Tag Archives: fat-shaming

Hidden Noodles

by Thuy Anh Tran from Lehigh University

  Hidden Café, which was located on the lower level of building B in my high school, was an ideal place for anyone who needed an escape. This café was not recognized by my high school as an official dining hall, but it secretly opened to serve the growing demand for a small get-away. For straight A students, they came here with the hope of escaping from the cacophony in the hallway to figure out how to calculate the atomic mass of an element. For teachers, they desperately wanted to get away from all the troubles that students created. For rebels, this place was perfect for skipping classes.
  The owner of Hidden Café was Bac Huong, a middle-aged woman who was a high school teacher but then discovered that cooking was her passion. She had a small and slim figure; her short curly salt and pepper hair was meticulously hidden behind a ridiculously giant chef’s hat, and she possessed one of the most high-pitched voice you would ever hear, probably because she used to teach in many classes with sixty students. I called her “Bac,” which means aunt in Vietnamese, as my way to show my respect as well as my endearment to her. “If I had not been a teacher, I would have become a Michelin-star chef!” – Bac Huong confidently claimed. This café was opened as a result of many spontaneous moments.
  “What do you want today? Mian tiao?”
  “Yes, but it is miàn tiáo.”
  “I’m no Chinese. Wait five minutes.”
  Bac Huong enjoyed using some Chinese words that she picked up to tease me as I was a student in Chinese-English class. “Miàn tiáo” means noodles in Chinese, but it was not just any kind of noodles. It was noodles with beef jerky, sausage, mayo and ketchup. Weird. The combination of diverse ingredients could magically blend together, and it turned out to be one of the best dishes that I had ever tasted.
  I loved watching Bac Huong making noodles. The main ingredient for this dish was obviously noodles, or Hao Hao noodles, which was only ten cents. The fastest way to cook was to pour hot water into a bowl of raw noodles. Bac Huong never forgot to add some spices, some onions and especially her special sauce (soy sauce). She put a plate on top of the noodles’ bowl so that it would keep the heat inside to cook the noodles. After five minutes, she went to check on the noodles. Then, she cut some boiled sausages that she woke up at 5 a.m. every day to prepare, and added some beef jerky. On top of the noodles, she put some mayo or some ketchup, depending on her mood. This dish had such a special smell that I could immediately recognize before I even arrived at Hidden Café. Within ten minutes, Bac Huong made noodles and eagerly interrogated me about my school life.
  “How’s school?”
  “Do you get a 10 out of 10 on your Chinese quiz?”
  “How did you do on your Math test?”
  The most dreadful question was yet to come.
  “Where are your friends? Call them here.”
  I stayed silent.
  You would not think that such a simple question could hurt you internally. Little did Bac Huong know that she played many roles in my high school life: my “Bac,” my emotional counselor, my teacher and my only friend.
  Who was I in high school? I was a fat kid (yes, I use the F word). I was bullied because my body figure did not comply with the standard measurements for a normal high school girl. Who came up with that anyway?
  That day, a girl in my class who was a close friend of mine suddenly asked me to tell her my body measurements for her “research purpose,” and I was gullible enough to tell her. Classic Mean Girl’s prank.
  The next day I went to class, she greeted me with a special nickname that I would try to forget every now and then: “square” (because my height and my weight looked quite the same). Then, there were “fatty”, “pig”, “rectangle”, “girl without curves”, “fat ugly girl”,… At that moment, my body was heated up with embarrassment. I kept looking down to the floor and closed my eyes so that I could keep my tears and my anger inside.
  I was not ready to face with such a challenge as I never knew there was something called confidence. The feeling that I was missing something inside my soul which needed to be fulfilled haunted me. Later, I discovered that it was validation. There was no class that taught me how to stand up against bullies in high school, which I think it should have had. Therefore, I kept myself safe by creating my own bubble, and never dared to step outside. What choices did I have? Many, but the easiest choice was to hide myself in this little corner of the Hidden.
  How wrong I was.
  The advantage of living in a bubble was that it created a strong shield to protect me from getting hurt, but bubbles could pop at any time.
  When I left for college, I chose not to say good-bye to Bac Huong and the Hidden because I did not want that chapter of my life to end. I would never imagine how difficult it could be to give up eating those delicious noodles.
  Six o’clock. Lower Court. Located in the lower level of the University Center, which reminds me of the Hidden. Lower Court is much more crowded than the Hidden, and students come with the purpose of seeking companions, not hiding. I choose a seat at the corner of the room. I tell myself not to think about Bac Huong’s noodles but it is impossible for me to do so as in college, spaghetti with beef sauce is the closest to what I used to have in the Hidden. Right now, the cooks are busy making spaghetti, but the way they make it is far different from what Bac Huong did. Spaghetti is already cooked from the kitchen before being placed in a large tray. The sauce is separated from the spaghetti, and each person will serve themselves with the amount of sauce that they want. I am struggling to calculate how much sauce I need for one dish of spaghetti, while Bac Huong always knew exactly how much soy sauce I needed for a bowl of noodles. All the cooks are friendly, but no one can speak Chinese to tease me.
  I learned the hard way that leaving was an essential part of growing up. As I grew up from a teenager, I left my favorite teddy bear in the basement. As I grew to become an adult, I left the Hidden and my favorite noodles in Vietnam. Growing up means that we have to leave things behind so that every time we look back, we will say to ourselves: “Oh, how I miss those good old days!”
  I guess I have to grow up now. I have to grow up from Bac Huong’s noodles and start to live my life here at college.
  I realize that I am still in the process of stepping outside my bubble.

