Signora Grassa

There’s something important about the final seven kilograms. It’s as if the other one hundred and ten don’t matter. But the additional seven throw me into a higher bracket, my BMI reading stating I’m morbidly obese.

Morbid obesity. It sounds so unpleasant, the warning it is supposed to be, that one is eating themselves to death. These are the same words I utter in disgust while catching my reflection in the convex mirror of the deli with the makings of a hazelnut panna cotta in my shopping basket. Beneath it is the hidden family-sized Gianduiotto chocolate bar I know I will eat in one sitting.

Gross.

Fatty.

Flabby.

These words have been yelled out by people in the street who deem themselves perfect and, therefore, far more qualified to comment on such things. It's as if they think my skin is thicker and I don’t feel. Don’t they think I know what I am?

In contrast, greasy men with beer bellies, wearing shorts with socks and sandals, are largely ignored. My mind drifts to a t-shirt I once saw on one such man, advertising the balding man’s protruding stomach as a fuel tank for a sex machine. It had been obscene and not funny in the least.

“Merda!”

I shout, throwing my hands above my head dismissively as I step from the bathroom scales, wiping the residue of almonds from my greasy mouth with the back of my hand. I brush away the crumbs of Ricciarelli biscuits from my stained floral housecoat, lamenting that only a few remained from a score I had baked that morning. Still, these days Lorenzo barely returned home, and I’m sure he wouldn’t miss them, nor my demonstrative frustration with him for his absence. Being rather a slim man and lacking a sweet tooth, he is more inclined to eat sparingly and work himself with vigour through the contents of one hundred Italian wines to try before you die.

The scent of buttery baked goods permeates the house, the scent of love, to me at least. The aroma of home, of my mother, Il Cuore di Tutto (the heart of it all) making penne arrabbiata with a snowstorm of Parmigiano peppering a hefty bowl filled with the angry pasta. My mind drifts to the sun-dappled kitchen at the Villetta in Campagnia, dust clouds of flour hovering aimlessly on the bay-salted breeze of the Amalfi coast. Mama would wipe powdered hands on her apron before she massaged and worked the ciabatta dough.

“Come now, Antonia, eat your food, you will waste away, and the neighbours will think I’m not feeding you”.

Mama would passionately scrub my face clean with a rag before placing a bowl of pastina before me, along with stuffed olives, baked garlic and bread for dipping in a sublime mixture of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. And I would nibble, taking in the bare minimum before running off to play with the local children. I never remember feeling hungry then, more intent on scuffing my knees, playing on the mountainside, and returning home to Mama exclaiming “Dio Mio,” before waving her wooden spoon and urging me into the bath.

I had been a skinny child that might easily blow away on the stiff coastal breeze but strong and hardy, as all good Italian children are—nourished and tough. I couldn’t be sure when that considerable measure of resilience had left me.

Now, breathless, I sit at the table in my country-style kitchen in the north of England under the racks of aromatic garlic and drying chillies, fanning my face with a leaflet I received through the door only this morning. The flier advertised the possibility of a new life and how one could become a better person and live a better existence if one only followed the strict regime of diet and exercise. I feel hungry just thinking about it.

Sometimes I wonder if the only method to stop me from eating would be to sew my lips together with twine and drink liquids through a straw. Then I remember that chocolate could be melted, butter liquified. In fact, anything I wanted could be blended and slurped through the insides of a candy-striped tube. Or I could shave pieces from myself using the filleting knife from the kitchen. I wonder how far I might get in such an endeavour. The visual seemed somehow macabre, like one of those nasty horror movies Lorenzo had insisted we went to when we first stepped out together.

In my youth, I had cut a fine figure, wearing the latest garb, those heady days when Lorenzo said I held his heart in my hands and always would. Nowadays, I have my suspicions some younger, slimmer and more vibrant woman has replaced me, as he hasn’t seen me naked since 1999.

