Christine Stoddard

For years, my white father called my mother’s beauty an “exotic” beauty. When I started to come into my own, he began calling me “exotic,” too. It wasn’t until high school that I began to understand why this word bothered me. Though my father meant it as a compliment, the word “othered” my mother, younger sisters, and me.

Looking back at childhood photos now is bittersweet. In the moment the camera caught, I'm always smiling, but I wasn't always a happy child. I was fat-shamed almost daily.

I was shivering and sweating. What if the procedure didn't work? What if I had serious complications? What if I had to come back?

The moon sauntered out from a curtain of clouds, whispering, “All things must end.”