Big Boned

My father insisted: “I’m not fat, I’m big-boned.” And though his Buddha belly strained at his clothing, it was true that his frame took up the whole of the room.

He was not just six foot four. His rectangle was a door frame, and his voice was a thundercloud moving through the air.

I do not think he wanted this, and while he abused his frame as defense for his girth, there was an aftertaste of regret in his defense: We can change our fatness, but we cannot change the dimensions of our bones.

I have my father’s bones, and I have my father’s girth. The latter is a disguise for the former: Even if I stripped my bones and skin of all the insulation, my house would still be a hulk.

My soul is small and unassuming. I want to be gentle. I want to fragile under the weight of a harsh world. No hormones, no clothing, no surgeries will ever present that to the world.

My given name appears in a song by the Pixies called “Gigantic”. And while the reference to a “big big love” may be intended salaciously, it’s a reminder of my rectangular presence in the world.

Some trans people wear hoodies and loose clothing to hide the mismatch between their bodies and their souls; I wear fat in the same way, because my body will never be what I want it to be anyway.

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