The Fat Girl Marches on Selma
In the spring of 1965 when the problems in Selma erupted, my college friend, Audrey Lazlo, and I packed overnight bags and hopped on one of the buses leaving for the beleaguered city. Participating in the march on Selma, albeit mostly from the kitchen of a church in D.C., was one of the great distinctions of my life. Not only because race relations were high on my list of concerns, but also because soon after, Audrey disappeared for a month. We never found out exactly what happened, but this was a time when women lived in a climate of fear and suspicion when it came to women’s healthcare, something women feel in red states now, 60 years later.
A THREE-PART NONFICTION SERIES
with new episodes published on Tuesdays and Thursdays
Part I: The Fat Girl Marches on Selma
On my first day at the University of Wisconsin, I joined a girl named Suzi for dinner. A few people away from us sat an extremely fat girl. Not just fat: obese. I studied her out of the corner of my eye: her body seemed to spill in all directions, hair a thatch of brown matted curls, face pasty white and blobby – and very, very intelligent. “See that woman?” Suzi whispered in my ear. “I could never be friends with someone like that.”
Those words, so judgmental and arrogant, were words I would never forget.
Part II: The Fat Girl Marches on Selma
In time, I became best friends with Audry. She was incredibly wise and learned. If I had a problem of any sort – with a grade, a class, an assignment, a person – the first place I would go was to Audry. In the spring of 1965, when the problems in Selma erupted, Audry came to find me in my room, suggesting we quickly pack overnight bags and hop on one of the buses leaving for the beleaguered city.
Part III: The Fat Girl Marches on Selma
While we were away, Audry made an amorous connection with a large black man, slept beside him in the pews, hung out with him whenever she wasn’t in the kitchen. But when we were back on the bus, she didn’t say a word about him. A month later, we thought she’d shut herself in her room, but eventually we realized she wasn’t in there at all and that she’d quite simply vanished.
Cover Image: Bloody Sunday by artist Ted Ellis