Illustration by Olivia Thomson

In 2021, Aaron Beaumont decided it was time to create more queer connections in New Brunswick. While doing their undergrad at St. Thomas University in Fredericton, Beaumont’s work in fat studies led them to learn more about fat activism online. After realizing that most groups were based in the U.S., and the few Canadian groups that existed were decidedly not in New Brunswick, Beaumont took matters into their own hands.

They created QT Fatties, a mostly online, and sometimes in person, community for queer and trans fat folks living in New Brunswick. Four years later, it has transformed into a space Beaumont had been dreaming of: one where trans fat folks across the province can connect.

QT Fatties uses Discord to plan both virtual and physical events geared towards other fat, trans queers. They’ve hosted clothing swaps and art markets, and have had online monthly meetups. They’ve also run mutual aid fundraisers for people in need of gender-affirming care.

Sam Walsh, who does administrative work for the group, explains that their Discord channel is where most of the community gets together. “There’ll be messages in the Discord sometimes like, ‘I want to do this. Anyone available to meet up and we can just hang out?’ Which I think is really awesome. It’s changed from being all on Aaron organizing, to being a little bit more community based.”

Beaumont founded the group in the hopes that more queers could find and help each other navigate being fat and queer in a largely rural province. “There was no activism happening in the province, more specifically, [around] accessibility. By that I mean clothing, gender affirming items, access to healthcare. All of the things that are already hard to access in this province—but you add body size and fatness on and that makes it more challenging,” they explain. “So, I wanted to make some of those things free and supportive and more accessible for folks.”

Walsh also says it was important to have a group based in the Maritimes, since a lot of resources are based on the West Coast. “Having something that’s local, where you’re able to connect with people that are in the Maritimes is really nice because some of the experiences that we’re dealing with are a bit different. Particularly when it comes to the medical system or accessing gender-affirming care.”

Some of these needs, Beaumont explains, stem from much of New Brunswick being not only rural, but also conservative, and generally lower income, especially compared to other provinces. Because of that, they make sure QT Fatties events take place in the province’s three major cities as well as virtually to remain accessible to all who need it.

“Fat activism is really grounded in disability justice. When we think about accessibility, online platforms, chats, whatever it may be, is what’s most accessible to a lot of disabled folks. I’m disabled myself and sometimes, in-person events are just not possible for me. [Online meetings] help in terms of rurality, but also disability accessibility,” Beaumont says.

The feedback QT Fatties has received from those it serves has been positive—but not everyone understands why it needs to exist. Beaumont says that simply means there’s more work to be done.

“There has been general questioning around like, ‘Why do we need a group specifically for fat people?’ Also, people being uncomfortable with the word ‘fat.’ I don’t think that has been a barrier to our events, but that has been things that come up online. Even though we’ve been doing this for four years people are still uncomfortable with just the idea of using the word fat.”

Still, members and organizers of QT Fatties feel grateful for its existence, especially in a politically tense time where we need activism and community more than ever.

Image courtesy of Michelle Kosak

Michelle Kosak comes from a long line of artistic talent. Growing up, she remembers how her father inspired her and her brother to follow in his creative footsteps. Despite her artsy flair, she remembers kids at school bullying her about her appearance throughout her childhood. She eventually developed an eating disorder that stayed with her into adulthood. While attending Toronto’s OCAD University, she decided to channel her artistic talent into creating a series about insecurities, something she had dealt with first-hand but also something others could relate to. The series was titled Grotesque Gorgeous and featured several brightly-coloured and exaggerated illustrations highlighting how people’s perception of their flaws is warped and emphasizing the preoccupation people have on a “quick-fix” mentality to correct their flaws.

“What we’re insecure about, it kind of makes no sense.… No one else that looks at you sees that. So, I just kind of wanted to make it absolutely ridiculous,” Kosak says.

The series’ illustrations depict common insecurities people may have such as being too short, experiencing baldness, or having a small chest. When preparing for the series, Kosak realized how one’s personal insecurities are often unnoticed by those around them, but exaggerated in the minds of those experiencing them, especially with the presence of social media and influencer culture.

“Talking to other people and hearing what they’re insecure about, like, their nails are too fat, or their toes are too long… it’s like, I’ve never in my life thought about that,” Kosak says.