This is a repost of a story we received in December.

When Life Hands You Lululemon [Write a Rant on Your Feminist Blog]

I’m angry. I’m sure you’ve heard about the scandal involving Lululemon Athletica, an extremely popular yoga-inspired, athletic wear retailer. Last Spring, Lululemon had produced a batch of their supposedly magical, pricey yoga pants that were overly sheer and therefore exposing the lulubums of a select group of customers who were unlucky enough to buy pants during that time period. Lululemon recalled a portion of their pants, and we forgave them for the almost comical mishap and happily resumed downward-dogging.

In recent weeks, though, customers have been filing complaints about the quality of the pants, which have become a style statement in themselves and are worn by many for daily life, in addition to exercise. I’ve even heard people refer to “lulu”, as it’s known, as having a cult-like following. For around $100 a pair, these yoga pants are not your average pair of leggings. They are made from a special, patented fabric that breathes well and doesn’t hold onto sweat, they’re unbelievably comfortable, and have garnered a positive reputation– until now.

When asked about the sheerness of the pants and their durability, Lululemon founder Chip Wilson stated, “Frankly, some women’s bodies just actually don’t work [for the yoga pants].” He also said, “It’s really about the rubbing through the thighs, how much pressure is there over a period of time, and how much they use it” (qtd in HuffPost).

Dear Lululemon, I’m sorry my thighs rub together! I’m sorry your pants, which are supposed to be durable and worn for anything from traveling to running to yoga, are not made well enough to stop my “fat” thighs from wearing down the fabric of your illustrious, elitist pants. Here’s the clincher: Lululemon’s women’s sizing ranges from 2-12, and they refuse to expand their size range to include more women. I was fooled by you, Lulu. I was fooled into thinking you wanted to encourage me to exercise, to “sweat more” (one of your many slogans), to better my body but also love it at its current state for the incredible things it does for me every second of every day. I thought you had a positive outlook on health and on body image in a culture where women are constantly shamed and judged by society based on their external appearance and size. Now, I find out that you explicitly try to shame larger-bodied women by displaying sizes 10 and 12, the largest sizes in your line, in the back of the store in heaps, while the smaller sizes are obsessively folded and restocked to reflect the perfection of the smaller bodies soon to be wearing them.

Rather than manufacturing clothing for all bodies, or at least a wider range of bodies, Lululemon has decided that capping their line at size 12 will encourage people to exercise more so that they can attain that smaller size, as if wearing these pants is a reward for exercise and healthy living. Well, here’s an idea: skinniness is not equivalent to health. Just let that sink in for a minute. Bodies come in infinite varieties, and your body is not the property of other people or corporations to police. Lululemon has claimed to encourage us to “love our bodies”, with the caveat “only if you fit into our culturally-constructed mold of what a healthy body should look like.”

I’m angry. I was initiated into the cult of Lululemon a few years back, often wearing their pants for long airplane flights, cozy days in the library, yoga, or other exercise. I felt empowered wearing my tight black workout pants, and enjoyed feeling confident going to the gym sporting Lulu pants and a coordinated, flattering top. The athletic wear was expensive, but I justified that it would encourage me to exercise and I knew I would feel good doing it, like so many other Lulu-wearers. But I will no longer be buying workout apparel from Lululemon or supporting the company in any way. I’m embarrassed to still have Lululemon pants and tops in my closet, but, after much soul-searching, I will begrudgingly wear them in the interest of resourcefulness until my thick, fat, muscular thighs have worn through the fabric and I can finally burn them without feeling like I wasted $100.