cheryl
Administrator
Staff member
My Discomfort With Comfort Food - Eater
Chinese food always connected me to my cultural identity. It also continually reminded me of all the ways I didn’t measure up.
“长胖了!” my uncle proclaims when he sees me. You got chubbier! We’re at another extended family reunion in my parents’ hometown in China, about to be seated at a large table for a multicourse banquet dinner that is going to last no less than three hours. I’m 12 or 13, old enough to wince at the word “胖” (fat, chubby). I’m old enough to know what’s being said underneath — and for it to hurt. My mom nudges me to smile, and later whispers in my ear, “Don’t be so sensitive. It’s a term of endearment. That’s just how they greet you when they haven’t seen you in a long time.”
But she’s not the one who gets “fat” hurled at her by middle school mean girls every single day. I was born in America, but at my international school in Beijing, where I’d mostly grow up, expat bullies prove unoriginal in their torture: The prevailing notion is that there’s no such thing as a fat Asian, so being one is an anomaly that leads to taunts and insults. My mom doesn’t know that I avoid shopping because everyone in China seems to be a size 00 and here, unlike in the States, nothing seems to fit. She doesn’t realize how much it hurts every time she tsks at me when I inevitably have to try on clothes, shaking her head as though my body is a disappointment.
Chinese food always connected me to my cultural identity. It also continually reminded me of all the ways I didn’t measure up.
“长胖了!” my uncle proclaims when he sees me. You got chubbier! We’re at another extended family reunion in my parents’ hometown in China, about to be seated at a large table for a multicourse banquet dinner that is going to last no less than three hours. I’m 12 or 13, old enough to wince at the word “胖” (fat, chubby). I’m old enough to know what’s being said underneath — and for it to hurt. My mom nudges me to smile, and later whispers in my ear, “Don’t be so sensitive. It’s a term of endearment. That’s just how they greet you when they haven’t seen you in a long time.”
But she’s not the one who gets “fat” hurled at her by middle school mean girls every single day. I was born in America, but at my international school in Beijing, where I’d mostly grow up, expat bullies prove unoriginal in their torture: The prevailing notion is that there’s no such thing as a fat Asian, so being one is an anomaly that leads to taunts and insults. My mom doesn’t know that I avoid shopping because everyone in China seems to be a size 00 and here, unlike in the States, nothing seems to fit. She doesn’t realize how much it hurts every time she tsks at me when I inevitably have to try on clothes, shaking her head as though my body is a disappointment.