There are many reasons I love to write, besides the fact that it’s in my blood. I could talk about many of them, but today I am going to go to one that’s a little more personal to me.
Let me relate to you an experience I had two days ago: I decided to take a walk around my apartments. This is a nice half-mile walk if I just take one lap, and was a nice way to get out and enjoy the day and then snag the mail. So Andy (my husband) and I slipped on some comfortable warm clothes, and started taking our walk.
The first half of the walk was pleasant. It was a nice day, chill but with the sun offering plenty of warmth. But as we hit the half-way point and began making our way to the mailboxes, I heard some laughter and then a strange sound behind me. Two strange sounds, actually, repeated over and over – two individuals. And then I realized what I was hearing.
They were mooing at me.
It was two teenage boys (I didn’t turn to figure it out; they ended up walking right into us later), and they were moo’ing at me. Now, their moos were retarded – they honestly sounded more like a sickly cow crying for milk – but there was no mistaking what they were doing.
They were calling me a cow.
I quietly told hubby that it was OK, just to ignore them, as he asked if he should teach them a lesson. We finished our walk to the mail boxes, giving them time to catch up and only moo in our faces as we crossed paths. Hubby made a nice comment about them practicing their mating calls, but I touched him to remind him to let it go.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t let it go. The more I tried to ignore it, the more it stuck to me. And that’s the reason I’m writing about it today.
Now, you have to understand that I do get comments like this on a regular basis – over the internet. Once in a while – maybe every two weeks – some anonymous jerk will leave me a comment such as how I’m a disgusting pig that gives them the dry heaves, or that I’m a fatty who would know about online games cause that’s all I do, besides stuffing twinkies down my maw like Jabba the Hut. I’m not exaggerating – these are real comments I get.
Sometimes, I can let them pass. Sometimes, they just come at the wrong time for me and I get emotional. I am used to them, however- in an anonymous fashion.
I haven’t been called fat to my face since first grade – when I actually was kind of scrawny, but the baby fat on my face was lingering and people wanted any excuse to insult me for being best friends with a black girl.
And this brings me back to why I love writing: I am judged by my words. Even if my picture accompanies the text, your attention is to the words, your evaluation of me is based on what I have to say and how I say it. That is, of course, unless you’re a shallow douche-bag.
People are shallow, and quick to judge. I’m overweight, yes. Why? Because I had a blood sugar issue that went untreated for ten years. It’s being treated now, but I’m still struggling to actually lose the weight, even though I eat healthier, and am more active, than before.
So I embrace writing, not because I can hide behind it – my picture’s out there on the internet, I don’t hide my face – but because I can stand behind it, and be judged by my words, by who I am, and not what I look like or how much I weigh.
Judge me by my words, my character, and I shall do the same.