dear young boy,
I know it has been about ten years since you last saw me and made your comment of “should’ve called Jenny Craig” when you glanced at my ten years old body, deeming it not to your liking. At that time, being a girl who hasn’t been in Canada for too long to feel comfortable retorting back in English and being too ashamed by your callous words, I didn’t reply. I wish I did. I wish I could have walked right to you and your father (with all the confidence my young girlish body could muster) and asked you what you meant by that comment. I wish I asked you if my young body offended your sensitive eyes. I wish I could ask if you even bothered to look deeper than the chubbiness around my thighs, my cheeks? Or was I only deserving of a side glance and a bruising comment? I wish I could’ve asked if you ever thought about my feelings and thoughts, if you ever realized that I was a living breathing person underneath my slightly sun-burned, chunky frame? Or did you fool yourself in thinking you able to decipher all that I was with just one look and grimace? I wish I could ask your father if this is what you want your son to learn, if you are proud that your son is a pro at tearing down the already fragile self-esteems of girls?
But I didn’t. Instead, ten years old me looked away, cheeks flaming with shame and vision blurry with unshod tears. The ten years old me stored those words, keeping the words as the first stone in an ever expanding pile of self-doubt and shame that weighs me down, even to this day.