Elephant, Hippo, and Other Nicknames I Love
“Here comes Jes the Hippo!” someone sang loudly as I pulled open Mrs. Olsen’s classroom door and entered. This trilling announcement of my arrival was loud enough to cause my entire fifth-grade class to turn toward me as I slid into my wooden desk seat.
I looked around for the owner of the singsong voice; my eyes eventually landed on a small girl grinning victoriously in my direction. Her name was Danielle, and if my life were to be told in comic-book form, she would undoubtedly make an appearance as my very first archnemesis.
I was a chubby, blond, prepubescent student; never part of the “cool crowd” thanks to (1) my uncontrollable desire to raise my hand and answer the question before anyone else in addition to (2) wearing the same orange socks purchased for me by my mom every week—I was completely unaware that, even for a youngster in the nineties, orange socks were apparently an unforgivable fashion choice. The semiaquatic mammalian nickname that stuck to me like glue for the rest of the year was simply the icing on my personal “Forever a Playground Loser” cake.
If I’m being completely honest, in the beginning I was fairly confident that this nickname was a compliment. While only having a short decade of life under my belt, I was nonetheless well aware that hippos—while seemingly whimsical—were not creatures to be messed with. I had watched enough National Geographic videos to know that hippos were capable of opening their jaws a full 150 degrees (Fun Fact: Their jaws can stretch to 4–5 feet wide) and could effortlessly crush a human skull. Even other key-stone predators that surrounded them—like the formidably ruthless lion (who, by comparison, is only able to stretch its jaws to a paltry 11 inches)—were afraid of them. As far as I was concerned, hippos were to be revered and respected . . . or at least that’s what I thought until I heard other students whispering about our classmate Helen “the Elephant” as well. The scathing tone used to describe her resemblance to this other (in my opinion) magnificent creature was my first red flag that being compared to an enormous mammal wasn’t something I was meant to feel flattered by.
It took me mere days to realize that Helen and I were not being compared to animals because of our impressive capacity for memory or monumental jaw strength. Quite the opposite. Neither Helen nor I had thin frames, and while this wasn’t a secret to anyone (including ourselves), our classmates quickly defaulted to addressing us as hippos and elephants as a way to reinforce the idea that we took up too much space. Our first names were publicly and permanently substituted with the names of voluminous creatures because of the size of our bodies—an intentionally cruel indication that we were nothing more than monstrous creatures. We were surreptitiously deemed grotesque miscreants by our classmates simply because of our weight.
The relationship I’ve had with my body over the years is complicated and full of nuanced details that would take hundreds of pages to thoroughly explain, but if I were to summarize the most prominent theme that has dictated how I feel about my physical self, it would be this: I hated my body since the moment I was capable of understanding what the word fat meant in our society. The realization that fat was one of the worst things that you could be happened long before I found myself with a designated nickname in fifth grade. Simply put: I have spent the vast majority of my life living in a mental state of extraordinary self-loathing, and it has impacted how I’ve participated in the world in almost every way.
It was also around middle school that I began my decade-long habit of chronic dieting, dedicating my entire life to shrinking my body—everything else that I did became secondary in importance. Every waking moment revolved around trying to lose weight, even before my body had a chance to fully develop. I tried it all, from starvation to SlimFast to dangerous phentermine pills that were eventually pulled from the market for causing heart valve damage. I would binge and then promptly throw it all up in the bathroom. I lived off rice cakes for weeks at a time and even tried a program that guaranteed weight loss through replacing your need for food with a love for Jesus. This dangerous and disordered eating continued well into my twenties, as I attempted one “surefire” diet after another. I physically and mentally harmed my body over and over, never trusting its need for nutrition or my brain’s need for balance and self-compassion.