Now, Kosak is working on an upcoming picture book for adults, which she hopes to self-publish through Amazon by April 2022. The book, which is tentatively titled F*uck Yes/F*uck No: A Quick Guide to Life Decisions, will include comical illustrations to help individuals with their decision-making through life’s good and bad. The book will touch on issues of self-image and building one’s self-esteem among other topics, which Kosak hopes will encourage others to grow their self-love and acceptance.

“Everyone is worthy of love, and it starts with you… sometimes it’s hard, but it takes every day to just get a little better every day to embrace who you are, and love who you are,” she says.

As the years passed, the birthday outfits my mum bought me collected in my closet, and with them I began collecting memories of similar incidents. But that first incident was my introduction to a society that reminded me often of my weight problems.

I learned at an early age that people made judgments about others’ habits, personalities, and identities based on appearance. We live in a country where eating disorders affect anywhere from 150,000 to more than 600,000 people; many feel the weight of this judgment. I learned to expect this when we would go on summer vacation to London, Malaysia, and Pakistan. Flight attendants would help my sister and me with our seatbelt, and remark: “Maybe sometimes you should let her eat her own meals,” suggesting I picked from my sister’s plate.

But I managed to escape the prying, judgmental eyes of others with the help of my favourite sportswear. Under the folds of an over-sized tracksuit, I found a way to disappear. These days, I know putting a tracksuit on can’t stop other people from judging me. But clothing served—both then and now—as a way to gain control over my identity, the person I wanted to be.

The day I found my first tracksuit everything changed. I was 10, at home in Mississauga, Ont. School was cancelled: the streets were blocked off with mounds of freezing snow. I finished the book my mom had purchased for me for the month earlier, and I thought the snow day would be the best opportunity for me to look for next month’s book, which she often hid in the house.

After searching the whole house, I headed to the storage room in the basement where we kept my dad’s old suits and our salwar kameez, traditional Pakistani clothing. There was no book, but I found a Reebok tracksuit. That navy blue sweatshirt and its matching wide-legged sweatpants were three sizes too big for me—but it was my escape. I grabbed it, went up to my room, and put it on. It hung too loose and too long everywhere. It was perfect. Wearing something that was too big on me (for a change) hid the flaws people said I had—a kind of invisibility device. I believed no one could see anything in me that I didn’t want to reveal. I wasn’t just choosing what to put on my body; I was choosing who I was going to be that day.

For the next seven years, I wore only tracksuits. Most of them were hand-me-downs from my brother, over-sized and blue, black or grey. When the seasons changed, my mum took me shopping hoping that I would change my mind and buy a dress or jeans. But I always met her at the cash register with my athletic wear. Until I was 15, most of my classmates assumed I played a lot of sports; some decided my parents owned an Adidas store.

By the time I was 16, I stopped caring about what people thought of my body. The transformation occurred when I decided I wanted to be a writer. I studied the writers I read as a child and saw a pattern: they all used the way people spoke, walked, and even dressed as tools in character development. I decided to take the narratives I consumed and the influence of the people in my life into my wardrobe, an exercise in storytelling. I created my own therapeutic process: I wore my brother’s band shirts to school to carry a part of him with me every day. I dressed like Dean Martin to claim his song lyrics as my own.

After my high-school graduation in 2011, I took a trip to Italy with my family and transformed again—this time into somebody who wanted to be visible. There, the philosophy that bodies are vessels to be filled with good food and art ran rampant. Italians didn’t eat to stay alive: they lived to eat. While each city I visited was different on the surface, its heart was always at ease—a contentment I carried back with me to Canada.

This summer, at 22, I donated my navy tracksuit. My mom had already given away the others years ago, and this was the last one in my collection. Before folding it and placing it in a paper bag, I wrote a note on the tag inside the collar: “Served as invisibility cloak since 2003. May it bring you magic.” I no longer wear tracksuits. I’m no longer interested in concealing my body based on society’s expectations. Now, I am visible.

Calling myself chubby is quite alright with me, to be honest. There is this skinny/fat idea of bodies and all us in-betweens are left without a word to describe our physical selves if need be, and in a body-obsessed culture the situations arise often.

To call myself chubby is to recognize that the first 22 years of my life, obsessing over my weight—counting calories since I was 5—are behind me. That now I am at a place where not being “skinny” is fine. I want to claim the word chubby, I want to let people know that when someone says they aren’t thin, that it isn’t always a complaint and there is no need to defend their body shape honour.

