38. Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter 38
Leslie
T he whisper campaign began with me emailing the 17,000 people on my mostly defunct newsletter list with a call to arms. I explained what happened and invited people to show up at 4:45 a.m. on Friday to get choice spots by the Sunrise New York studio window.
I then called Dot and Tasha and asked them to spread the word in their networks to mobilize more people. They said they wouldn’t miss it and would do what they could to help. Tasha said she’d reach out to a bunch of body-positive influencers she knew on Instagram and TikTok, so they had time to quietly amplify the message. Gabby, her sorority’s rep on an intercollegiate Greek council, blasted an email to her co-chairs. That had the potential to engage college students as well. My favorite cousin would arrive later today to help prep and join us in person.
I looped in Rebecca and Viraj, who used the Dear Diary magazine private message forum to post what had happened to me and ask anyone local to show up in force to support the cause. Meanwhile, I hopped on my computer to design some flyers and signs that I had printed at Staples. I also bought supplies to make poster-sized boards to hold up by the window.
It all came together remarkably fast.
We planned to rendezvous by the nearby park, then march over in force. Asking random people to show up in the middle of the night on short notice might be a fool’s errand. But I’d worked too hard for an opportunity like this. I was finally recovering from an eating disorder and hoped to stay on track. Inner strength surged to keep me well, fueled by the food and grace I’d denied myself for so long. Now the network forced me to choose between my health and my career? All to meet a ridiculous clause that should be illegal? How did that compute?
My laptop beckoned, so I poured my soul into an article that would run tomorrow in Dear Diary. A blog this important usually took days to write. I would polish and reorganize the information until the ideas flowed like silk and the impact sliced like a razor. Today I had barely two hours. If not eloquent, at least my words were raw and vulnerable. Opening myself up this way was becoming much easier, and I scored that as a win.
After sharing the piece with Viraj, I dialed up my favorite reporter.
“I’m trying to keep it quiet, but if you’re open to covering the story, I’ll give you an exclusive.”
“Oh, I’m in.” The twinkle in Victoria’s voice was unmistakable. “This is so overdue and couldn’t happen to a better guy.”
After Kaelen shamed her on-set with the goiter comment, Victoria never returned. Instead, she got a recurring spot across the dial on a rival show. I heard Reed was furious, but he only had himself to blame. You couldn’t treat people like trash and expect them to return for more.
“Do you want to join us with a camera crew? We’re going to make some waves,” I said.
“I’ll talk to my producer on the down-low. Okay if I tell a few trusted people? It might get you wider coverage.”
“I’d love that. Thanks. I’m hoping this rally makes a gigantic statement. If it fizzles, I’ve failed.”
By late afternoon, I heard about organizations renting buses to come. Thousands of emails and comments flooded in from eager people clamoring to be part of a movement that they named “Operation Fat Justice.”
Then pictures showed up on social media.
“Holy shit, guys!”
“What is it?” Barbara asked from her spot at the kitchen counter, painting signs alongside her husband, Sebastian. Behind them, Risto took a protest break to whip up some dinner.
I handed around my phone to show Instagram posts of women, all sizes, colors, and ages with “#OFJ” written on their faces in lipstick, holding up pieces of paper that said Tomorrow .
“This is huge,” Sebastian said. “OFJ. It’s got a nice ring to it. By the way, I told my mom, and everyone in our neighborhood who can is coming. She’s a regular town crier.”
“That she is,” Barbara said with a knowing smile. I loved that Barbara again had a doting mother figure in her life, Sebastian’s mom. Barbara’s mother had lost her battle with cancer years ago, but between Barbara’s family and Sebastian’s, my bestie was surrounded by the strong support system she deserved. Taking in the scene before me, I felt the same way.
“OFJ? We should add it to the signs. Don’t you think?” I asked.
“Definitely.” Barbara dabbed her brush in black paint and added #OFJ to the corner of her sign. “I’ll repeat it on the others.”
“First, I was worried no one would come. Now I wonder if I should have gotten a permit.” I bit my lip, envisioning myself getting hauled off by the cops. I’d always managed to stay on the right side of the law, despite my underworld dabblings for stories. “I’ll call an NYPD source to give them a heads-up. We only need to be there long enough to get on air while Reed is on the couch. Might be good to have some police presence in case network security gets rough with us.”
I walked off to speak in private, not wanting anyone to overhear the name of the person I was asking for. The people in the room were family to me, and I preferred not to involve them more than necessary.
“They screwed with the wrong gal,” Barbara called after me.