Convinced that obsessive dieting wasn’t enough (in addition to the fact that dieting doesn’t and didn’t work), I tried to compensate for my perceived failure by being the best in every other area of my life. I did whatever it took to ensure I had the highest grades, tried to be the best at every sport my parents enrolled me in (there were dozens), and overextended myself in every area of life to the point of having nervous breakdowns . . . simply because I felt “just being myself” wasn’t good enough. I was certain that I was deeply flawed because my body never looked like the “ideal bodies” that I idolized in every magazine I read. I spent my life constantly feeling sorry for my close friends, often pitying them for being forced to endure the company of my body just so they could hang out with the rest of me. I internalized every lie that told me I was undeserving of happiness and dated people who reinforced my negative self-views, eventually finding a long-term partner who left me because I had gained weight over the years we had been together. It was only after this final, soul-crushing relationship that I found a way to halt my self-harm: I experienced the radical revelation that there might be another way to live.
This life-altering revelation came in the surprising form of a simple blog.
In my midtwenties I found The Nearsighted Owl, a lifestyle website written by Rachele, a woman who rocked fabulous cat-eye glasses. I instantly identified with her love of vintage thrifting, owls, delicious recipes, cats, and purple beehives—but there was one glaring difference between her and me. Rachele and I were both fat—that was something we did have in common. But unlike me, Rachele was fat, confident, and happy. This unequivocal distinction left me speechless.
This was the first time in my life that I had ever witnessed a woman who lived in a fat body and also lived a life chock-full of joy, love, and empowerment. It was her unapologetic writing and lifestyle that spurred the revolutionary thought that changed my life’s direction forever: Maybe I don’t have to hate myself for the rest of my life.
Maybe I don’t have to hate myself for the rest of my life! Maybe I can even sort of . . . like myself!?! Rachele was doing it, so perhaps I could, too.
Rachele was my introduction into the world of “Fat Acceptance,” a universe that had existed my entire life and was based around the concept that ALL bodies—no matter their shape, size, weight, age, ability, race, ethnicity, or health status—deserved rights, respect, and unadulterated freedom. Finding Rachele’s blog—finding fat acceptance—helped me see a better future. Maybe you’ve had that experience when looking at Snapchat or browsing Instagram: someone with a body like yours publicly and unabashedly living their best life. Just the simple act of witnessing their confidence has the potential to change everything. It certainly did for me.
Because of Rachele, I finally grasped a new, undeniable truth: Fat bodies were just as worthy as every other body. The truth was, I could have a life full of love and joy without needing to hate or shrink my body. The truth was, fat was neither a bad thing nor a bad word—and this truth was intoxicating.
I dove headfirst into this newfound reality, one that became even more compelling as I explored further. I followed radical Tumblr accounts, purposefully sought out photos of diverse bodies, and I read every fat acceptance book I could find. I researched the history of body image, studied the real facts around fat and health (spoiler: Everything the world thinks it knows about fatness and health is wrong), and joined a community of other people who were as invested in body acceptance as I was. I eventually started to notice something wonderful—the more I learned about body acceptance, the more my perception of the world shifted. I found myself becoming less judgmental—not just of others, but also of my own body. I was reformatting my reality. I was rewiring my belief in acceptability. I was finally teaching myself the truth.
And it was through all this that I harnessed the limitless power that can come by reclaiming the word fat.
This word, while something that I’m happy to use, still makes many others deeply uncomfortable. Their discomfort often causes them to jump to my “defense” by saying things like, “No way, Jes! You’re just chubby. Fluffy. Curvy. Plus-size. You’re insert every other socially preferred euphemism here.” To those friends I say: I know you think I’m insulting myself when I say that I’m fat, but here’s why I prefer to use the “f word” more than any other descriptor: The word fat is not inherently bad. It’s a simple adjective. It’s a neutral descriptor of the size of my body. And while others may choose to use other words to describe their large bodies (and it is certainly their right to do so), the act of personally reclaiming fat resonated with me on a cellular level.