I’ve always found dieting futile as it only led to binging, and binging led to shame, to tight jeans that meant laying on the bed to pull up the zip with a coat hanger, and then to frumpy, loose clothing. To self-loathing. Mama hadn’t agreed with dieting but had never been as rotund as me. I wish I’d known her secret. Now, I find hiding away the better option, avoiding the stares and chatter of the local village. Never having directly heard them gossip around me, I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t. As if to reiterate, I run my hands over my ample hips.

The doorbell peels and interrupts my thoughts. A bolt of panic pulses through me. The outside has become as intimidating as those who frequent it.

“Oh, Mama, we talked about this.”

Sophia, my oldest child, bustles in without greeting, carrying a grocery box of San Marzano tomatoes.

“When did you last go out?”

I open my mouth to speak, but my daughter holds up a hand to silence me.

“You don’t need to reply, Mama. I already know you haven’t been to church in weeks. Mrs Porter told me.”

“That nosy cow, she needs to mind her own business. No wonder we rarely see her at confession. It would take her weeks to do her penance. And she lifts her elbow too much when there’s sherry around.”

I bristle.

“That’s no excuse, Mama.”

“I’ve been ill, my little patatina. I couldn’t go out.”

Sophia eyed the ingredients in the kitchen. She did not say that she knew I had been out for food, but I know she was thinking it. She doesn’t understand the fortitude such a venture entails. The hushed conversations, the looks. It’s the same at church as I squeeze myself into the pew, barely able to kneel on those lumpy little hassocks for the eucharist. I’ve taken to attending church alone before I go for groceries. It gives me the strength to deal with those stares.

Sophia sighed audibly.

“And Papi? When was he home last?”

I know when she’s prying. She’d been asking the same question in many different ways for several months. I wave my hand dismissively, not wanting to talk about the adulterer. Let him enjoy his dalliance. He leaves me alone, and that’s all I want.

Sophia’s features soften.

“If he weren’t my father, I’d call him a pig.”

This riles me, and I’m not sure why. I thought I had resigned myself to the fact Lorenzo no longer cared about me. The man was a pig.

“Porco sporco.” (Filthy pig)

I mutter, crossing myself as if I’ve committed blasphemy against God.

Noticing that Sophia has picked up a letter I’ve left absently on the side, I rush to snatch it from her hand.

“It’s okay, Mama. I’ve seen enough.”

Sophia says uneasily.

“That’s mine. It’s personal.”

My mood switches and I’m unsure whether it’s low blood sugar or genuine anger. Nowadays, it could be either, especially since menopause began.

“I think you should do it, Mama. You’re wasting your life. Though I must say, counselling to discover the reasons for overeating might be better than surgery. There’s not enough of that nowadays.”

Sophia says carefully.

“It’s an eating disorder, in my opinion, and should be treated as such.”

She adds.

The urge to sit overwhelms me. Realising that someone else knows my shameful secret diminishes me like scalding air in an unfinished souffle when the oven was opened before its time.

“The doctor insisted I do something.”

I finally admit.

“But surgery seems all rather drastic.”

I add as an afterthought.

I neglect to mention why the doctor told me I needed to lose weight. Dead in three years, at risk of heart attack or stroke. All I had heard in his voice was that I’d become a burden to the NHS.

Every time I go to the doctor’s, they discuss my weight first, then attribute every damn thing to it. Thin people have back or joint pain, arthritis, varicose veins, and diabetes, but, of course, obesity was consistently considered the cause for me. I wonder what is blamed when those within a normal weight range become sick. It’s hereditary, they might be told, or just bad luck perhaps, and these illnesses would be the same as mine, but for some reason, my obesity was always to blame.

“Mama, I’m not sure, perhaps one last try at healthy living. I could come to the gym with you?”

Sophie ventures.

Ah, the gym. The place where I had seen promotions of body positivity but knew they would all secretly laugh at me. The older lady with the jiggling rolls of fat barely hidden in an oversized t-shirt. They might record a sweaty, disgusting figure of fun on these new-fangled devices so that thousands might enjoy the joke.

