Let's talk about Bridget Jones...

A guest post by Keira MacAlister 

The first time I was called ‘fat’ I was 9 years old. Up until that point, I don’t think I had even realised I was potentially ‘bigger’ than other children in my class, and as an adult, I can objectively say I was not fat, I was chubby and there is definitely a difference. I felt a shift that day, I had become defined by something outside of how I viewed myself. I had genuinely never considered my appearance until then; I was far too busy doing normal 9-year-old stuff like playing with Bratz dolls and dancing to Girls Aloud. From that day my weight would be an all consuming issue throughout my life until the ripe old age of 23. That's now.  

When I think back to certain moments in my life, and the value I placed on the size of my body, it makes me feel two things. One, sadness for my past self as she was so overwhelmed by her desire to dissolve, she stopped living and two, angry. Angry about what the world has told me about myself, explicitly or implicitly since forever. 

Now, before I carry on, I want to make sure I acknowledge my privileges in this space. I am a white woman and therefore, whilst I am fat, I know that I carry a certain level of privilege just because of the colour of my skin. The people who taught me to love my fat body were Black women, beautiful incredible fat Black women who helped create a movement for marginalised bodies- in particular fat Black bodies. So, let me first point you in the direction of some incredible Black women who are far more qualified than I am to talk sense: Stephanie Yeboah, Aja Barber and Lauren Leavell (all three of these women have helped me immensely!) There are far more incredible Black body positive women out there and I’m also still learning, so have a google, diversify your feeds, and check out the origins of this movement (hint: fat Black women helped start this whole thing).

Okay, here we go. Since I was a teenager, I’ve been hyper-aware of my body and the limitations it has caused me. This probably sounds strange but let me explain. I always wanted to be an actor, as a child I never wanted to do anything else- my mum actually says I was born dramatic and she’s probably right. I noticed in school and beyond that I was overlooked for roles and pushed into the background until… well, I got thin. Suddenly I was catapulted to the front, cast as the lead in the musicals and given solos in showcases. Everything I had longed for for so long was suddenly mine. Except, nothing had changed really. My voice was the same, my acting ability was the same, but suddenly I looked like a lead. I looked like someone who could be desired. 

Whenever we see fat actors on stage or screen, we aren’t told to view them as lead character material or as sexually desirable. Look at Rebel Wilson for example, in Pitch Perfect her character is literally called ‘Fat Amy’. We’re sold this name as if it’s a mark of power for her character, taking away the word ‘fat’ from her potential bullies. However, doesn’t using this marker only reinforce the links between fat and bad? What if Amy had just been a beautiful woman who also happened to be fat? Her character is portrayed as overly sexual and we’re invited to laugh at her because fat people can’t be sexy can they…? Not in Hollywood they can’t.

Now if that’s not bad enough, what about all those characters we were told were fat when really, they most definitely weren’t. Top of this list for me has to be Bridget Jones. Why were we sold this idea that a successful woman, who weighed 9st nothing and had her own central London flat was a hot mess? Follow that fib with Martine McCutcheon’s Natalie in Love Actually, and the constant fat girl gags, and we’ve got ourselves a one-way ticket to slim tummy tea and appetite suppressant pops. I can laugh about how ridiculous this stuff is, but the scariest part is that it’s actually so damaging. When I first saw Bridget Jones, I believed the fat narrative they told me. I weighed about the same as her at the time and I was mortified. All these stories do is teach women to hate their bodies and tells us that beauty is a size 8 or below, pretty worrying stuff when the average UK woman is a size 16. 

We need to start seeing fat people on stage and screen in stories that aren’t about them being fat, or them being fat isn’t a comedic device. Being fat doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be the lead character. Fat people are people, they have complex and interesting lives that shouldn’t be forced into these narrow stereotypes that, from experience, just aren’t true. We need to stop casting non-fat people to play fat characters. If a character’s whole storyline revolves around their sudden realisation that they were never really fat and ugly, but thin and beautiful, what message is that sending? Hollywood and co have been successfully selling us the idea that fat is bad for decades, and honestly, it’s boring. It shouldn’t be political to be fat and live life unapologetically. The irony of getting a bigger person to feel invisible isn’t lost on me and I refuse to conform to it. So, take up space, be happy, don’t put your life on hold till you’re ‘skinny’, and be the beautiful complex creature you are. Hollywood doesn’t know a thing.  

Keira is studying her master's degree in Participation in the Cultural Sector and is passionate about all things body positivity. She is the only person I trust to takeover this blog... (currently!)