“Is my well being worth less than your coffee?” by laura rahman
collage by Mireia Sanz | @mirelloartz
As a newbie to the world of fat politics, I recently came back from my very first fat-activist-led festival and started connecting the dots between seemingly isolated – but, in fact, intrinsically linked – fatphobic incidents in my life. I was marvelling at the work that had existed for so long and enjoying that fuzzy feeling you get in your stomach when you have been in a safe environment for several days, when I received a message from a friend of mine. She wanted to meet up, as we do every few months. As I had been struggling with my mental health and the social isolation that usually comes with depression and burnout, I was particularly eager for the company of a fellow feminist.
“Hi Laura, want to meet up next week in the town centre? Would love to catch up!”
“Hi there, that would be lovely! When’s a good time for you? I’m still off sick so I can do whenever.”
“Okay, so how about Wednesday 3PM? We could go for a coffee. Same place as last time?”
I started typing “sure” in response but paused. Some vague memory resurfaced of me trying and failing to find a comfortable position on a tiny metal square with sharp edges that dug into my flesh, which was bulging from each side of the seat, while trying to not wriggle too much as I was afraid the spindly little legs might snap. And I remembered that our last coffee chat ended with painful red marks and a bruise or two on my thighs.
DELETE.
“Perfect, but could we maybe go to Lucifer Lives instead? They have large armchairs and stuff, so you know, it’s more comfortable for fat bodies”
“Yeah, but is the coffee as good?”
Whenever I reread this conversation, I think, why didn’t I just tell her to fuck off? I am telling you that the place you insist on going to for coffee (when you know perfectly well I don’t even like the stuff) is not suited to my needs, and your first worry is whether you can have your latte which you can have any damn day anyways seeing as you live near the wretched place? Is my well-being worth so little to you that I should come back from our conversations in physical pain just to ensure you can have your perfect cup of coffee? Isn’t this just one simple, low-key but oh-so-clear example of how some people will cling to their privileges even when we point out that we may have different needs?
Of course, I didn’t tell her to fuck off. Because hindsight always appears after everything is said and done. I do remember suppressing my frustration though, while writing:
“Do you know this coffee brand? They’re local and supposed to be really good. Lucifer Lives uses their coffee. Here is their website…“
“Ok, sounds good. See you then!”
My friend, who would probably correspond to what the fashion industry calls “petite”, is generally somebody who cares about marginalised groups and has worked towards defending their rights. She simply lacks awareness on the topic of fatphobia. So I’d like to be able to tell you that I had the opportunity to educate her a little. But I didn’t, because she cancelled on me. I don’t know yet if I will have the energy to explain to her that she had been inconsiderate next time we actually make it to our meet-up. We shall see.
Words by Laura Rahman | IG @lau_rah_m
Laura is a newbie to fat politics. She uses writing as a means to externalise her frustration with the ableist, hetero-cis-patriarchial and capitalist world we live in, and turn her anger into a contribution to the resistance.
