Breaking: Beth Ditto Is Fat [and she sings, too]!

I like Beth Ditto. No, seriously! Because she has an awesome voice, and is loud and colorful and smart and funny. Because Gossip make quirky music. Because Gossip isn’t afraid to say they’re a feminist band. Because Ditto is from Arkansas and has had the courage and strength to still be Ditto [trust me, that's a huge accomplishment - I am writing this post at Little Rock].

Also, and this might come as a bit of a shock to some of you, Beth Ditto is fat. Like, FAT. Not curvy, not chubby, not a little on the heavy side, but actually fat. What comes as no surprise in a culture of patriarchal fat-shaming and the enforcement of standardized beauty, Ditto is not known as that great voice from Gossip, or as that woman from Arkansas, or as that black-haired white lady who designs her own clothing, but mostly as that fat girl who sings quite well and wears tight clothing in public despite her weight. *pearl clutch*

You’d think that at some point the novelty would wear off, as I am quite sure that both Beth Ditto and everyone else already know that she is fat (if only because media outlets have been telling people for years now) – but nope. This is Gossip’s eighth album, and still the headlines of magazines’ supposed music reviews read like this one: “The Mega-Madonna“.

Looking on the bright side, one might have thought this could be an ode to the innovative mind or vocal strength of Ditto and not yet another hint at her weight, but: of course not. Andreas Borcholte, a man who has actually studied sociology and yet, seems to be unable to fathom the social dimension of the continuous and rather boring “FAAAAT!!!” puns in this article, cannot but write a “review” in which half of what he has to say about Gossip’s new record circles around Ditto’s weight.

Apparently going for the “How many fat-related word choices can I possibly include”-award [is that a thing? Someone nominate me!], Borcholte commingles Ditto’s music with her weight, calling the singer “weighty”, “opulent”, “Knutschkugel”, gives her height/weight stats, and, oh how very surprising, has to connect Ditto to Adele (because all fat chicks in public know each other or are somewhat alike, right?).  At certain points, he provides a couple of lines about the actual record (*gasp!*), some anecdotes about the band, their views on Madonna, “homosexuality” and subversion, and, finally, a whopping two sentences of actual music evaluation in this review; but: the so very peculiar event here remains Ditto’s fat.

The male* gaze is certainly rather unsubtle in this piece, and the constant exoticization of a fat female public figure whose work can eventually be condensed to her weight, is not less apparent. I guess it is too much to ask of a music critic to write a nuanced piece about the actual music when a non-standardized attraction like Ditto can be gawked at. Thankfully, “Spiegel” linked the entire album – so you can be your own judge. It’s certainly more productive and instructive than reading yet another article about that fat girl who also sings.

Did I mention she was FAT? No, seriously:

Pass The Fries.

When, now almost exactly two years ago, I was sitting in my (former) doctor’s office, sobbing, at the height of a depression, she deemed it an appropriate moment to ask me whether I had lost any weight yet and casually drop a hint about the possibility of a gastric band surgery.

It had been a really shit year on several personal levels, and I was about to ruin the master’s degree I had worked on for so long by having extreme difficulty (and failed repeatedly) to even get out of bed in the morning, or make myself something to eat, overcome a fear of leaving the house or let alone meet the deadline for my thesis, now only three weeks away. I was there to ask for a doctor’s note to turn in at the school office to get an extension – and maybe some help to deal with this previously unknown and scary situation. Ironically, the elevated blood pressure my doctor had been rightly concerned about before (and attributed solely to my weight) dropped to all new levels of average, even low, during this time, despite the fact that I had not been able to bring myself to take the medication and had not exercised for weeks.

I had been a chunky kid at the age of seven. I did not spend my time in front of the TV with countless chocolate bars, but running around the park, climbing trees, skating, dancing, singing, rope jumping – but, apparently, nothing trumped the weight. My pediatrician had my mom and grandparents put me on a diet that consisted of fruit in the morning, veggies for lunch and salad in the evening (yeah, that’s it, nothing else). I don’t recall that this was a very horrible experience for me, except for still being hungry after a “meal” at times and that this diet went on for at least six to eight weeks; I do however recall that once I was supposed to eat “normally” again (after dropping a lot of weight, obviously), I threw up constantly for about two weeks, because my body could not handle luxuries like bread or cheese anymore. Magically, I gained the weight back once I could digest different types of food again, and put on way more. Obviously, that’s when the “teasing” started (bullying is the better word here) at school and every place else, and still today some unacquainted grown-ups (?) cannot help but comment on my appearance (on his blog, Brian has collected a vast amount of #thingsfatpeoplearetold, and I have BINGO!).

Adjust Yourself.

So, one of the reasons I had (and have) to dial down a little on blog posts is that there’s loads of other work to do… Not that I’m actually doing it; I went on holiday to Madrid. And yet – even in between tapas, red wine, glorious sights, handsome men and sunny, summery weather, some people have taken their one chance to piss me off on my last day, when I discovered this in the subway:

That’s right. An advertisement for the gastric band. The poster features a naked fat woman, “Marta”, allegedly 28 years old, an architect and – gasp! – single. The poster goes on to say that Marta has difficulties when it comes to social relations, and that she suffers from joint pain and depression (…in that order). In comes the gastric band: it is advertised as “the definite solution,” and one can pay it off by monthly instalments of 177 Euros…

Seriously. Seriously? Where do I begin… First of all, the mere idea of proactively advertising major abdominal surgery (and yes, whereas surgeons try to perform it as minimally invasive as possible – it is still major abdominal surgery) is just mind-boggling to me. You might as well start to advertise appendectomies (because who needs that little stomp and it’s a preemptive strike, right) or tonsillectomies (which are less invasive than a lap band surgery…). Apparently, being fat is such a horrible state of existence that advertisements like these are totally ethically justified. The European Union has established the imprint of warnings on the mortal danger of smoking on every damn cigarette pack around the continent – and yet, lap band advertisements are completely fine. True, it is probably a lot cleverer not to mention the risks, side effects and the utter uselesness of the gastric band in some cases – probably no one would voluntarily do that to hirself, then.

