Wednesday, February 6, 2019 // The Statement
8B
How a relationship
(and a break-
up) taught me to
accept my body
“Comparison robs you of joy.” It is an
old adage that I shouldn’t have forgotten
when I walked away from myself for a
boy.
As funny and charming as I eventually
found my first boyfriend, I wasn’t all that
interested in him when we met over din-
ner with other interns. The music was
too loud to hear even those across the
table from me, and I was at the very end,
only able to speak to a guy whose name
I couldn’t quite remember or pronounce.
As a nervous talker, I had a compul-
sion to try anyways. I don’t remember
much about that first conversation, but I
do know that at one point, I commented
on his fast metabolism. He was almost
impossibly skinny, weighing 127 pounds
even at a height of 5-foot-9-inches. I
envied that he could eat anything and
still stay thin because my metabolism
was completely the opposite: slow and
seemingly incompatible with being slen-
der.
For most of my life, I’ve struggled with
my weight. After the tender age of three,
my BMI often left me solidly in the over-
weight range. I wasn’t the only fat one
in the family, but I was the only fat girl
and the only one in my generation to
remain fat. Though I heard from others
that Asians were supposedly so lucky to
be so skinny, I knew that did not apply to
me. I felt un-Chinese, and ironically, my
shame was only compounded because I
had a Chinese family.
Chinese families can be very direct
to children about their flaws, and my
family was no different. My father com-
plained about the tightness of the shirt
I was wearing to church — not because
it would attract unwanted attention to
me, but because it would draw notice to
my belly. The most mortifying of these
memories took place on one Thanksgiv-
ing, when my entire extended family
was gathered in my grandparents’ liv-
ing room. My grandmother brought out
a scale and had me stand on it in front
of my aunt. She read the results out loud
and commented on how much weight I’d
gained —in the same room as the whole
family.
My father once referred to my figure
as manly. I’m stocky, made to be wider
than I’d ever like to be, and it used to
make me uncomfortable. Through mid-
dle school and even into the beginning
of high school, hearing others use female
pronouns to describe me made me feel
anxious and strange. I didn’t feel femi-
nine, especially as one of the fattest in
my grade and far from the thin bodies of
K-pop idols. I didn’t expect to ever look
like them, but I hoped to at least have a
shot at being pretty like other Asian girls.
With a mindset like this, being with
my boyfriend was both comforting and
horrifying. Though I was often at the
apartment he shared with a roommate
and ate the same food that they did, I
assumed that perhaps he was somehow
working off the unhealthy portions after
I had gone home. When I moved in with
them for a month, I realized that this was
patently untrue. When his roommate —
an incredible, somewhat health-oriented
chef — wasn’t cooking, my boyfriend ate
like a typical college student, with plenty
of delivery pizza and always a carton of
ice cream in the freezer. I tried to keep
up with him, perhaps out of a misguided
notion that this would somehow allow us
to spend more time together, but I even-
tually and ruefully came to terms with
the fact that I could never eat like he did.
When we broke up, I lost my confi-
dence. It made me feel like I had never
been good enough for him. There were
many things he could do that I couldn’t:
He spoke more languages, programmed
in more languages, and was so smart that
he easily got A+s, even with his trade-
mark laziness. But those didn’t really
bother me all that much. I could easily
resolve them all with hard work, and
that’s something that I’m glad I took the
time to work on. What wouldn’t leave my
mind was that perhaps he hadn’t wanted
to continue our long-distance relation-
ship because I wasn’t enough of what he
wanted. I thought, “If only I were thin-
ner, perhaps he would have been willing
to persist.” Maybe he had grown embar-
rassed of being with me.
