Today just so happens to be March 25, 2020. It would be my dad’s 95th birthday. Mr. John Raymond Moore, Sr. It’s a wonderful day to think about him and remember him fondly (as my husband would say). And I am happily recalling some sweet memories.
I don’t know if it was my mom or my dad that told me that his first language was Spanish. In fact, he arrived at first grade in San Antonio with only that lexicon in which to express himself. Why? How did that come to be? Well, here’s the thing. His dad was what we used to call an Anglo. That is to say in our town it was the polite form of what we now call White. It was mostly the opposite of Mexican in my world. Anyway, my grandfather took his Angloness down to someplace in Northern Mexico (long story) and eventually married my grandmother – Mexican thru and thru. Though they remained married until her death in 1943, he mostly kept himself in Durango and she came to be settled permanently in San Antonio sometime around 1910. In the version of dad’s first grade language drama that I heard, his dad went to the school and pronounced or demanded that they put him in the English speaking class (as his surname was Moore) or maybe it was the other way around – he was put in the English class and my grandfather demanded the Spanish class for his comfort and ease? Who knows.
The point is my dad who spoke perfect English without an accent and as my mom would say with pride, his Spanish was also exceptional both spoken and written, was always most comfortable and true to himself in his first tongue. So, when he found himself with 3 daughters, each needing to feel special and his ‘favorite’, he dug deep from his heart. And that’s how I became affectionately FLACA… You see, the thing was he was what you would have called ‘thin’ at that time. In the flesh he would have been nothing less than skinny. So we had that bond. We were both FLACA. Of course, my Spanish was nil. The word flaca rhymed with one of the few other words I knew in that language and it was a bathroom word! Yuk. Yet I could feel the love and knew it was dad’s way of saying I was special.
Now, we’re talking about the years roughly between 1952 and 1962 and do you know what the iconic screen gal looked like? Not skinny. After the hardships of WWII women morphed into voluptuous. Full and curvy. So heading into my teen years I felt at a great disadvantage. My arms and legs seemed to be equal in length and heft – as in pipe cleaners. I was sure I was doomed to an Olive Oyl life.
And yet, I loved to eat. Food was my favorite. I shoved away as much as I could – or so it seemed to me. My brother would tease that my eyes were bigger than my stomach. I was still living in literal land and could not fathom how that could be possible. Finally, I caught on, ahhh , I put more food on my plate than I can possibly put in my stomach!
Middle school years rolled around and the skinny issue got more dire. I knew every girl classmate in 8th grade who did NOT have skinny legs. By high school I was fully aware that this just wasn’t going to work for me. I doubled up on that ‘eyes bigger than stomach’ thing. One time on a rare lunch outing with my friends (Christy’s Seafood on Broadway- quite the splurge) I actually ordered a full entre and a hamburger and fries! Ate the whole thing. No way my eyes could be as big as my stomach at that point…
I’m going to blame this on being a teenager but here is my secret. Who I was, how I felt about myself and how or what I wanted to change about me, myself and I had totally to do with what my friends looked liked, said and did. I had little or no identity of my own. I was the proverbial FOLLOWER. So when one day I tipped the scales at 105lbs I thought I had arrived. I was with the big girls (no pun intended). Sly little ole me worked it into the conversation on our car pool ride to Ursuline one morning. Actually, I remember it very well. My dad was driving and probably had the left blinker going the whole way. His deafness was setting in or maybe he was distracted listening to five teenage girls one upping each other in the back seat. So there it was – I was officially no longer skinny. No more flaca…
Fast forward a couple of years to the senior lounge at said high school and I now push those scales all the way to 112. Cause to celebrate? No! Doggonit. I finally fill out and that Twiggy girl is all the rage. Now everybody wants to be a waif, a stick, no shape – you get where this is going – the whole female teenage world was now SKINNY? Not fair. I still loved to eat and my course (no pun intended, again) was not reversing! I was now by 1969 standards PLUMP!!!
It never seemed to end. College brought the perfect boyfriend to remind me that I was NOT an American Girl in more ways than one…. Once done with him I took up his reign as body tormentor. Never quite the right size and shape and weight. I was better at it than he had been. And so, somewhere along in there I turned to the most female of all rituals – DIETING. It became a way of life. I learned to count calories the way I managed my checkbook. Only so many to spend and consume each day.
The battle waged for most of my adult life and then it got worse. I was getting the job done and keeping the needle on the scale where I wanted it and then one day WHAM! this ugly word appeared. NUTRITION. What the heck? Not only was I now expected to count the calories to get the job done now I had to do this other thing and have the right combo of nutrition?! No No No NoNo. I ate purely for pleasure and ONLY foods I loved. This nutrition thing would be purgatory. Awful. Not fair. Yukky.
But the message was everywhere. I ran but I couldn’t out run it. I became exhausted. Slowly I turned to face it. Proteins, Carbohydrates and Fats. Goodbye fun foods.
I had one thing on my side. I loved salad and vegetables. Whoops. Too much of that can be RotoRooter. Whoosh Whoosh. Make that – Everything in moderation. Another word I don’t like. Mostly, I do things in extreme. Now I’d have to learn to eat more and smaller meals. What a lot of trouble. I’m worn down. Getting with the program so to speak.
Over ten years ago I made this food triangle:
FUEL
FAMILY FUN
So here’s how it works. On a good day I work up a real true appetite and low and behold I feel HUNGRY!!! It’s amazing. I actually crave FUEL for my body. My stomach is finally saying ‘Put something in me. I need food’. And I want it to be nutritious. Then I tell myself I’m also entitled to have something that tastes good, yummy and will make me feel HAPPY . So that is the FUN. Next choice is how I eat. Fast and furious or slow and with gratitude. A quick prayer before I dive in helps set the mood. If I’m alone I can yak away in my head making my own friends and family for company. On the best days I feel the privilege and blessing of sharing my favorite thing in life FOOD with the ones I love – nothing tastes better than that!
I’m 95% sheltered-in-place like so much of the nation is today. And like the rest of Abundant Americans my refrigerator and pantry and full to the max – can’t put another toothpick in my freezer. The urge to waddle off the sofa for a ‘tiny’ snack is growing into a monster. My food triangle is now my Essential Business. Brings me exactly what I truly need. Reminders to check for the real thing – HUNGER. Okay then lets get some FUEL! Of course, all this imposed isolation certainly earns me a free treat – it just so happens I have lots to choose from. CELEBRATE! And, on special days like today when we are with my daughter and her family (read adorable grandchildren) my gratitude for the joy of breaking bread in COMMUNITY is off the charts.
So here’s to you Daddy. Happy Birthday from one Flaca to another Flaco. Hope your having your favorite – banana cream pie!! XOXO
BTW / DAD – THE ‘F’ WORD IS NO LONGER ‘FLACA’ OR even ‘FAT’ as the years march on (again, no pun) the ‘F’ word is now ‘FLAB’…
My World My Words 