The Fat Tax by Emily Richman
“This World Doesn't Fit Us”, Naranjita 2022 | @naranjita.art
The Fat Tax Isn’t Just Monetary.
It is well established that fat people spend more money on many necessities like clothing, furniture, and public transport. This isn’t the only place where we spend more than our thinner counterparts. This tax also comes in the form of time and energy spent on securing accommodation that will make it possible to enjoy social, and sometimes private, activities. Much to my frustration and disappointment this doesn't improve when you're a well-known participant in these social activities.
For the better portion of the last decade, I have been an active participant across several theater companies in the local art scene as both an actor and a director. This means that I am frequently utilizing seating in either a rehearsal space or theater seating to view productions or work on them. A few weeks ago, I went to see a play at a local theater to support an actor friend who was returning to the stage after a long hiatus. A couple of years ago this theater had replaced their seating with beautiful new teal luxurious seats with cup holder armrests. I had been to that theater two months prior and discovered that the armrests were fixed and are not able to go up or down. This means that no matter how I go about squeezing myself in, I am contorted in some fashion for the duration of the show. Knowing that seating would be a problem, I reached out ahead of time to see what accommodation could be made.
The best gift that therapy and fat Liberation has given me is the ability to advocate for myself in situations like these, but just because I have skills it does not mean that it is in any way easy or that anything has become more accommodating. The following is a timeline of the process of attending this performance.
I called the Theater box office, and my friend is working. I asked if I can pay for a regular seat but have an armless chair set in the back of the theater along the wall. She says that they are sold out for that show, but she will reserve one of the ADA seats in the second to last row and they will place an armless chair there for me. When I arrived, I paid for my ticket, and she told me that the rolling office chair that she is using in the box office is a wider chair and I'm welcome to use it if I would like rather than just another less comfortable chair without arms. I'm nervous this won't work because of how big the chair is compared to the space it’s going; however, I say ok. It's still a habit sometimes to go with the flow in order not to take up too much space so to speak. An usher enthusiastically takes the chair and sets it and I wait off to the side for everyone else in the row to settle in because the chair takes up enough space that I would have to get up every time someone would need to get past me.
Because the house of the theater is on a slope the first time somebody walks past the chair to get to their seat it rolls forward and blocks the entire row. After this has happened two or three times I just remove the chair and stand off to the side holding it until everyone gets in their seats. Eventually my friend from the box office sees that it won't work where it was set, and we move a few mobility aids so that I can sit in the back right corner in the rolling desk chair. This means that every single person that walks up or down the house's right aisle sees me sitting there and assumes that I work at the theater because of where I'm at and while I have directed there, I don’t know any of their policies or where things are except the bathroom. This isn't that big of a deal because the show is starting momentarily and as soon as the lights go down we are all the same in the dark, which is one of the beautiful aspects of live theater.
We are on page 18 of the script and my friend comes on stage. I'm filled with joy and excitement at seeing him perform but this is short lived. One page later the following exchange happens:
Sloggett: It was Georgia Dean's Aunt Manona's trailer, big gal, big heart.
Georgia Dean: You betcha. 520 lbs of goodness. After she passed, the paramedics renamed the hydraulic winch they used to lift her out of here – The Mighty Manona. I just tear up every time I think about that.
Patsy: I have died and gone to hell. (Plops in the middle of the sofa which is so broken down she sinks all the way to the floor, her knees level with her head.) I'm guessing this was Manona's favorite spot.
And there it is. A reference to a deceased fat character that wore a hole in a couch all the way to the floor and needed a crane to remove them when they died. The audience erupts in raucous laughter. At this moment it occurs to me that there are people in this audience that I have worked with before and some that I will work with in the future, and I'm overcome with weariness and a tinge of sadness. Not only will my fat body continue to be a trope for comedy but, it will always be a fight to feel like I belong even in spaces where I am well known and sought after. My talent will always be welcome. My body? Well, that’s going to cost me.
Emily Richman is a Washington-based counsellor, theatre artist, and occasional writer, whose productions include Exit, Pursued by a Bear, The Neverending Story, The Merry Wives of Windsor, Jesus Christ Superstar, and The Sleeper. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in Theatre Arts from Eastern Washington University and a Masters of Science in Clinical Mental Health Counselling. She is an anti-diet fat liberationist and works with clients to heal trauma, set boundaries, and find an authentic way of living within systems of oppression. In her theatre work Emily seeks to disrupt previously existing theatrical structures such as racism, ableism, and heteronormativity by casting actors not by type but rather by their ability to do the human-centred, emotional labour necessary to bring the wholeness of the character to the stage.