“I’ll think about it.”

I say with finality, and my eye on something I know might comfort me, those last calorie-packed biscuits.

Sophie purses her lips worriedly, watching where my eyes have drifted.

“I need to get back to work in the restaurant, Mama. I’ll call you.”

She gently kisses my brow and is gone.

*

In the end, I found that it was how I felt about myself that was the problem. After six months of counselling and surgery, I became half the woman I once was. Bizarrely, my musings regarding drinking food through a straw had come to fruition, along with the knife cuts to my body.

Sitting outside the Capri Café, sipping a fragrant Chinotto, I notice a few blatant but positive stares. I’m wearing chic clothing I purchased while recovering at my family home in Italy, and my hair is freshly done at the salon. I feel a chill in the air and place an elegant hand-painted wrap across my shoulders. If only they knew my skin had little elasticity left, and meticulously chosen attire covers what lies beneath—a mish-mash of scarring and skin folds.

I want to say that all of my problems melted away when I became thinner. The truth is the same browbeaten woman speaks to me internally, telling me I’m a spectacle, someone at whom to poke fun.

Running my thumb across the fingers of my left hand and I find myself aware of the missing ring, one I had worn for almost four decades. It had ended between Lorenzo and me, of course. I eventually told him I had no more energy to fight for us and that he must go and be happy.

A familiar voice intrudes on my thoughts.

“Antonia, my dear, it is lovely to see you.”

The shadow of Mrs Porter, the local gossipmonger, shades me from the sun.

“Always a pleasure, Mrs Porter.”

I lie easily.

“You’re looking so well. I was only telling Mrs Paneer the other day….”

I tune her out, my heart picking up pace as I look over her shoulder and see my husband —I correct myself—my ex-husband, walking from the park with a pretty woman on his arm. Her name is Martina, I understand. Though my children insist they do not like the woman, I believe they only say that to protect me.

Taking in Martina’s figure and features, I’m flabbergasted. It’s like looking at my old self in the mirror. The realisation hits me that Lorenzo had left because our relationship was broken. I had been living a half-life, and he could no longer cope with that. It was as if he had been floating on a raft tied to my self-esteem. He hadn’t left me because of my size. It was painful, even though I hadn’t lost weight for him.

I still wonder for whom I lost weight. Was it even for me? I envied the ease with which Lorenzo waded through society. It was different for him. Still, I watch young women pass, no longer caring about covering themselves, whatever their size, and hold hope that the rules are changing for them, at least.

I catch Lorenzo’s eye and give him a minute nod of acknowledgement, taking a sip of my Chinotto and ignoring the absurd chatter at my side.

Critical Rationale

Signora Grassa

Signora Grassa explores the character of Antonia, an obese Italian housewife neglected by her husband. She fixates on a deep love of food to fill the chasm of loneliness. Antonia uses internal monologue to describe an almost perfect upbringing filled with hope, resilience and health. She appears disorientated to find so many years of her life have passed, and she has ended up a recluse, or perhaps on the verge of agoraphobia, overeating and suffering health problems. Her daughter is her only link with the outside world.

Due to her age, which I estimate to be around 60 years old, Antonia sits between a negative framing of obesity and the newer feminist movement of body positivity, unsure where she fits in society. She finds it easier to avoid entering society as much as possible rather than to fear being made a laughingstock.

Signora Grassa explores weight bias, body image and their connection with societal identity through the medium of fiction. The narrative integrates the experiences of the protagonist Antonia, how she feels lesser because of her obesity, and the reasons she is moved to take drastic action to fit Western societal norms.

The short story incorporates food memory and incorporates the types of triggers that cause Antonia’s overeating. It also considers society’s preoccupation with the female body and the lack of effect of the body positivity movement on a menopausal woman who has already become psychologically and physically damaged by years of demoralisation and lack of confidence.