It’s Getting Boring By the Sea.

I guess I just happen to be one of the loudest of the people of colour/feminists/fat people in my circle of friends, acquaintances and colleagues.  Since I have been brought up thoroughly lower middle class and White by the white side of my family, in a small town, it took me some time and many “…but where are you really from?”s to realise that I am actually not perceived like most of the folks around me, and people have talked and talk to me in ways they would never dream of addressing others.

Despite the fact (which, again, would deserve a whole blog post on its own for its “fuck you”-potential) that many people feel the constant need to tell me that I’m not really dark enough to say that I am a person of colour, I bet they never heard things like “Eeew, it smells like n__r here” in the school yard for most of their sixth grade, never had to smile through comments like “Why, yes, this really is a hot summer – but you’re lucky, you’re used to it!” or were speechless whilst being complimented for their “Nice negro curls” and asked whether they knew their father, because “Most chocolate babies don’t.” During their driving licence test, most of my male friends were probably not asked to please demonstrate their parking skills “because that is something women have to do too if they want to go shoe shopping,” (huh… I do love shoe shopping… ;) ) and most likely their suggestions will not be ignored until a male person agrees with them (…no matter how often, how detailled and how increasingly loudly they say it). And most of my friends, acquaintances and colleagues probably won’t get lectured on the wonderfulness of the lap-band for “people like me,” when they have to go to the doctor because of tonsilitis (and then have to point out that penicillin will most likely be the more efficient choice here, though), or come in with a sports injury and are then told that they’re too fat and really should exercise more (*sigh*).

Ultimately, none of these examples is important: I think that people do not have to justify themselves and their identity with “but look what happened to me…”-stories, especially not to those who are part of societal majority groups with a history of having the power to judge where “others” belong.

Yet, this is not about Minority Olypmics; especially not, when you’re living in your own (well, rented :) ) flat in Berlin and have a scholarship that allows you to support yourself and do historical research. This is about the fact that when you’re one of the people who have experiences like the ones mentioned above, and are outspoken about not liking it (duh!): it’s getting boring by the sea.

More or less overnight, a very sticky label, namely “angry fat brown hyper-feminist” is put on you, and it’s non-removable, no matter what, no matter when. Moreover, this label makes people shoot concerned (and slightly frightened) side glances at you everytime something gender/race/fat/discrimination-related is expressed or a discussion takes place in which people say stupid or even disgusting things, and you are the one seemingly everyone expects to step in; you are now notorious for giving the (apparently unavoidable and totally party-pooper-super-exaggeratingly-PC-dude-ruining-my-fun) “this is racism/sexism/homophobia/etc.”-speeches.

As obviously delightful as it sounds: This fucking sucks.

Get Your Dogma Off My Cookie.

Recently, friends of mine told me an anecdote that was supposed to make me laugh (I guess), but was more of (yet) an(other) example to me how beauty standards and misogyny still go so well together:

He (lets call him Tim) and she (lets call her Tom) were working together on updating the university’s noticeboard, when one of the professors came out of his office and wanted to share some cookies with them. Tim (to be polite, as he said) thankfully accepted, but Tom is allergic to wheat, so she declined. You’d think the professor might be able to go on with his day after this, having handed out a cookie, but her response apparently startled him. His go-to-response was: “Ah, sure, you’re trying to watch your diet.”

Tom did not laugh (because she actually did not hear what he said), Tim gave a little chuckle… This made the professor so uncomfortable that he finally buggered off after some awkward seconds. Tim then implicitly told Tom that she was kind of rude and that her behaviour made the professor feel awkward.

As I get annoyed rather easily (…so I’ve been told ;) ), I am naturally annoyed by this – and with reason, I think. I’m also fine with adding that, as a person who has been put on her first diet when she was seven years old (with no eventual benefit whatsoever), I am probably more receptive to this kind of stuff.

Not only was “diet” the first thing that popped into the professor’s head when Tom did not want a cookie, although there is a multitude of explanations available (…maybe Tom does not like cookies, or does not like the professor’s damn cookies, or does not want to eat cookies right now, or has just eaten cookies, or is actually allergic or nauseated or just not in the mood), he actually thought it was worth commenting on her decision; even more so, in a fat-phobic and sexist fashion.

First of all, and most importantly (and I don’t think you can get that message out often enough): A person’s body and (life style) choices are none of your fucking business. Not mine, not yours, not a family’s, community’s, economy’s or of national or even global interest. Don’t get me wrong, certain individual looks, behaviours and choices are most certainly presented as a matter of the public and of policy; many people behave really horribly, downright violently, and have no sense of boundaries when it comes to weight and size. Sometimes things get rather funny and truly preposterous, as the “But I care for these fatties”-tantrum throwing TV chef Jamie Oliver has shown. My personal favourite, however, is the “scientific” revelation that fat people are one of the major causes of global warming and would save the planet if only they’d exercised more – you couldn’t make this shit up…

From Michelle Obama’s war on fatty terror concern for fat children to germany’s federally launched “Fit statt Fett” (“fit instead of fat” – and let me just say: the german word “fett” conveys more negativity than “fat” and is a deliberately derogatory term that could have been replaced by more humane alternatives) campaign, weight is framed as both a concrete political/fiscal and societal/symbolic issue: national security and prosperity vs. decadence and decline; discipline and fiscal success vs. laziness and over spending due to supposedly preventable diseases that allegedly put a stranglehold on health care systems.