Yes, I am compassionate, tattooed, creative, loyal, determined, short, musical, strong, energetic, and a million other things. I’m also decidedly fat.
Saying “I’m fat” is (and should be) the same as saying the ocean is wet, my favorite dress is green, dirt is gritty, and Emma Watson’s hair is brown. It’s not a good thing, it’s not a bad thing, it simply is what it is.
Here is the simple reality that took me years to learn: The only negativity that the word fat carries is the negativity that we have created around it. Our disgust when it comes to fat bodies is 1,000 percent learned. This may sound surprising, but we don’t actually need to stop using the word fat because we think it’s a negative depiction. We need to stop the hatred that we connect with the word instead.
It’s the dots we connect between the word and someone’s worth that is harmful, and THAT is the part we must change.
I now use it often because I have decided that it’s officially MY word to wield, and the more I use it positively, the more fat stigma I smash. I’ve found that calling myself fat has become an empowering way to walk through this world. When someone tries to insult me by calling me fat, I just say, “I sure am! And?”
After my introduction to the body positivity and fat acceptance movements (there are multiple facets to the body image world, and these are two of the prominent ones), I started my own body image blog: The Militant Baker, where I chronicled my own journey and dedicated myself to always being authentic and sharing the vulnerable parts of life that we often feel scared to offer the world. The Militant Baker has since been described as “raw, honest, and attitude-filled.” I’m flattered by this in every way.
I’ve since launched two internationally attended body image conferences, given nearly one hundred lectures at universities and events across the world, written two books, held healing body image photo shoots for more than two hundred people, appeared in multiple documentaries and television shows, worked with dozens of plus-size clothing companies, have been covered by more than three hundred national and international media outlets, written more than five hundred body image and mental health related articles, and posted (approximately) seventy public pictures of me in my underwear as well as a few that showcase my fat body in the nude.
I am fully aware of how privileged I am to be able to participate in this kind of work; my success is in large part because I am a cisgender, white, able-bodied woman, and the world accepts most of me with a few scant exceptions. It’s this privilege that has allowed me to have a large platform with multiple outlets. And it’s that platform that affords me the opportunity to preach about the importance of body liberation, self-advocacy, mental health, and diversity and intersectionality, as well as other hard conversations, strong coffee, and even stronger language.
I’m lucky as hell, and I know it.
Fifth grade may have been the first time I was called an animal name as an attempted insult, but it certainly wasn’t the last. As a hypervisible fat person on the Internet, I’m still called all sorts of animal names online by strangers who know nothing about me except for the fact that they vehemently dislike the body I live in. What amazes me most is that these insults haven’t improved or become more creative since I was ten years old and wore socks the color of which was nothing short of fashionably offensive to every other fifth grader.
Grown adults (sometimes twice my age) still take the time to find their way into my social media comment sections—and occasionally my inbox, if they’re extra ambitious!—so that they can leave a delightful comment about how much I resemble a whatever-animal-they-think-is-the-most-insulting-to-be-compared-to before they move on to harass the next person they’ve dedicated their life to tormenting online. Obviously, these individuals haven’t matured much beyond my dear friend Danielle, but they don’t seem to notice the embarrassment that should accompany these kinds of mundane and childish comments.
There are certainly comments that do hurt me, comments that penetrate the emotional boundaries that I have consciously and internally built, reminding me that I am more than my body . . . but animal names? Especially animal names that are easily reframed as compliments given that the animals in question are, quite frankly, incredible creatures? Those no longer harm me, in the same way that calling me fat no longer wounds me.
It was this reframing of animal-based insults that inspired the title of my second book: Landwhale. (Other versions of this include: Orca, Shamu, Free Willy, Beluga, or sometimes just a whale emoji if the commenter is feeling particularly careless.)