Phone pressed to my ear, I turned to face her. “Yeah. They did.”
Laughter rounded the dinner table when my doorbell rang.
I set my wineglass down. “That’ll be Gabby.”
A pleasant fullness registered as I stood to greet her, but when I opened the door, I got a happy surprise.
“Dad!” I wrapped my arms around his neck, squeezing tight, just as I did as a child. The moment he walked through this door each night, it was like the cavalry had arrived. His joy and laughter offset the worry and tension swarming Mom, and me, by extension.
“Ready to start a ruckus?” He slipped off his Yankees cap and matching jacket.
“Do you blame me?” I had filled Dad in the day before, not expecting to see him. It’d been too long, though. I’d have to do better about staying connected.
“Come up, we’re just finishing dinner, but there’s plenty.” I started up the stairs, but he grabbed my hand.
“Let’s step into the study first. To talk in private.”
By study he meant his old writing space that now doubled as a storage closet for random belongings from my divorced parents. They refused to take them, or pay for storage, so I stuffed them in Dad’s former office and rarely entered.
We pulled up two chairs and sat. Dad spoke first.
“I wanted to apologize. It’s long overdue, and I’ve been a coward for not coming to you sooner.”
That was quite the intro, but I had no clue what he was talking about.
“This business with your mother. It’s all my faul—”
“Dad, no!”
“Let me finish. Your mom’s always been rigid as a tree. She gets an idea in her head, and there’s no changing it. I used to find her stubbornness charming, if you can believe it.”
Dad huffed a laugh, but I didn’t respond, not wanting to break his train of thought.
“I’m a big guy, as you know, and Diana has always been slender. But food wasn’t an issue for her when we met. She was regular, ate the same as me. However, that all changed after we had you. Di was obsessed with reclaiming her pre-baby body. That’s when the strict dieting started. But even after she took the weight off, she kept going. It became a lifestyle. She got thinner and thinner and nagged me to do the same. I put a stop to that pretty quick, but I hadn’t planned on losing my wife to a fanatic obsession with weight.”
Why had I never heard this before? That the woman who ran my life like a drill sergeant had an origin story of her own?
“Did you ever talk to her about it?” I asked.
“Of course. I even got her to go to a doctor, but that was the worst decision I could have made. They said her weight was healthy, completely ignoring her compulsive behaviors. Instead of taking her situation seriously, they turned on me, insisting I was the one with an eating problem.”
I’d been learning about the medical industry and their twisted habit of praising patients exhibiting disordered systems because the clinicians relied on BMI charts. Thin was good, fat was bad. Within that framework, no wonder Mom never got the help she needed.
He reached out tenderly, lifting my chin to inspect the faint bruise on my neck, barely noticeable at this point. “Your mom has been unwell for a long time, and I let her drag you down the same path. I should have done something sooner to save you. Do for you what I was unable to do for Diana. I’m so sorry to have failed you.”
Dad stood, drawing me into his arms, while blood thumped in my ears. I loved my father, but he knew what was happening and did nothing.
“You took Mom to the doctor. Why not me, especially when you saw how she was raising me?”
I hated piling on after he’d already apologized, but I deserved answers.
“The doctors said Mom was fine. I figured even without Diana knowing, the result would have been the same. Your overweight dad would have been to blame. I didn’t see a way out.”
Hard as Dad’s inaction was to accept, I understood. To the medical establishment and society, thinness was the ideal. Who knew? They might have viewed him as a poor parent for trying to fatten up his daughter to be like him.
Then an idea clicked.
“You sent me to Dot’s each summer on purpose?”
Dad pulsed an eyebrow. “It was all I could think of.”
At the beginning of each visit, it was hard for me not to feel abandoned. Sure, I had fun adventures and loved my aunt and cousin. But the distance made me wonder if they’d be happier without me; two artists having wild times. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. The trips were my dad’s loving way to nourish his daughter in a world unable to see disordered eating as the danger it was.
“Seems like you were in a tough situation and did the best you could. It sucks, but I understand.”
Given Mom’s mantra about thinness equaling health and my sketchy medical insurance coverage as a freelancer, visiting the doctor regularly had never been a priority. I had no obvious health issues. But I didn’t know what I didn’t know, and that was when a boatload of trouble happened.
Like the protest I was planning for tomorrow.
“C’mon,” I said, standing. “Let’s go join the others. You might not have been able to fix the situation then, but you can paint some signs and help now.”
He pinched my chin. “I’d love nothing better.”