Now, this isn’t a call to action for us all to go around calling each other chubby, or fat, or skinny, or any type of description because that is not only presumptuous and rude, but totally not cool. However, if someone chooses a word to describe themselves, and it is obviously not in a self-deprecating way, let them own it!

A former This intern, Hillary Di Menna is in her first year of the gender and women’s studies program at York University. She also maintains an online feminist resource directory, FIRE- Feminist Internet Resource Exchange.

Like every other movie genre around, horror confirms to the same white hetero and cis normative, able-bodied standard of beauty. Your leading lady scream queen is almost always checks off all those boxes: beautiful, thin, able-bodied, cis, straight, white. Horror movies have abundance of scenes where said perfect model actress is walking around the house in her underwear or taking a steamy shower. The self-esteem crushing thoughts usually pop up here: “She has no cellulite. Why can’t I have no cellulite? How does she have such a flat stomach?”

It’s disappointing. Horror is supposed to be the outcast genre. Even the best horror films don’t often receive the prestige and praise of other genres. Unlike other genres, horror has a huge underground movement. Indie horror is vastly popular, and the endless streams of horror B-Movies are constantly flooding out, due in part to the fact that horror is relatively cheap to make. But if the genre is the renegade of the film world, why does it still conform to the Eurocentric mainstream beauty perception of beauty?

The horror genre asks so many deep questions about who we are as a society It taps into our sadomasochism, our strange attraction to violence, and our most uncomfortable fears. And with all this insight, the genre still fell for the same skinny, hairless, cisgender, straight, able-bodied, white woman trend. The genre is rife with fatphobia, exploiting fat actors to be extras struggling to run away from zombies and the like. Those with visible disabilities are practically non-existent. And those with invisible disabilities (mental illness) are stigmatized as rampant axe-murderers with evil alter-egos. Horror breaks so many boundaries, smashing through our comfort zone, and pushing our perspective on what crosses the line. And yet the boundaries of mainstream body image stand as strong as ever.

The importance of showing different bodies and identities in horror has two major benefits: the first is obvious, we can destroy conventional ideas of body image and propel horror as the genre that is the most socially progressive. But the second is also purely for the intelligence of the genre: it’s simply not realistic to keep having the same people appear throughout horror. Diversity in horror means better and more realistic plots and more interesting character development.

I love horror because it is such an outcast in so many ways, and it appeals to outcasts. But when the stars of the film are the same billboard babes that made me feel bad about myself throughout my adolescence, that outcast comfort falls to pieces. Generic conformity might work for mediocre, money-making romantic comedies, but it just doesn’t suit horror.

Next week, I look at religion in horror and where horror movies are lacking in religious diversity for horror origin stories.

But Alvena is also extraordinary. At the start of Grade 4, Alvena decided to take a stand against her bullies in one of the bravest and most inspiring ways. We all know it can be hard to put yourself out there, knowing others can judge (just see any YouTube comment if you want to see what I mean). Yet Alvena, a member of the Ahousaht First Nation, decided that the best way she could fight back against the bullies was to make her experience public.

She posted a picture of herself, in sports gear and ready to exercise, to the Facebook group Healthy Active Natives. The 9 year old then told her mother:

“I want you to tell everyone I get bullied about my weight and I want you to show everybody what I look like. I want you to show everybody that I am going to change because I want to start exercising, I want to start eating better.”

The photo, along with a chart keeping track of Alvena’s exercise work out, went viral almost overnight. The pair received hundreds of positive comments, thousands of likes, and even some donations, with well-wishers sending handy items like new shoes and store cards.

Annette, Alvena’s mother, told the Huffington Post “As I was reading [the comments to Alvena] I started crying because she was crying. I hugged her and asked if she wanted me to stop and she said, ‘No. I just can’t believe how many people care.'”

Annette has now started a new Facebook group called Team Avena so their many supporters have somewhere to channel their good vibes and supportive comments. As it stands Team Avena has over 1000 members, and is steadily growing.

As positive as all of this is, it also comes with a troubling undertone—something that Alvena’s mother Annette touches on in one of her comments to Nainaimo Daily News. Annette tells that paper that someone as young as Alvena shouldn’t have to worry about how much she eats or her exercise, but is supporting her 100 percent regardless.

