Why I Am Glad I Grew Up A Fat Asian Kid

The bullied becomes the bully

“You know what, Christina? If you were an animal…” Emily, with her long face and gaunt eyes, sneered, “You’d be a pig.”

The other popular kids snickered as I tried to hide my burning face with a light-hearted smile. I glanced over at Mr. Polites, oblivious in the far corner of our cluttered fifth-grade classroom. Guess I’ll have to take care of this one myself.

“You know, because of your nose and, uh, cheeks,” she squirmed. Did I sense a bit of hesitation? Potentially regret? Weakness is not an option, my dear Emily.

“Well, Emily, if you were an animal,” I said, chest puffed out, “you’d be a giraffe.”

Her eyes shot down to the floor, and my heart squeezed a little.

“Because you’re tall,” I added. Emily towered over us, and she was the new kid. I had the upper hand.

A cascading “Oooh” ripped through my peers, and I suddenly morphed into a gorilla with my fists banging on my chest. Emily tucked her giraffe neck into her shoulders and ran away with her tail between her legs.

In the jungle, Highlands Elementary School, there was no survival guide. Docile meant weak in the upper-middle-class suburbs of Chicago. Survival of the fittest meant being Ivy League-ready by the age of 6, with the looks of a supermodel, the IQ of Einstein, and the social prowess of a CEO.

We were divided: predators and prey. The Abercrombie kids were the beautiful, white, and rich pack leaders. They traveled in packs, ate square-cut ham and cheese sandwiches, and for some reason, were always playing soccer. Prey? The rest of us: the gay kids who swore they weren’t gay, the POC kids who weren’t deemed good-looking, the troublemakers banished to the Wall during recess. Then there was me. I was dead meat. Even the other Asian kids didn’t want me in their tribe.

I had to survive by standing out.

Scouring Forever21 for hours with my mom, I concocted a unique set of armor: black faux leather boots, high-waisted ripped jeans, a lacy cream camisole, and a cropped indigo Mickey Mouse top. Layering hid my rolls, and leather hid my fear. I didn’t dress like the other girls with their matching Juicy yoga pants, branded t-shirts, and fuzzy Ugg boots.

I’ll never forget the day Irene Pavlidis, one of the pretty popular girls, complimented me.

“Wow, Christina. You have the best sense of style,” she remarked.

Was I ever going to be invited to Irene’s birthday party? No, but I had her respect.

Boisterous and funny, I made a name for myself as the class clown. I’d do anything for a laugh, even if it meant putting down other prey. I started a competition where I would write two names on a sheet of paper, and my classmates voted on who would win in a fight. Note, that I never put myself on the list. No matter who lost, I won. My peers loved it when I pitted an Abercrombie kid against a Wall kid. Although they were both powerful, popularity weighed heavier than fear. Eventually, this would get me sent to the principal’s office where I explained clearly that it wasn’t my fault if one person was voted over another. I was just the referee.

Then Bobby Martin’s parents called me in. Bobby was small, on the outskirts of popularity. I learned I could make other kids laugh if I told them that the “GAP” sweatshirt he always wore stood for “Gay And Proud.”

I denied any bullying, but I’ll never forget the look of embarrassment on Bobby’s face. I never wanted to make someone feel that way again.

If my way into the in-crowd was by pushing other people out, it wasn’t worth it. A newfound empathy arose from my days of teasing, and Kennedy Junior High is when I leveled up and rose to the top of the misfit pack—choir kids, fanfiction nerds, Hot Topic lovers. We didn’t have power in the jungle but found community in the caves. At school, I was beloved by my friends. At home, I was outlining my body in Sharpie where I wished I could use scissors to cut off my permanent fat suit.

Now 26, I’ve traded boots for Crocs. No longer in Chicago, I live on a hippie island in Thailand. But I still feel like the “Fat Asian Kid,” surrounded by beautiful, white, and not-so-rich yoga teachers and life coaches. Abercrombie now looks more like Free People, but the fat suit still exists in my mind.

Last month, I went to a clothing swap with my Chilean mystic friend, Feña. Her body reminds me of an oak tree—sturdy, sultry, and slightly slanted in all the right places. In the middle of a literal jungle, women of all shapes and sizes tried on different donated clothes to see what they’d like to take home. A champion of trying on outfits, everything I seemed to pick—from bodysuits to dresses—fit me perfectly, and my delightful Ukrainian-Israeli friend Yulia exclaimed, “Wow! You are so lucky. Everything suits you!”

I beamed from the inside out and felt my inner “Fat Asian Kid” squeal.

In the corner of my eye, I watched as Feña struggled to find items that suited her.

She slipped on a low-rise skirt that featured her gorgeous tan rounded abdomen, her belly button on full display.

I immediately ran over to her and said, “Feña, your belly is so beautiful. You really should show it off more.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Really? No one has ever told me that.”

“I’m dead serious. It’s perfect.”

Weeks later, Feña sent me a voice memo. “Every time I look in the mirror, I hear your voice saying my belly is beautiful. I’ve always wanted to change it, but now I think, if you can see that, maybe I can too.”

I never imagined she would be insecure about something so clearly beautiful to me. And then it hit me—maybe she has her own invisible fat suit too.

I’m glad I grew up a “Fat Asian Kid” because my invisible fat suit has become my suit of armor. Embracing the parts of myself that once made me feel unworthy is now the source of my empathy and strength. Learning how to manipulate people when I was young gave me a killer advantage, but it’s intention that transforms a villain into a hero. Confidence turns weird into special. I carried my eclectic sense of style with me into adulthood, and I used my understanding of people to carry outsiders into my inner circle. Now, I connect with people who don’t belong because I know the weight of not being seen. And that’s why I do whatever I can to help others shed their layers and see their own beauty.

Day 17 of 90

Growing up a Fat Asian Kid is not easy.

But, we all have childhood scars.

It is the markings that burn us that help us shine brightest.

I am glad I grew up a Fat Asian Kid simply because...

that's the way I grew up.

I wouldn't be me without her.

Word count: 51

Writing prompt: Write about a childhood scar.