When I was seven, my mom put me on a diet. She used to tell me that I would be so pretty if I just lost weight. For context, my parents are old-school Taiwanese who are greatly invested in gender roles–except when they’re not. For example, they believe that a woman should work outside the home–at least my father does. My mother might not because she’s said more than once that she would have loved to stay at home fulltime and be a mother. Given that she gave in to my father at every turn, it’s not wonder she ended up working.
In addition, she played sports. That’s the thing I never understood–many of the women in our church (Taiwanese church) played sports. Tennis, softball, ping-pong, to be more specific. That’s not usual in societies with rigid gender roles, but whatever. It’s just proves that no one is perfectly consistent, but I do appreciate the fact that I was not restricted sports-wise because of my perceived gender. Every other way, yes, but not in that specific way.
While my mother was putting me on diets and scolding me for being fat, she was also insisting that I clean my plate and that I eat everything before me. To be fair, that was rarely dessert, but it still did not make for healthy habits. It didn’t matter if I was hungry or not–I had to eat whatever was in front of me.
My parents also took us to a fast food restaurant once a week after church. It was the best part of my Sundays, if I’m to be honest. Getting a Big Mac, large fries, large DK, and hot fudge sundae from Mickey D or a chicken parm, large fries, large Diet Pepsi from BK, or a cheddar beef sandwich with the trimmings from Arby’s was the highlight of the day, if not the week, foodwise. My mother was not a good cook. She told me when I was an adult that she did not like to cook.
I do not blame her because I do not like to cook, either. I don’t take any joy in it, especially when it’s just for myself. I don’t mind doing it when I’m with someone else. But chopping up a bunch of stuff is no fun when it’s me on my own. And, yes, I know I can freeze things and unfreeze them later, but that’s a lot of work for something I don’t enjoy in the first place.
Because of my mother’s constant harping on my weight, I grew up believing that I was incredibly fat–and not only that, that I was ugly because of it. I mean, how else was I supposed to take her constant criticism of my weight and her statements about how I would be so pretty if I would only lose weight?