Once, whale was a dreaded nickname to a chubby teen who wore giant T-shirts over her swimsuit when we visited the ocean. I’ve since learned how amazing whales are and what an honor it is to be compared to one. Some cool whale facts: They can talk to each other through song and effortlessly leap out of the ocean. The blue whale is the largest animal to EVER exist. And they all basically run the ocean, which covers 71 percent of the earth. Not to mention, a narwhal (which is totally a whale but never seems to make the insult list) is literally an underwater unicorn.
Can you see how calling me a whale is ACTUALLY one of the greatest compliments? And this goes for just about every other animal name I’ve been called.
I’ve learned over the years that when these kinds of insults are hurled my way, it is a simple but desperate attempt to dehumanize me and my existence. I’m often additionally called an “it” online so that people can pile on the verbal abuse without the inconvenience of acknowledging that I’m a sentient and complex human being. It took a while to realize that these sorts of labels have nothing to do with my worth as a person, but rather everything to do with the other person’s lack of self-esteem and their internalized fatphobia, neither of which are my responsibility to take on. A happy person doesn’t try to ruin another person’s happiness. This is a fundamental truth that I keep in mind when someone hurts me; I hope that you can eventually do the same.
Fortunately, we now live in a time when millions of people are waking up to the reality that dieting, exclusive beauty standards, and body hatred is a megascam all created by industries dedicated to breaking us down, stealing our self-esteem, and then turning their theft around to sell us products to “fix” the problem that they purposefully created.
I hope you can hear me when I tell you this truism: Our bodies are the size they are, and each and every size is more than OK. I mean this genuinely. Take it from a fat girl who has spent most of her life hating her body, dieting, and depriving herself of any sort of happiness because she believed those who told her she didn’t deserve it, and now knows better.
This is not to say that every day is easy or that I don’t fall back into old patterns of self-loathing. I have “bad body days” more often than I would like. I’m purposefully sharing these hard days with the Internet as well; the last thing I want is for those who are attempting to make peace with their body feel like failures because they haven’t been able to achieve the ability to feel 100 percent positive when it comes to their own self-image.
We are all human, my friend. And we’ve spent most of our life learning lies. Those ideas aren’t going to disappear overnight. I’ve come to realize that I will likely be relearning the lessons I share with others and working toward trusting my body and its inherent value for the rest of my life. Relearning how to accept yourself is indeed a complicated recovery process, and recovery journeys are anything but linear. Recovery is also not a race, nor a destination you find quickly and never leave. The biggest difference between my past and present is the fact that I now know that I am an incredible human who deserves to live my best life, and I’m willing to put in the work it takes to get there.
It’s critical we remember that words are far more powerful than most of us realize. Regardless of our age, the words we use (or don’t use, out of fear) shape the way we think, act, and participate in the world. Knowing this in addition to learning over the years that ALL bodies are good bodies has shown me how meaningful the act of reclaiming words can be. The act of reclaiming words that have historically been associated with a negative connotation as positive or neutral descriptors (even using them cheekily is effective AF) strips them of the previous jurisdiction they held over our lives. This, consequently, also makes it impossible for others to use these words as weapons against us, which is a helluva impressive thing.
It’s time for us to take our power back. For you to take your power back. You deserve to live a life that is free from shame and filled with freedom. Believe me when I say that you can start your own internal revolution by reclaiming and reframing one word at a time.
I hope the next time someone tries to insult you with that almighty f word, you’re able to turn around, look them straight in the eye, and genuinely smile as you say, “And?”
PROVIDED BY AUTHOR
JES BAKER
is a positive, progressive, and magnificently irreverent force to be reckoned with and is internationally known for preaching the importance of body liberation, self-love, mental health, strong coffee, and even stronger language as an author and blogger. When not writing, Jes spends her time speaking around the world, working as a body image and mental health coach, collaborating with plus-size clothing companies, organizing body liberation events, taking pictures in her underwear, and attempting to convince her cats that they like to wear bow ties. You can learn more about Jes through TheMilitantBaker.com and JesBaker.com.