39. Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter 39
Leslie
T he dark streets glistened from the overnight rain as we approached the rendezvous point. Besides me, Risto, and Gabby, we had Barbara and Sebastian. Kyle and Rebecca would come later, as we didn’t want our mother-to-be standing for that many hours. Disappointed, she battled back with a fury but relented when we mentioned the possibility of her getting crushed by what would hopefully be a sizable crowd.
I rocked a new outfit: black jeans with an electric-pink top and a yellow blazer. This time I let Risto pay the stunned clerks at B’Cause. Outraged after hearing why I needed more clothes, they tracked down the company founder, who planned to attend the rally herself.
“Do you hear that?” Risto asked.
I did.
Over the swiping noises of our poster-board signs as we walked, there was an unmistakable murmur of a crowd. People energized at 4:00 a.m. We turned the corner and entered the park, when someone yelled, “There she is!”
My yellow jacket is apparently doing its job.
The attendees cheered as I approached and cleared a path for me to pass through to the front. I ascended the steps of the vacant amphitheater where a revival of STOMP! would perform for a lucky audience hours later.
I shifted my picket signs to Risto’s arms. “I should have prepared a speech or something. It was all so last minute…”
“Just speak from the heart.” Risto stood back so I could take center stage before the quieting group of faces.
“Wow,” I laughed, dismayed and overwhelmed by the sea of shining people before me. “Thank you. Thank you for coming out on a damp night to support my outrageous idea—that we should be loved and appreciated and respected for who we are. No matter the size we come in.”
People clapped and cheered. A shout of “You go girl!” cut through, making us all laugh.
“I’m trying. I swear,” I said. “By now you all know that I was hired for a job as a permanent Saturday host for The Kaelen Reed Show . It was my dream opportunity to be on television. But all that vanished two days ago when my contract was terminated. The producers told me I was too fat.”
“Booo!” the group roared.
“Right? I thought so too. I was still the same person they hired, only more in every way. That’s because I was no longer starving myself. I never realized I was sick. I had anorexia nervosa and was terrified of food. Healing myself was the hardest thing I’d ever done. To feel happy, creative, and energetic. I got my fucking period back, people!”
They laughed again.
“I mean, it sucks, but that’s a huge win for me. When we’re hungry and endlessly dieting, beating ourselves down for not fulfilling some impossible ideal, it’s about so much more than food. Because in denying ourselves, what we give away is power. What we give away is agency. What we give away is the freedom to live life on our own terms. These values are too precious to let slip through our fingers. We must hold them close. But society wants something different. They want us afraid and hollowed out at a physical and spiritual level. Cowering in shame. Covered up and living small. Are we ready to say, ‘No more!’?”
The crowd cheered, “Yes!”
“Are we ready to own the room?”
“Yes!” they yelled.
“Feel right in our own skin?”
“Yes!”
“Tell the suits to go fuck themselves for having ‘weight’ clauses in employment contracts?”
“Yes!”
“All right then. Let’s march! And remember, keep your signs hidden until I give you the signal. I don’t want them to know why we’re here until Reed is on set.” I stepped back, and Risto pecked me on the lips, so gently, he avoided marring my makeup. A total pro.
“That was pretty awesome,” he said. “Ready to battle another corporate giant?”
“Can’t wait.”
As I bent to pick up a cardboard sign, a familiar pair of legs in fishnets approached. Mo’nique, one of the subjects of my sex trafficking story, spread her arms wide.
“Give me some sugar,” she cooed.
“What are you doing here?!” I squeezed her tight, her faux fur collar tickling my cheek.
“Had to come support my girl.” She stepped back to take me in. “Glad to see you put some meat on those bones.”
I sighed, recalling all the times I declined one of her Larabars. I figured she needed them more than me. Yet another thing I got wrong.
“Apparently too much for the network. We’ll see if today makes any difference.” The crowd was getting restless to march over to the network’s viewing plaza. A lump clogged my throat. Hundreds of people showed up in the middle of the night to support this cause.
“Us curvy gals gotta stick together. Shall we?” She hoisted a picket sign onto her shoulder. It said #OFJ in big block letters.
I shouldered mine and led the group to the NewsOne studio window, taking our place against the glass. Inside, the 5:00 a.m. show was in full swing, the studio window lit up like a beacon. Unlike other networks, they didn’t have a huge fan base watching the show each day. It was more a random series of people waving behind the anchors or holding up Happy Anniversary signs. An immense crowd arriving all at once earned worried looks from the early morning crew on-air before the weekday A-team arrived.
We smiled and waved, and they grimaced tentatively, whispering during the commercial breaks while shooting glances over their shoulders. It was still dark, but they might have spotted me in dawn’s first light outside. Yellow jacket strikes again. Either that, or the trending social media posts caught more press attention than I’d hoped. I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check on the #OFJ hashtag. There were thousands of posts, including pictures from people in our morning crowd. At this very moment, two influencers were streaming live interviews from behind where I stood.
Shit.
I wanted the crowd energized, but I needed to save the surprise until Reed hit the couch. If he found out in advance, he might bail. Cowardly, yes. But he wasn’t stupid.
Over the next few hours, sunlight flooded the plaza, as did more people. One group included my visibly pregnant best friend. Rebecca nearly dragged Kyle through the crowd, leading with her belly.
“Excuse me! Pregnant lady coming through!” She smiled but meant business, arriving out of breath. “I can’t believe this turnout! It’s amazing!”