In Reconstructing Feminist Discourse on the Body, Susan Bordo (2010, p.2241) describes a Eurocentric trend of female bodies being in a constant state of flux, following external ideals of what it is to be feminine through ever-changing control from those who seek to regulate or transform the female body through fashion trends and diet. The normalised conditioning of women to fit a societal image creates a perfect storm for women to believe they are never good enough while seeking perfection in their endeavours. This leaves those unable to match these standards demoralised as the media continually floods society with images of what is deemed perfection. Antonia is a person who cannot meet those standards due to her size. Society is biased in how it treats those with obesity, as seen in the story where the doctor blames every physical ailment on Antonia’s weight and how those who correspond with societal norms are not treated this way. This is also notable when Antonia is jeered in the street.

In comparison, the body positivity movement of recent years indicates that society should be accepting of all “Size, shape, skin tone, gender and physical abilities” (2019, p. 113). Leboeuf (2019, p. 113) argues that “…body positivity should be understood as the transition from limiting body shame to proper body pride”.

Antonia can see young people around her following this movement, ignoring societal rules and freeing themselves from the constraints of body negativity. Still, she has become psychologically damaged from years of taunts and perceived gossip about her weight. While this says more about Antonia’s state of mind and self-esteem, she invariably has suffered verbal abuse and prejudice throughout her life because of her size, which has scarred her.

Orbach (1998, p. 9/ 11) suggests that within feminist realms, describing compulsive eating as self-destructive is dangerous but should be considered more of a symptomatic and complex coping strategy. Antonia’s food memories remind her of safety and home, her husband has strayed, and she has turned to family recipes to provide comfort. For Antonia, eating and shame become a never-ending cycle she finds difficult to break without medical intervention.

Bariatric surgery is often a last resort for many. Within the story, we can deduce that Antonia has tried and failed many times to lose weight through the usual avenues of diet and exercise.

Unlike other conditions, obesity is a visible bodily characteristic and the Journal of Eating Disorders (2016) states,

“…it has been proposed that the stigma associated with weight may actually be causing some of the negative health outcomes associated with excess weight rather than the excess weight itself” (2016).

This is above and beyond the early death predictions for those who are chronically obese. We see the negative outcomes within the story through Antonia’s fear of leaving her home and her paranoia that people will gossip about her. She asks why they wouldn’t.

Orbach (1998, p. 21) says that obesity segregates and renders a woman invalid,

“…the explanations offered for fatness point a finger at the failure of women to control their weight, control their appetites and control their impulses”.

This reflects her self-loathing, the crux of which can wholly be blamed on the social perception of weight and those who stray from its constraints. The story explores what this state of mind means to her as a middle-aged woman.

Antonia still questions who she has lost weight for at the end of the story. I have deliberately left this ambiguous, along with the reasons why her marriage failed, to allow the reader to decide for themselves. She is still mostly unchanged at the end, other than her appearance. The story leaves us with the question of whether Antonia feels it is worth going through surgery, left with sagging skin and scars, to project the appearance of someone who fits societal norms. We can also query whether Antonia will ever feel, psychologically, that she is no longer ostracised from society, no longer so different she is hyper-aware of other people’s stares and comments.

I feel that the story educates and provides an alternate perspective on what it is like to be middle-aged, feel isolated and be afraid of how society perceives overweight people. It provides insight into how someone of Antonia’s age might perceive the body positivity movement and be slow to embrace change.

Bibliography

Alberga, A.S., et al. 2016. Weight bias: A call to action. Journal of Eating Disorders [online] (4) 34.

Leboeuf, C., 2019. What Is Body Positivity? The Path from Shame to Pride. Philosophical Topics [online] 47, (2) 113–28.

Leitch, V.B., 2010. The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism. 2ND Edition. New York: WW Norton & Company inc.

Orbach, S., 1998. Fat is a feminist issue II. London: Arrow Books.