I always felt afraid of embracing the more masculine parts of myself for fear of losing my already precarious grip on femininity. Bodies that by their very nature are incapable of fitting into traditional modes of gender conformity. I realize today that my relationship to gender has been impacted by the ways that others understand and interpret fat bodies. So many of my sartorial choices then were meant to offset my wide “masculine” shoulders and back, trying not to “look like a boy,” as well as underplay my big breasts and belly, attributes that are undeniably female. Well, that didn’t work out too well because people still noticed both of those things about me. “Maybe if I wear a really outrageous outfit, people won’t notice my lack of interest in men, or my love handles,” the logic seemed to go. For many years I tried to cover them up, along with my sexuality, in the brightest patterned dresses I could find. I grew up into a fat girl, with hips and a belly that started forming with puberty. If a thin person and I wear the same outfit to a party, they’re two different outfits, conveying two very different stories. My fat body is funny because that’s what the media tells me about it, I am not the protagonist, I am their best friend who Can’t Get Laid. I guess I expect whoever it is to be in on the joke that is my femininity, but why is it a joke? It’s a joke because I’m fat, and fat girls are funny, right? It’s funny when we wear frilly skirts and bikinis, it’s funny when we act flirtatious and sexy, it’s funny when we dance with our jiggling bums and bellies. But why do I insist on putting my eyeliner on so sloppily? Why don’t I treat myself to a new jacket, maybe swap out my messenger bag for a purse? The truth is if I do find someone while I am out tonight, I want them to know that I am not good at being a girl, that there are other things about me beyond my precarious femininity that I value more, and that if things work out, I will expect them to value. Hopefully somebody sweet, a little gruff, someone who works with their hands. I am aware that I go out looking to attract a certain type of person, maybe a butch girl, maybe a gender non-conforming person. I put on my purple tights with runs at the thighs and my worn denim jacket, I strap my messenger bag across the whole mess. The 200 Best Lesbian, Bisexual & Queer Movies Of All Timeīefore I go out to the party I put on my eyeliner, I make sure to put it on sloppily and with the unsteady hand of someone who doesn’t usually wear eyeliner.LGBTQ Television Guide: What To Watch Now.