Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Growing up, I was in and out of the hospital a lot. This didn't make me popular in the playground, and the stupid little things I had to do for my "own good," as my mother put it, never failed to make me a target for bullies and meanies alike.

For instance, when I was in kindergarten, I had to carry a cushion to every single school assembly, so I wouldn't catch cold from sitting on the gym floor. In later years, kids were so freaked out by the pills in my lunch bag, I had to start going home for the midday meal. They were even more freaked out by the bruises that covered my feet, which were spotted when we were all changing for phys-ed, and even reported me as a possible abuse case to the teacher. Try explaining weekly reflexology appointments to children that didn't even know about the birds and bees yet.

Best of all was the parsley juice phase. Like every parent that is desperate to help their child, moms had read up on this apparent miracle cure, and I had to drink the stuff five times a day. It tasted like burnt grass. Some kid spotted me holding my nose and gagging it down in the bathroom, and told the rest of the class how absolutely grossetating I was.

Yeah, that got me a lot of friends.

Oli was the healthy daughter, the outspoken daughter, the one that never took shit or crap from absolutely anyone. She was also the most protective older sister in the world, and during those horrible times, my guardian angel. When someone called me a name, Oli berated and cursed with such intense vocabulary, she would make them cry. If anyone pushed me around, Oli would rush out, fists blazing, in pursuit of justice for her kid sister. Once, a neighborhood kid pushed me into a mud puddle full of rocks, and my knees were cut open. Oli socked her in the nose so hard, it broke.

I wasn't strong then, not like her. Not nearly. It was years before I learned how to fight my own battles.

Imagine how awful it was for me when Oli left for high school, and I became open territory. Imagine how even more miserable it was when, right then, I developed a stutter. Can you believe it? F-f-f-or a v-v-v-very l-long t-t-t-ime, I t-t-talked l-like th-th-this.

Paula Maria Cecchi, who I'm positive is a wrestler these days, was a year older than me and a lot bigger too. In fact, she was a lot bigger than everyone, thanks to flunking a grade, and her orangutan genes. Paula Maria walked like a truck driver, and wore combat boots and a red bandana around her head. Rambo was her hero.

Paula Maria picked on everyone as a rule, and seeing as I h-h-had a st-t-tutter, I became her special favourite. Lucky me. She knew my sister wasn't around to save me, and for months, took every opportunity to knock my books out of my hands, or trip me so I fell to the ground. She would dance around me while I tried, in vain, to hold back tears, and called me a freaky freak girl. I hated Paula Maria Cecchi.

I started to withdraw, big surprise. Oli and moms noticed and wanted to know what was the matter, but I wasn't talking. I didn't talk much anymore, anyway, but moms kept on me. Mothers have that built-in sonar so they know something is wrong with their kids and, every now and then, know exactly what it takes to make it all better.

I remember I was home eating my lunch, sitting on my hands and blowing bubbles in my glass of milk, through the straw. Moms was drying some dishes when she turned to me and said, "Did you know one of your great uncles stuttered too?"

I stopped with my bubbles, and looked up. He did?

Moms nodded. "Oh yes he did. He stuttered for a very long time. He was a war hero AND a genius."

Really?

She smiled. "Really."

Wow. I was so in shock I couldn't eat my lunch. I had a great uncle who was super brave and super smart, and sounded freaky freak just like me. So maybe, just maybe, that could mean I wasn't so freaky freak after all?

That afternoon at recess, Paula Maria attacked from behind, delivering what *could* have been a painful and embarassing slap between my shoulder blades, but I was ready for her. I ducked out of the way, screamed at her to l-l-leave m-me alone, and kicked her in the stomach so hard, she fell over backwards with her skirt over her head.

Paula Maria Cecchi never bothered me again. And not long after, I stopped stuttering.

Now, what was the point of me telling this story?