the fat hell we live in

me, you, and the Shein influencer

If you spend any time in fat hell plus-size fashion conversations on social media (and if you’re reading this, I’m assuming you spend at least some time here/there) you’ve probably heard about the plus-size influencer (or, according to her, an “investigative journalist”) who flew all the way to China to simp for Shein, essentially creating a propaganda video for a multi-billion dollar sweatshop and justifying it with the argument that the Shein executive team told her everything is great, actually, and that bodies like hers needing clothes, too.

You can read about it here, though be warned that it is a waking nightmare.

I have nothing particularly interesting or fresh to add to the scalding hot conversation that followed her post, other than this influencer should probably do as fifth grade Amanda decreed and check herself before she wrecks herself. Also, Aja Barber, the author of Consumed: The Need for Collective Change: Colonialism, Climate Change and Consumerism made an interesting post about why brands often use marginalized influencers (non-white, plus-size, etc) in their greenwashing campaigns.

Barber says in her post, “We should also talk about how often marginalized people in these conversations find themselves drinking from a poison chalice, which has been confused for a seat at the table.”

That statement in particular, I think, applies to the long-ish, storied history of plus-size people being included in the fashion conversation in general, specifically the grotesque intersection of body inclusivity/ activism and fast fashion. Years ago, I remember writing a blog post critical of Lane Bryant’s “I’m No Angel” campaign. The campaign was wildly successful and deemed radically inclusive, even though the brand exclusively used the same size and shape of plus-size model for their campaign — size 14/16, curvy with a flat stomach, conventionally beautiful in every way except for an ever-so-slight nod to fatness, etc. 

The idea that Lane Bryant — the routinely out-of-touch-and-trend mall brand responsible for many of our fat adolescent clothing traumas — could somehow receive a level of clout and relevancy by doing the bare minimum didn’t sit well with me, and other writers, influencers and social media activists seemed to feel the same. But then, if memory serves, some of them were invited to some kind of “we hear you” luncheon, in which the CEO of Lane Bryant “addressed concerns” and “listened to their community.” Suddenly, the brand’s paltry attempt at “radical body inclusivity” was enough for most of those same critics to drop their beef and instead gently commend the brand for trying to be better, as if Lane Bryant was their problematic best friend and not the largest plus-size retailer in America trying to make as much money as possible. 

If this example seems pointed, I can assure you it’s not — it couldn’t possibly be, since the same situation has played out time and time again over the last decade or so, as the core ideas of fat activism and radical body inclusivity have been violently manipulated and exploited in service of capitalism, and the hypocrisy of both plus-size influencers and media has known no bounds. Though I’ve never been an Influencer with a capital I, I’ve dabbled — and I’ve also been part of the problem in other ways. I’ve written whole ass personal essays about relating to my body and fatness as a subtle pathway to drive traffic and get people to click on affiliate links. I’ve benefitted professionally from my ability to find the through lines between what we consume and how we see ourselves and our bodies. I’ve bought fast fashion, worn fast fashion, and recommended fast fashion.

What I’m trying to say, ultimately, is that there’s a sound and valid argument for everyone —and I mean everyone — in the plus-size fashion space being part of the problem. Some more than others, certainly, and the worst of the bunch being a strong tie between those who baldly embrace the ~*body confidence activist warrior*~ identity to shill for fast fashion brands, and those who maintain their own sense of virtuousness and deny any complicity at all. 

The thing is, it’s not really about clueless Shein ambassadors or body positive influencer hypocrisy, though both certainly perpetuate the messy ass confluence of consumerism and activism. It’s bigger than that, though, and extends far beyond any one person’s personal responsibility (although, again, maybe don’t promote wage slavery on TikTok). Ultimately, plus-size fashion is and always has been the primary entry point for every mainstream conversation about how we validate and celebrate our bodies, and what it “really” means to be inclusive and forward thinking. Never mind the fact that fat people can still walk into the majority of stores and find nothing to wear, or the fact that the fast fashion industry has failed marginalized people on pretty much every level — clothing and its consumption are still largely seen as the locus of fat conversation, the key to how we all feel accepted and relate to each other and the world around us. 

I’m going to pause here, because just as the stories about plus-size influencers doing fast fashions dirty work have been told countless times before, I’ve just realized I’ve written this before, and not that long ago, only instead of in response to the Shein mess, it was about New York Fashion Week. Same story, different players (or maybe not so different, in fact). You can read that here (it’s a much better piece than this gnarly little ramble), but I’ll end this one with the most obnoxious thing I can think of doing: quoting myself. 

“An industry that’s failed me on countless occasions, to varying degrees of chaos and horror, doesn’t deserve to be a part of my salvation, nor does it deserve one more well-articulated shout into the void. Without fashion, what are we talking about? How do fat people get to see ourselves? And most importantly, where the fuck do we shop?”