I hugged her. “Yeah, but it’s making me worried we’ll tip off the enemy before we confront him.”
“With good reason,” Rebecca said. “Viraj called me this morning. Reed got wind of it all last night and tried to cancel his appearance. The network is forcing him to come, but he might not. Anyway, here’s the megaphone you wanted to borrow.”
Rebecca passed it over from Kyle. It was the same white-and-blue, battery-powered bullhorn we had used in college at football games to taunt the opposing team. Rebecca’s mom got it after a failed political campaign disbanded. Flat broke, the former candidate sold off everything that wasn’t nailed down. If I had my druthers, I’d strip this building the same way.
The network treated on-air talent like trash. The nasty conversation from the other day streamed incessantly through my brain, an on-screen news chyron I couldn’t shake. I imagined the messages scrolling by.
Breaking news: Leslie Allen got too fat to host our show.
Breaking news: Victoria Cooper Rawley has a neck like a goiter.
Fuck that. No way was I letting Reed and the network brass slither out of this one.
“Reed wants to bail? Then let’s make it impossible for him to ignore us.”
I scrambled onto a concrete planter and switched on the bullhorn. “Hello, hello, hello!” My voice boomed through the megaphone. “Are we ready to be heard?”
Cheers and hoots erupted.
“Kaelen Reed is trying to avoid coming to the show this morning!”
“Boo!”
“Do we want him to come see us?”
“Yes!”
“Does he need to answer for his bias against larger people?”
“Yes!”
“Should the network let me on-air, as I am, every fabulous inch of me?”
“Yes!”
I winked at Risto at that one, launching him into a wide grin as he cheered, “Yes!” alongside the growing crowd.
From my perch on the planter, I could see a group of cops gathered at our periphery. Shoulders relaxed, fingers hanging from their waistbands, they ignored a woman in a gray skirt suit screaming at them and pointing in our direction. The gal stormed our way, but a uniformed police officer put herself between the network patsy and the edge of the crowd. From the looks of it, urging calm.
My heads-up call to police HQ seemed to be working.
While I eyed the police happenings, a crowd chant started.
“Too fat to watch news. Too fat to watch news. Too fat to watch news…”
My cell vibrated in my pocket, Dot’s face filling up the screen.
“Hey, how’s it look on TV?” I asked.
“It’s on all the channels. They just showed you with a megaphone. What’s that?” Dot muffled the phone with her hand. “I’ve got my ladies’ group here as a command center. There’s footage of five people protesting at the network headquarters in Los Angeles and another ten in Chicago. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Wow, thank you!”
I hung up, unable to make out much of what Dot said over the growing din on the plaza. A small group started marching in a big oval, chanting, “Shame on Reed! Shame on Reed!” over and over.
I hopped down and grabbed Risto’s hand. We joined the chants, walking and shouting. I added my megaphoned voice to the mix.
Energy channeled through me, every cell of my body alive and pulsing. Our cause was just. This was far bigger than me. This was a movement calling for all people to be treated fairly, no matter our size. After a half hour, someone tugged on my arm.
Victoria had arrived with her camera crew. “Got a sec for an interview?”
We maneuvered back to a space next to the studio window, where Gabby stepped aside to make room.
“I never thought you’d be the one starting a ruckus over weight!” Victoria joked, talking close to my ear given the crowd noise. “I can’t tell you how many conversations I’ve had about my own contract over the years. Took an Emmy nomination and seven journalism awards to get my weight clause removed.”
“Sounds like I should be interviewing you!” I said.
“Oh no. You’re the headline here, girlfriend. Let’s get you miked up.”
As they clipped a lapel mic to my jacket, I glanced over my shoulder to where the news crew inside looked to be in panic mode. The last thing they wanted was to be making headline news on another channel or being the top story on their own show.
Victoria’s cameraman lit us, and we began our interview. She asked me why I was there today and followed up with a few solid questions, asking me to justify my claims about fatness not being a death sentence. Facts poured out, the ones I learned from Tasha and my care team and then backed up on my own. The details I gained from Professor Hawley and how they contradicted the opposing research I’d found. Then the key question arrived.
“What do you want to say to Kaelen Reed?”
“I challenge him to an on-air debate. On his show. He needs to publicly account for his behavior. I also want the network to repeal my dismissal. I love working for NewsOne and look forward to doing an amazing Saturday anchor job for them when and if they lift their use of weight clauses in contracts. If fat people and our allies turn off TV news, perhaps the network will finally take notice.”
Victoria finished up, gave me a hug, and wiggled her way out of the crowd, but not before getting mobbed with people wanting selfies with her. She posed for a few, then waved her goodbyes and inched toward the news van parked near the police.
I checked the time on my phone, then noticed a missed text from Viraj.
Viraj: Network let Reed bail. Not happy with you going public about the weight clause.
Leslie: Yeah? Well, I’m not happy with them treating me like garbage.
I could almost hear Viraj shrug across my text screen. He had worked in media for over a decade and knew the deal as well as me. The producers wouldn’t budge until forced. But wasn’t that what I was doing here? Hundreds of women of all sizes showed up to demand better. In the middle of the night, no less. Despair grabbed me by the ankles and tugged, but another Viraj text pinged through.
Viraj: On a bright note, we’ve gotten major coverage. All the other morning shows are covering it and we’re trending on social. They’ll not be able to ignore you for long. Interview requests are pouring in, and we can use that leverage to get you face-to-face with Reed. At least, if they’re smart. You in?