My Fat Childhood Friend

On body shaming, friendship and comedy

When I was in fourth grade, living in Maryland, I rode the bus to school and back every weekday. The school bus would first drive through the all-black neighborhood across the highway from the all-white neighborhood. It would pick up all the black elementary school kids then drive across the highway to the all-white neighborhood where it picked up the white kids.

My parents and I’m sure a lot of white parents told us white kids that we must never, ever step foot in that all-black neighborhood across the highway. We could get killed! I learned that a lot of black parents told their children the very same thing about the all-white neighborhood.

But the black kids and the white kids rode the very same bus to school together each day. We went to school together and learned together and sat together in class and we played together on the playground. We were just kids! What the hell was wrong with those stupid adults?

I always looked forward to getting on the bus each morning because I wanted to sit next to my friend Felicia. Luckily, the seat next to Felicia was always empty. No one wanted to sit next to Felicia. Except me.

Felicia was black. And she was overweight. Very overweight. She was the most overweight kid in fourth grade.

And she smelled like honey. Did she pour honey all over her skin and rub it in like perfume? I don’t know. Seriously, if you open a jar of honey and stick your nose into it and take a deep whiff, that is exactly what she smelled like.

And I loved that!

But what I loved most about her is that she was hysterically funny. Both of us were aspiring comedians and we spent the bus rides to and from school trying out new jokes on each other. I have to admit that she was way funnier than me. She was a natural born stand up comedian. She left me in stitches every day.

Felicia was always cracking jokes, laughing and smiling. It felt good to be near her.

Then one day while Felicia and I were telling jokes the bus stopped to pick up some more white kids. A certain boy was walking down the aisle on the bus past our seats when he gave Felicia a mean look and said, “Hey there Fatso!”

Shocked, I looked up at the kid. He was the class bully who I always tried to avoid. I said nothing to him.

Then I turned to look at Felicia. Her head was turned looking out the window of the bus. I felt so very bad for her. I wanted to console her but I was a stupid fourth grader and did not know what to say.

Then Felicia turned her head back inside. She certainly was not smiling. She was crying!

I felt horrible. Suddenly, I could feel every ounce of her pain within me. I could feel it throughout my body and especially in my heart. I was on the verge of crying myself. I was totally one with her and I desperately wanted to take her pain away.

Finally, I managed to speak, “Felicia, I like you. I don’t care about your size or your skin color or… uh… the fact that you’re a girl or… I just like you for you… for who you are. I just want to be your friend. I… I think you’re beautiful!”

Felicia stopped crying. She wiped the tears off her face with her hands. Turning to me, she slowly started to smile. And then she started crying again! But these were different kinds of tears. I could feel it in my heart.

Eventually we were cracking jokes again and we continued making each other laugh on the school bus for the rest of the year. Of course I never cracked any fat jokes or racial jokes. I learned that humor is best when it is not hurtful. The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt her.

At the end of fourth grade my family left Maryland and moved out west. I never saw Felicia again. I still think about her from time to time, though. I think about her when I hear someone body shaming someone else. I think of her when I see someone being racist. And I think of her every time I open a jar of honey.

Because of Felicia I never, ever partake in the cruel act of body shaming. I simply cannot be that hurtful. I can’t.

Where ever she is today I truly hope that she is happy.

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