Introducing the Rainbow Fatniks

My BFF and I winning third place
in the talent contest
At its 2011 National Convention, NAAFA was foolish enough to host a talent contest. And tell my partner-in-crime and me about it. After conferring with another friend and raiding the shelves of our friend, Paula's, awesome size-friendly costume shop, we were ready to go.


On August 7, 2011, the Rainbow Fatniks were born. Two fat, black-clad, round-spectacled, beret-wearing drama qu-- uh, I mean poets emerged on the scene and, bongos in hand, proudly performed two fat-pride beatnik poems. For those who can't understand the words, I included them below. 


And to answer your question, no, I don't know why my particular rendition of a fat beatnik channeled an evangelical Black woman. 




Elle's Fatnik Beat Poem

Fat, fat, fat
Does my open mouth scare you?
Does my weight make you feel
Like half a person?
Does the thunder from my thighs
Send you scurrying under the covers at night?
Does the wind from my wings
Blow you away?

Or maybe you think
The smile of my belly
Laughs at you behind your back
Or the sway of my hips
Could might will
knock you to your knees.

I can see your point.

See,
This fat cat knows where it’s at
Ain’t no one’s doormat,
Makes the haters go splat.
She’s bringin’ sexy back.
Fat, fat, faT
A terrible, tasty, temptingly
Tactile treat.
A buffet of sights, sounds,
Smells, and sighs…
But who said you
Could have a taste?

I accept your apology.
This groovy gordita
Is vast
Like a mountain
Like an ocean with room enough
For all the whales and manatees,
With patience, forgiveness
And downright crazy cool
For everyone.


Jules' Fatnik Beat Poem

F – A – T
Little word
For big bodies
Big ideas
Big differences
Big strengths

I am fat.
A superfat fatshionista,
Knockout in my home-sewn works of art.
This look is not available in stores.

I am fat.
Fat man with a thin paycheck,
A Virgo with a thirst for revolution.

I am fat.
A retired marcher
Whose ample bottom spent years
Warming back seats of buses.

I am fat.
Young genderqueer White warrior.
What ze wants, ze gets.

I am fat.
A darker shade of brown
Than “flesh”-colored bandaids.
(Guess they think
I’m too tough to get hurt.)

I am fat.
Scooter-zooming, hot mama
Whose tire tracks are featured
On the backs of bigots’ heads.

F-A-T:
Diminutive word
For All. Of. This.
Not obscuring the alluring
Of our salty-sweet differences,
But being the platter
On which our varieties are served.
Come and get it!
Small word,
But, like us,
Vast enough to swallow the world.

(Poems written by the inestimable Elle Hill)

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