[Bacchus]

Just one look at our author, and you just know you're in for a good one. So fat, she can't even hide it in a tightly cropped pic:



http://www.xojane.com/issues/fat-shaming-train-bully

Anyway, I can't believe she shared this story. It's not like she scored some kind of victory for fatties. Instead, she's just another data point confirming the mental instability of the SJW set.

Quote:

"They're costing millions in taxpayer money. Why should I have to pay because some fat slob is too lazy to get off the couch and take care of themself? They're killing the NHS!"

I took a deep breath and locked eyes with my friend across the aisle. The man behind us on the train had been ranting for nearly 10 minutes, and my patience was waning. I shook my head in a silent "I’m about to lose my shit." My friend nodded back as if to say, "I know," his cheeks flushing red.

We were using what I call "stigma shorthand" — a silent language of winks and nods used by the hyper-vigilant to keep each other safe.

"I might have to say something." I finally said out loud. He nodded again. I took another deep breath and thought about whether or not I could live with myself if I didn't.

"They’re irresponsible! They're just like drunks!" the man behind us said loudly. "They should be fined!"

Right. That was it. My partner, who up until this point had been blissfully consumed with her Tuna Nicoise, startled a bit as I rose to look behind me.

What I’d meant to say was: "Hi! I'm a real live fat person. You maybe have never met one before in real life? I'm just assuming that 'cause no one would ever say the things you’re saying about someone they actually cared about. But just so you know, I’m up here in front of you being an actual human being, so if you can't stop yourself being hateful, maybe you could at least have the courtesy to do it elsewhere?"

Except I only got as far as, "Hi! I'm a real live fat person," before I realized that the bearded bully in the blue sweater behind me knew exactly who was sitting in front of him — and he was ready for me. Before I could get out another word, he tilted his head, slumped his shoulders in a resigned sigh, and thrust an interrupting hand toward my face.

"Okay," he said (the "let's DO this, Tubby!" subtly implied), "I'm just saying, my wife" —he motioned to the mute but surly looking blonde next to him — "is a nurse, my son is studying to become a doctor. You have to admit that everything I'm saying is based in fact."

I was thrown. I'd naively assumed that basic human decency would kick in once he realized an actual person of the variety he was maligning was within earshot. In my imagination, he'd looked surprised, mumbled an awkward apology, and that had been that. But that was totally not that.

Mr. Smug was all worked up in a self-righteous lather and he was spoiling for a logic-based fight about fiscal responsibility and the "obesity epidemic." All I wanted was to enjoy my day trip without listening to someone endlessly hate-wank about my right to live. And his complete lack of remorse was so disarming that, for the life of me, I couldn't think of a single damned thing to say in my defense.

I tried — bless me, I did — but 20 years of activism, education, and insight just evaporated in the face of his pompous entitlement. I flailed blindly. I maybe got in a good one-liner or two — but when he asked me if I had Type I or Type II diabetes (not having diabetes at all was apparently not an option) and then proclaimed "Yet!" when I said I had neither, I utterly lost my cool. I reverted to my elementary school bully-defense tactics, called him a "Fuck" and told him to shut up.

"I don't think I will!" he sassed, and then continued to rant at the back of my head as I faced forward and sat down.

My friend across the aisle interceded and, based solely on a grudging white male mutual respect, Mr. Smug conceded the point that perception is subjective and even if he himself was OBVIOUSLY not being hateful, I (the witless fatty) may be perceiving his speech as such and thus he might consider toning it down a bit. After a few minutes more of indignant snorting and exclamations of "illogical!," the man and his wife changed topics.

I retreated into my iPhone, my hands shaking, my stomach sick with the conflict, doing my damnedest not to give him the satisfaction of tears. My partner helplessly patted my leg, my friend tried to calm me with cute dog videos, but I was gone — turned inward and busied with the work that those of us who face this kind of discrimination every day are far too familiar with — the work of not believing that we are intrinsically worthless.

And when the tears inevitably came, despite my best efforts, I was absolutely furious. Furious that I failed to defend myself, furious that some random man on a train was able to reduce me to tears, and furious that I couldn't find any compassion for myself about either.

It's been three days now since that blue-sweatered bully got off the train and I've been thinking about that interaction almost nonstop. As a 5'8", 350-pound woman with blue-streaked hair, and, as I'm told, a "big personality," I don't move through the world quietly. As such, I've gotten used to comments, stares, and even the occasional bit of physical violence. These days, it takes quite a bit to get me truly riled up in a way I can’t move past in a matter of minutes.

At this point, the hilarity factor declines sharply, as the essay devolves into a smattering of SJW buzzwords. I've therefore omitted it because it draws the focus away from our hero, the man in the blue sweater who withstood a charging hippo and a reduced her to tears.