this side of things.

there was a time when i would go to any length to keep my chest from sticking out farther than my stomach. i bought compression shirts, ace bandages, waist trimmers. i wore layer upon layer. i learned to slouch. with all of those things combined with my insatiable sweet tooth, i managed to hide my chest behind my clothing, and mask it with a soft belly.

but i didn’t really care. when people said things like, “oh, i can’t eat that, it’ll go straight to my hips,” i scoffed and rolled my eyes. i considered myself a fat ally, and stuck up for people who made anti-fat comments. i hated the diet industry and all of the ridiculous products it peddled on the basis that making people hate themselves could be profitable. i read articles about dieting second graders, and small children being sent to “fat camp,” and i was disgusted at the cruelty of others.

but i guess it was easy for me, because as a butch dyke, i never felt like any of those rules applied to me. when you have unfortunate kitchen haircuts, hairy legs, and your major fashion accessories are black leather and spiked, it’s hard to feel any kinship with the women in vogue, let alone any sympathy for their struggle to lose two pounds.

when i started identifying as trans, i liked my belly. it made me feel more masculine, especially when compared to the skinny women around me. it marked me as different.

but then i started taking testosterone, and it shifted my body fat all around…namely, to my stomach. but it wasn’t so bad, because it helped me hide my chest. then the day finally came when i had chest surgery, and suddenly realized that i had become my dad: mostly skinny, but with a fat stomach. although i was in love with my new chest, i still couldn’t shake this feeling of self-consciousness at taking my shirt off in public. i figured it was just leftover from the days before surgery.

in the days leading up to surgery, i made lists of things i had always wanted to do, but had been prevented from doing by my chest. swimming, yoga, working out. i began reading men’s health magazine, once i finally had a body that fit into their readership. i read articles about fitness, thumbing through pages of muscular, smooth-chested guys demonstrating the right way to lift weights and do calisthenics. and somehow through it all, i started to notice that the cover of almost every men’s magazine promised that the secret to flat abs was inside its pages. these messages seeped into my brain. “you’re gross.” “you’re out of shape.” “you’re fat.”

this was a shock. men had a body ideal to live up to? men, in all their patriarchal glory? bodily insecurity wasn’t just meant for straight women and transsexuals? men were self-conscious about their back hair, their round bellies, the length and usefulness of their cocks?

mind-blowing, i tell you.

but what really hit me was that i had become vulnerable to those messages. as a punk rock dyke, ex-riot grrl, i thought i was immune. after all, hadn’t i read piles of zines about fighting against mainstream body ideals? hadn’t i had millions of conversations about how damaging those ideals could be? wasn’t i above all of that? and yet, there i was, staring disgustedly into the mirror at myself. there i was, half-assedly counting calories and trying unsuccessfully to lose some weight. i had become exactly what i always scoffed at….another boring american obsessed with looking good.

somehow, i had become vulnerable to the same messages.