Those of you who saw Shrill or read the book may remember the main character’s experience of being at a fat pool party. I have my own story, one that took place before the book came out, and a good friend suggested I write it for you. It’s a story of the joy of cool water, persistent anxiety, a beloved’s support, my delight, and revelation.
I went to “Chunky Dunk” here in Portland at the pool just off the Rosa Parks Way exit. Chunky Dunk is a pool party for fat people and their friends. Like Plush, the party at a local kink club, non-fat (like skim milk?) folks could come too, but only in the company of fat people. There was a big line and no real parking, but J dropped me off and went to park. Meanwhile, I did my best to stand in the line and leant against the fence. I was thankful that once when we began walking and rolling toward the entrance, the line moved reasonably quickly.
I was wearing a pretty, if simple, one-piece suit. Black on the bottom with green and blue flowers on the top. I didn’t have makeup on; come on, I was going swimming! I didn’t have any prescription sunglasses yet, so I didn’t have those. My hair was up in the messy updo I love. Most important, J was with me. As we went in, I didn’t feel entirely safe. I was anxious, for sure, but I was willing to do this thing. For one thing, I love to swim and have since I was three months old. Furthermore, I wanted to practice being around other fat people.
Belonging Among Fat People?
At the time, though I belonged to a fat yoga studio, I spent hardly any time with any fat people. J was not really what I would call fat at the time, but she was with me, and I held onto her (literally and figuratively) as though she were my life-preserver cushion. We went down the steps, surrounded by other fat swimmers and sunbathers. There was clearly a see-and-be-seen vibe that made me uncomfortable at first. That would shift over the course of the couple hours we were there, but at first, I just felt inadequate and out of place.
Something I loved about Chunky Dunk is that there were people of many genders there. The transmasc folks diving in, getting out, diving in again, delighting in one another’s presence took my breath away and left me with joy.
Holy Femmes, Batman!
But the femmes, friends, the femmes.
Oh my goddess, so many gorgeous femmes. There were femmes with glamorous sunglasses and wonderful, big, fluffy, soft-looking towels draped over lounger chairs holding court. There were LOTS of femmes sort of floating or bouncing around in the water with their hair up in flower or butterfly clips, makeup on, Some of them were doing something I couldn’t imagine for myself at the time: They were wearing two-piece suits. Really fat femmes. Really fat femmes in two-piece swim suits. They were glorious. Brilliant, beautiful, sexy, sure, radiant and glorious.
So J and I bobbed around a bit, and I kept turning my head. EverywhereI looked, I wondered at the beauty I saw all around me. Lots of people less fat than I was, and a fair number who were fatter than I was. I remember one really big femme in a suit that looked for all the world as though it were made of gold lamé. So striking against her mahogany skin and topped off with big, celebrity sunglasses and bright red lips.
I kept looking and looking and looking. Listening to the sounds of delight, frolic, goofiness, and gossip. Watching as fat people disported themselves in beach chairs, on the grass, and in the pool. The transmasc peeps reminding me of golden retrievers with their infectious happiness as they jumped in and out of the pool. The sovereign femmes who held court in groups of friends.
I wanted that. I wanted to feel so comfortable in my body that I could hold court too. I wanted to know people, to make friends, to be brave. And I wished I’d thought to get flowers to wind in my hair.
I wished I could be like the beauties I saw all around me.
An Ugly Duckling
And then, at one point–soon before we left, actually–I looked at J and said, “I feel like the ugly duckling.” She reached for my hand to comfort me, to ask me whether I was okay, if I did want to leave.
But I said, “No no, the end of the story.”
I had realized as I wished I could be like those shining stars of femme beauty that I was one. I was a member of their galaxy. I was beautiful. I was welcome. I was probably even admired by someone I didn’t know. Their glory was mine. Their radiance was mine. Their brilliance and beauty and delight were mine. I was a swan, as it were.
I promised myself that next time, I’d wear makeup (waterproof mascara and lipstick, primarily) and just not plan to put my head in the water. I’d get in line earlier. I’d get flowers for my hair. I’d bring my fluffiest, biggest purple towel. (I love it so much–it’s nearly 100 inches long!) I’d wear my hair in one of my beloved “sexy haystack” styles. And I’d know that I was going someplace that would affirm every ounce of me, every curve, every fold, every puffy pary of me.
And moreover, every bit of me would be welcome and not just allowed or affirmed, but it would be a delight for myself and others. A femme in all her glory. Me in full gender euphoria, in my natural watery habitat, sporting my whale and rainbows tattoo with pride.
I hope that you have a day that feels the way that Chunky Dunk felt for me. I hope that something about your essential sense of self is held up in the light and celebrated. I hope that something you’ve been ashamed of, some way you’ve felt ugly or unwanted or unlovable, is turned inside-out. I hope that you find a place to bask in your own glory. And not just your glory, but a glory you have rejected or hidden, maybe for years.
You are glorious, my dear. You are. Let’s remind one another of that, shall we?
With thanks to the organizers of the 2014 (?) Chunky Dunk, Portland, Oregon, USA.