As time passed and our communica-
tion dwindled (for the record, I made
every attempt to begin a friendship, but
he chose to ghost me), I grew. After I
began to counter my feelings with logic,
I developed a stronger sense of self. From
my various weight loss attempts, I know
that looking how I want will take a while,
but for the first time, I’m happy with
who I am right now. When I look at the
mirror, I see someone who is imperfect,
but beautiful, capable and loved. And
despite all that this relationship has put
me through, I’m truthful when I quote
Ariana Grande and say, “I’m so grateful
Confessions of a
of a middle school
romantic
As long as I can remember, and per-
haps even before, I have been a hopeless
romantic. I had my first crush on a girl
when I was three; when I was eight, I
still had a crush on her and reflected this
by giving her a pair of earrings that my
mom helped me make. Her family moved
away a year later and I was crushed.
By middle school my romanticism had
reached its peak cringe, a borderline emo
phase on which I look back and try to
laugh. In fifth grade, when I was ten, I
started having a crush on a new girl, and
being who I am, I wanted to let her know
in a romantic way. I wrote her a long
poem and on Valentine’s Day in the year
two-thousand and nine, ten years ago, I
snuck the poem into her locker at recess.
I don’t remember what the poem I wrote
said, but I do remember the rejection
poem she put in my locker later that day.
It read:
Roses are red
Violets are Blue
I’m too young
And so are you
P.S. another time
I think my poem was better. To add to
my humiliation, I came across her teach-
er in the hallway the following day, who
congratulated me on writing such a good
poem.
Despite this rough start to poetry, I
continued using it as an emotional outlet
through middle school, and my poems
were exceptionally bad and cringingly
melodramatic. In honor of Valentine’s
Day and for your entertainment, I have
included an annotated selection of some
of my middle school poems that related
to romance. I hope you will enjoy.
Glow
A golden glow
Flows through my body
Warms my heart
And opens my mind
I don’t remember who I wrote this
about, but it definitely reflects much
more positive emotion and probably is
peak Danyel.
Rumor
A terrible infection
That spreads like wildfire
A secret, divulged
A trust, violated
A malignant rumor
Destroying me inside
I’m pretty sure I wrote this poem after
one of my ‘friends’ told everyone who I
had a crush on.
Desire
My heart’s desire
Lies in the arms
Of another man
And accounts me every detail
Little does she know
She is eating away
At my soul
At this time, I had a crush on one of my
best friends, who was ‘dating’ (whatever
that means in middle school) another
one of our friends; evidently I was not
super happy about this.
These are just three of the worst (or
best entertainment value) from several
small notebooks’ worth that I wrote
between 5th-8th grade. To pick these
out, I went through all of them, and was
cringing at my past self the entire time.
Though they make good stories to laugh
at, as we reflect on the past this Valen-
tine’s Day, I am definitely glad not to be
in middle school anymore.
To my 4c curls
Dear hair,
Thank you for sticking with me through-
out all the years.
From the hair frying days of high school
to the box braids that were worn way too
long.
This is a love letter to you.
I know we’ve had our rough patches, but
I just didn’t understand your beauty, your
uniqueness and your power.
The way your 4c curls make you stand
apart from any other head of limp strands.
The way you absorb coconut oil and
cantu to make raw power.
The way you continue to grow and shine
no matter how much relaxer or chemicals
you get hit with.
Your flexibility and ability to change at
the drop of the hat. If I wanna try braids,
you say let’s do it. If I want to wear crochet
you say girl I’m ready and you make those
work.
I didn’t appreciate it before but I do now.
I used to think I was treating you well,
by using the hair products I found in my
house, using the treatments my mom taught
me. But then I discovered what sulfates and
parabens are, and that products for white
hair are significantly different than prod-
ucts for Black hair. And that just because
something cleans your hair, it doesn’t mean
the product is good for your hair.
Now I treat you the way you deserve and
you show your appreciation through beau-
tifully coiling and growing, the way you
know how.
I’ve spent too much time not appreciat-
ing you, but I love you hair.
So thank you for sticking through it, and
always being there.
Love,
Efe
BY ELIZABETH HO
MiC COLUMNIST
BY DANYEL THARAKAN
SENIOR MiC EDITOR
BY EFE OSAGIE
SENIOR MiC EDITOR