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I learned my life was about to change with a tweet.
On February 5, I saw that New York had updated its eligibility guidelines for the COVID-19 vaccine. One of the newly acceptable comorbidities was obesity; anyone with a BMI over 30 could get vaccinated after February 15.
That included me. A rush of thoughts invaded my head: How would they check? Would I be ritually weighed at whatever mass vaccination site I went to? Would I have to risk going to the doctor in person for a note? And, most seriously, what were the ethics of me receiving a vaccine while millions of others waited?
As I pored over tweets, press announcements, and frantic Facebook group posts, I waited for that familiar shame — the kind that begins the first time someone pokes at your stomach, or comments on just how many rolls you had at dinner — to come back.
Then, a miracle: No shame. Just pure adrenaline. I could get a vaccine. I might be able to hug my grandparents for their birthdays.
In a strange twist of fate, a measure based on the fatphobic BMI — and on the heels of fatphobic messaging throughout the pandemic — brought me nothing but joy.
There's a misconception that fatness is grounded in excess. It's characterized by a surplus of flesh, of weight, of fabric. But to me, fatness has always been about sacrifice.
I was 9 or 10 years old the first time I heard the term "BMI." That year, my body began to change, morphing into a more adolescent — and, yes, fat — shape.
I was visiting my pediatrician for an annual checkup. My doctor asked me what my favorite drink was; I said orange juice. She told me that was the first thing I had to give up. My BMI was high, and my beloved orange juice was to blame. She laid out a list of everything I enjoyed, and told me they all had to go. That night, I went to bed wishing I could wake up skinny.
I quickly learned that to be fat was to sacrifice the idea of a love life. Who wants to be with someone fat, much less bestow a first kiss on them? I sacrificed shopping trips to Brandy Melville with skinny friends who picked from the "one size fits most clothes," knowing that I wasn't "most."
Soon, a new nagging feeling took up residence inside of my head, telling me that everyone — despite my best efforts at being funny or smart — was only seeing one thing, and it was all they talked about when I wasn't there.
When I turned 18, two big things happened: I got a new doctor, and I began to realize I was queer.
At my first doctor's visit, I braced myself for the inevitable talk about how, while there was nothing necessarily wrong with my health, anyone could see what could be fixed. Instead, my doctor asked if I wanted to look at the scale as she weighed me. I didn't need to see the number, and I didn't need to hear it if I didn't want to. I did not want to.
I have not known my weight since. I have some guesses. Broadly, it's more than my cats but less than my apartment building.
The queerness came in after I finally did the impossible: I had a boy interested in me. We kissed at a party, and kissed some more, and finally I was living the dream I had been chasing for years. We set up the perfect dates.
I hated all of it.
I had been so caught up in trying to frame my desirability with empire waists and makeup that I hadn't thought about what I actually wanted. That changed when I headed off to a historically women's college.
I went on a few perfunctory dates with boys, and I even went to a frat party during orientation. But one night, while studying with a group of friends, one of them pulled up the classic Kinsey test. It confirmed something I had been thinking about for a while.
I started venturing out to gay bars. I began experimenting with telling my friends, and then, finally, I got into my first actual queer relationship. It was laughable to think about how that felt compared to those guarded, straight dates.
Of course, it would be naive to say the queer community doesn't have its own fatphobia, but for the most part, the people I started to date and hook up with did not see my body as a hindrance. If anything, my normie fashion sense of leggings and fit and flare dresses was a hindrance. I began to wear more crop tops and tight, high-waisted pants that hugged my stomach.
Early in the pandemic, I had what was likely a case of COVID-19. It was diagnosed after the fact by my "COVID toes," something I wish upon no one. I felt incredibly relieved and privileged that I had been almost entirely asymptomatic. I also felt the oddly mixed blessing of being able to navigate telemedicine from the shoulders up, with no stomach visible or scale to stand on.
I'm not naive. Fat people have been blamed for centuries for their own existence, and now could be blamed for taking away vaccine supply for some other, more deserving body. I wondered whether well-meaning thin people would politely ask how I got vaccinated, and then head off to their group chats full of skinny people and talk about how people shouldn't be rewarded for making themselves large.
But then I talked to my fat friends. Several of them were hesitant to sign up for slots immediately. A lifetime of internalized fatphobia can trick you into thinking your fatness is a moral issue, one that you must always stoically contend with. The idea of fatphobia working in your favor might feel like a hurdle, or the arbiter of whether or not you're a good fat person.
When you're fat, you may sacrifice your access to fair healthcare, jobs, and the ability to walk down the street without harassment. In some cases, you sacrifice your life. In the face of medical fatphobia, opting in to that vaccine could be a life or death scenario. Choosing life is nothing to feel guilty about.
I helped my friends book their appointments. I reached out to others who I thought might not know. I read Emma Specter's great piece in Vogue, and began to shout from the rooftops that I was getting vaccinated because I was fat.
I recently called my mom to talk about the curious issue of fatness and vaccines. (She also got her vaccine because of BMI.)
She told me that, when you're fat, being pregnant is the best thing in the world. Finally, there's a reason for your stomach hanging out. You are offered seats, and food, and respect. Thin people hate it, she told me, because they feel fat. But when you're fat, you finally fit in in a palatable way. People see you as useful, not as someone who has chosen to inflict something upon themselves.
My mental framework for getting vaccinated has been much the same. My body is doing something useful, too; it's helping us get one step closer to herd immunity, and protecting me against infection. I am choosing to see it as a gift.
On February 28, I got the Pfizer-BioNTech vaccine at the Javits Center in New York City. I told them I was there because I'm fat; they nervously laughed and said that it's for BMI-related reasons. Sure, I thought. Whatever helps.
I hope that someday fat people can be guaranteed safe healthcare, and an equal standard of living to our thin counterparts. But for now, I'm happy with my fatccine as a start.
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