Monday, AMIRITE?

extrawiggleroom:

An Open Letter to American Apparel, RE: the next BIG model search fiasco
By Leyna Rynearson

Dear American Apparel,

This must have been a hard week for your ego.

Being the subject of an international discussion about the “right” way to expand your empire

to include the expansive,

well,

let’s just say, I bet Alexander the Great

has some stories about elephants

that ruined his good name, too.

How were you to know that

we women of substance -

meaning, in your lexicon,

we women who wear anything over a size six -

are filled with brains in here,

are filled with feelings

and thoughts

and mirror-retinas that reflect through your search for

the next BIG thing.

Why does big matter in my beautiful?

Why do I have to be a thing to matter?

American Apparel -

I do not find offense in puns,
usually,
but the implication in your search for someone who’s
bootyful
is that my booty
detracts from my ability
to be just
beautiful.

I am comfortable with my bulges,
usually.

But I was there when April Flores asked
showroom representative Maggie
about the possibility of a plus-size line and was told,

“That’s not our demographic.”

You’re right.

I am not your demographic.

Your demographic is strung out
and desperately trying to fill the caves in their torsos
with sex.

On the other hand,
I work 40 paid hours a week making sure the world stays intact,

I bake birthday cakes,

I teach kids to read,

I volunteer for anyone who asks,
I clean up trash in the park,
I hand out hugs like napkins
(generously, and to help people pick up their spills-)

I do dishes,
I feed kitties,
I carry groceries,

and the girth of my hips

is as big as my smile

and has learned how to

hold doors open for those

who look like they could use a break.

I teach girls to fight for what they want

and I teach the men in my life

that maybe they don’t have to fight.

And I do this under the scorn

of the people who wear your clothing.

I know the distinct cut and kelly green

of the guy who MOOed at me from a car

as I ran down my street towards the track,

and I’m sorry to say,

maybe your problem with models

started further back than two weeks.

Or maybe, you,

like so many of your peers,

just don’t realize

you’ve expanded your line to a ladies size 14,

and this doesn’t make you “plus-size” friendly-

you are only finally clothing

the AVERAGE AMERICAN WOMAN.

In case you don’t know her,
let me introduce you to the modern lady liberty:

The average American woman
makes less than 30 grand a year,
masturbates at least twice a week - at least! -
has a crush on George Cloony, Johnny Depp, or that guy from Mad Men,
believes in gay marriage and my right to choose what happens in my nuclear reactors,
and doesn’t believe in prayer to save us now.
And while we can say
that we love the size of our breasts
and that we are comfortable naked,
even with the lights on-
on any given day in the United States,
approximately half of the women are on a diet.

Do you want to know why I’m mad,
American Apparel?
Because my friend’s 9 year old daughter told me last week
that she’s happier with herself when she’s on a diet.
And I can’t help but feel like maybe
your request to find the next XLent model
might not be helping the situation.

But the worst
is how you accused the winner
of not showing her inner beauty, too -
Which is strange,
because the last I checked,
standing up to corporations
who tell women like me-
strong, smart, beautiful women who have spent their whole lives letting their self-loathing fill them further-
that we are meaningless and unwanted except as novelty
is the most beautiful and noble thing I can think of.
I can only imagine
you afraid of a world
in which you must be strong for yourself,
instead of weak for others.

Dear Iris Alonzo,
Dear American Apparel,
Dear fashion designing community,
I’m sorry you are afraid of my size…
I hope,
in the end,
it does not end up crushing you,

just bending you to your knees.

Watching the Bastards get wordspanked NEVER gets old.

Maybe because it also evokes the poetic form (whatever the fuck THAT means), aside from being a truly thorough asskicking; maybe because it’s written by someone who works with children; maybe because of something I can’t pin down, this really touched me in an emotional place, and I wanted to keep it where I could re-read it whenever I needed it.