Jews carry stories with them like Americans carry Patriotism, Catholics carry Repression and The Irish carry Alcoholism. Whether its fantastical legends that border on the absurd, to side-splitting humorous retellings of a mundane every-day occurrence, to more somber cautionary tales, stories are the key to the fabric of the very culture that unites Jews into a common and shared expression of existence. It's a stereotype, but as George Clooney's character in Up in the Air says, "I stereotype - it's quicker.".
My family, and my Grandmother in particular, were never shy about sharing with you stories furnished with warnings as to the realities of xenophobia. She had and still has a somewhat tenuous grasp on reality and as such, some of those warnings may have gone a bit overboard.
"Never trust a non-Jew. We trusted them back in Germany and look what happened there!" she'd proclaim at wholly inappropriate and uncalled for times (whilst watching a football game on television hardly seems the time that such a warning to be served. Especially when the umpire in question went by the surname of Goldspink).
But who am I to judge? No one burnt down my father's clothing store and forced me to trek across my country of birth to catch the very last passenger ship to leave Europe before the outbreak of World War II, leaving behind our roots, comforts and countless relatives to perish. Neutrality is a comfort afforded only by the unscathed.
I tell you this to serve as an admission - I should know better. Xenophobia does no one, no good, ever. It anchors and crushes the human spirit that is necessary to achieving a higher evolution. Life is simply better when it is shared in communities and differences accepted. The intelligent man judges each individual by the character they express and not by a preconceived generalisation. All four of my Grandparents and their kin stand as precise examples of the real dangers of allowing prejudices to sprout and grow. I really should know better.
Well despite this introduction here's the thing; here is my confession for today. I did not learn from my upbringing. I am in fact a man of prejudice.
I am a Fatist. I don't like fat people.
Actually, let me clarify that; i don't like RUDE, fat people. Jolly fat people? Hell man, I'm all for that. That's fine. There's no logic to my Fatism. Xenophobia can never be accompanied by a sane defense of position. I just know that I'm not going to like that fellow that just sat down on Table 7. The minute i saw this particular brusque, explodingly obese, blotchy skinned, spatially inconsiderate businessman, who's falling all out of his $100 over sized suit, I already am not a fan. So when he raises his voice, demanding that I provide him and only him, with my undivided attention, whilst he berates me for not stocking the particular type of maple syrup that tickles his fat fancy, i just don't give a shit to placate him.
Fuck you man.
Dude, take a look at yourself. Your physical appearance doesn't serve to soothe me. It's not like I've been drawn in by a natural magnetism you project and as such am forwards toward wanting to empathise with and for you. In fact, your appearance has marginalised you from me. Repelled me. I'm sorry to be so stark, but it's the truth.
Listen, its not like we celebrate those suffering from emphysema. We don't say, "Well done old chap. You keep smoking those cigarettes despite the fact that they are killing you in a grotesque manner.". Neither do we commend the alcoholic for falling down in gutter. Its their prerogative to be as irresponsible with their own health as they wish, but we don't encourage it nor empower and moralise their right to respectfully carry on. Yet for some reason, the Moral Fiber Protectors like Oprah want you to celebrate and be proud of your obesity. Its mental. Seriously, put the doughnut down, woman!
I'm quite enjoying this. I am sorry and I really should know better. So should you folk out there reading this. You're trying real hard to express disgust whilst suppressing stifled guffaws (how Tintin is that word?!?), but you know I'm right. You are a Fatist like me. The only difference between us is that I'm just prepared to admit it out loud and proud.
I'd love to be able to place you in the centre of a little social experiment to prove you're the same. I'd wait till you were rushing out of the Tube Stop, late for work and desperate to catch that green crossing-light ahead you. I'd then send a 42 year old female pancake addict, wearing a free-form, flowing blouse, tucked into a pair of dark blue and impossibly large, high-waisted jeans, which cuts off inches higher than the tattered pair of no-name-branded white sneakers that support her cankles. She'd block your way with her girth and press her ample breasts virtually into your neck and ask, in a short and demanding fashion, if you could point the way Byron Burger Bar of Kings Road. I know you know where it is. It would take some time to describe to her how to get there. Maybe 60 seconds of pointing and explaining. You'd pause for the briefest moments, considering how late you are for work, and then you'd shake out a quick curt "No. I don't know where it is." and race off, leaving her stranded and alone. I'd record this whole little shindig with my little digital camera from across the road.
The next day, you'd be even later for work. This time, I'd have with me The New York Asian who dreams of amassing a fortune by street-vending lukewarm dumplings to drunken Chavs (more on this in a later Blog). She is quite skinny. She'd meander with her long flowing black hair, tight black jeans and sharp, pointed black pumps (lots of black there) across the charmless, newly completed, concrete town-square outside of South Kensington Station and right into the path of your dash. From behind dark sunglasses, she'd snap out her demand for aid to find the same burger place as asked about the day before. I'd have briefed her to be somewhat rude and demanding. I want an even playing field for my little experiment. I want to see if you react differently purely on weight comparison and not on a difference in manners shown during the request. From across the road on this second day, I'd film you stopping to sum up her appealing appearance. You'd feel a natural magnetism to her presentation and you'd comprehensively describe the route to her desired location. You'd then rush off in the direction of your office, but not before a cursive turning of your head to catch a final summation of her as she strolled off down Old Brompton Road.
I'd then be in possession, after a little editing, of visual proof that you're the same as me. I'd upload your proclamation of Fatism onto youtube for all to see. The difference in your actions, would be as a direct consequence of the different levels of the appeal the two case studies presented. You only had a brief moment to (what i call) auto-react, and in this instant is borne the truth of your character. You don't like fat people, but you do like a skinny, all black clad, Asian girl. It's Ok, man. I'd do the same. We both really should know better, but we are both Fatists.
My advice?
It's simple really. The skinnier you are, the ruder you can be. The fatter you are, the politer you must be. Imagine any challenge or thing you may wish to achieve in life as a 100 Meter Dash and the skinny folk get to start at the 50 Meter Line, whilst the fatties are back at 100 Meter Mark. They're at a clear disadvantage - and not just because fat people can't run as fast. Only by an extra outlay of manners can they reach the finish line at the same time as the skinny folk.
The thing is, I too used to once be a fatty- I really should know better.