And indeed, the focus of this story has very much been on Alvena changing herself to better fit in, rather than addressing the horrible attitudes around fat, and fat-shaming that played such a huge part in the attacks. With shows like America’s Biggest Loser becoming increasingly more pervasive in modern day society, and a growing acceptance of fat-shaming and the so-called “War on Fat,” people with different body types are facing more and more discrimination.

Thankfully, there many, many people fighting back. One website to check out is Militant Baker, and its many, awesome campaigns addressing existing prejudices on body types. One in particular, Bodies aren’t ugly, bullying is, compiles photos of people with a variety of body types juxtaposed against hateful messages formed from the auto-complete function on Google—capturing just how widespread body-shaming is for men and women of all ages. Each photo also features a defiant declarations against such shaming.

It seems that kids at Alvena’s new school, where she recently started, also have the right idea. Annette told the Huffington “It was a really good feeling for me to pick her up today and have her say, ‘Kids are telling me I’m pretty, mom.’ She’s never had that. She’s never had friends like that.”

Plus, in our pursuit to compile the alternative answer to mainstream media’s not-so-progressive body and sex coverage, we want to hear from you! We’ll be printing our favourite reader answers to the following three questions:

Tell us about your “first time.” At This, we love us some diversity. So please, please, please help us cover the full range of “aw” to “awkward” with stories that also show the full scope of sexuality, gender and ability.

So you already know 125-gazillion ways to pleasure “him.” But how do you pleasure yourself?

Oh, sex education. Share your best (worst?) sex ed stories with us. Was your class helpful, quaint, terrible? We want to hear it all, from ha-ha to horrible.

Email your answers to editor@thismagazine.ca or leave them in the comments sections. We don’t need your name—it’s completely anonymous if you want it to be!

Doukhobors stage a mass nude protest in Langham, Saskatchewan, in 1903.

In Canada, public nudity is allowed so long as you don’t “offend against public decency or order.” In fact, nudity is considered a political crime, one of the few offences that requires the Attorney General’s approval to lay charges. So, letting it all hang out among thousands of like-minded souls at the Pride Parade? You’re probably safe. But going for a naked jaunt to your local A&W—not so much. Brian Coldin, of Bracebridge, Ontario, currently faces five charges for his repeated clothing-free visits to fast-food restaurants located near his naturist resort. Coldin is fighting the charges, calling Canada’s nudity laws unconstitutional. A judge is expected to rule this fall. Until then, here’s a full-frontal look at our country’s long history of public nudity.

1918 First Canadian nudist club founded in Welland, Ontario.

1931 The Criminal Code first defines nudity as an offence in response to mass nude anti-conscription protests by radical Doukhobors, a Russian pacifist religious sect. The following year, 118 Doukhobors are arrested and sentenced to three years each for their naked protest.

1939 The Van Tan Club is founded in Vancouver by Ray Connett, the self-dubbed “Father of Canadian Nudism.” Today, it’s the oldest nudist club in Canada.

1947 The Canadian Sunbathing Association is formed. This and similar euphemisms are employed to make advertisements acceptable to newspaper and magazine publishers.

1953-54 The Criminal Code is amended to remove Doukhobor-related “parading” references. Criminal charges remain rare, however, as Attorneys General prove reluctant to prosecute. Those going clothing-free are instead usually charged with mischief or indecency.

1991 Gwen Jacob, 19, takes off her shirt in Guelph, Ontario, and is charged with indecent exposure and fined $75. In a recent interview with The Naturist Living Show, Jacob reflected on the episode: “With my hands shaking furiously, I took my shirt off and jammed it down the back of my shorts and I can’t tell you the freedom that entailed in that moment … I was scared to death, but there was a nearly euphoric sense of taking control of my own body.”

1996 The Ontario Court of Appeal rules that Jacob’s “indecent exhibition” did not pose a “risk of harm” as defined by the Supreme Court of Canada and therefore could not be the subject of criminal charges. The conviction is overturned and Jacob gets her 75 bucks back.

1998 Evangeline Godron swims topless in a Regina pool. After she declines to either leave or put on a top, police are called and she is charged. Godron is convicted of mischief a year later, and subsequent appeals are thrown out.

2011 Brian Coldin challenges the constitutionality of Canada’s nudity laws. His case is pending.