Beginning

Fat, Stupid, Ugly: One Woman's Courage to Survive
by Debrah Constance, J.I. Kleinberg

I began life, it would seem, as some kind of Grimm's fairy-tale creature, large and oafish, undesirable, grossly imperfect. Neatly penned in my baby book were the words, "Debbie was a fat, unattractive baby."

Thus begins the harrowing and inspiring story of Debrah Constance. Despite a life fraught with cycles of abuse and addiction, cancer and catastrophe, Debrah defied the odds, never losing hope in herself or humanity. Her story is one of triumph: how one woman overcame her past and provided a community with the love, affection and caring that she so desperately needed herself.

Mother labored for twelve hours, the doctor gave a yank with the forceps and I came squalling into the world on January 18, 1947. Cleaned up and ready for a little maternal affection, I was given the cold shoulder. "Take that baby away!" Mother insisted, much to the alarm and disapproval of the hospital attendants. Whether exhausted, afraid or just dismayed by my appearance, she wasn't ready to hold me.

A baby nurse was waiting for us at home in Manhattan, so if Mother didn't want to touch me for a while, at least I wouldn't suffer from lack of attention. Eventually Nan accommodated herself to motherhood, taking copious notes of my visitors, gifts and modest accomplishments. "At 15 months Deb is such a happy and outgoing baby that everyone comments on it. She loves people & gives her toys to everyone. She doesn't have any temper at all with her playmates - just loves them and laughs at everything they do." "Deb is very lovable - kisses on the least provocation - hugs her mommy all day - laughs over nothing at all. Is altogether the most wonderful baby in the world, & I was never so contented & happy."

In spite of the label - "fat, unattractive" - that I seemed to be born with and that Mother had inscribed in my baby book, things were good for a while. My parents, Nan and Arnold, took me for walks in Central Park, tended to my needs and shuffled me from place to place as they changed addresses. Nan was petite and beautiful, a Broadway actress until she became pregnant with me. Arnold was handsome and intense, an artist and an advertising executive on Madison Avenue. A stunning couple.

If their first effort at making a picture-perfect baby had yielded disappointing results, they had much better luck the second time. Wendy, born when I was two and a half, was beautiful, a cherub, perfect in every way. Within months, her ideal beauty was confirmed: Wendy was chosen and photographed as a Gerber baby.

Now the toddler and big sister, I lost my position as baby. But more than that, my parents, and especially my father, had a basis for comparison. From birth, it seemed, my tiny precocious sister excelled at everything. She had beauty, talent and brains. What I did, she did better, sooner and more gracefully; what I couldn't do, she mastered without effort. All of my parents' pride and attention swirled around her as Wendy became their "real" daughter, and I became the "other," swept along in the wake of her accomplishments. This was a game that I could never win. I had been born Fat and Ugly and no quantity of kisses or laughter could erase that unfortunate, and lingering, fate.

Once, when I was around seven, Wendy and I went into the city with our father to spend the day. We got to Arnold's office, and he left me sitting in a large coat closet, directing me to stay there, while he took Wendy around to meet his colleagues. Little Wendy, five years old, stood on a desk and recited the entire Gettysburg Address. He was so proud of her and so embarrassed by me, an attitude that I believed was fully justified because I was Fat, Ugly and, now by comparison with my brilliant baby sister, Stupid.

Like everyone else, I adored Wendy, doted on her and blamed myself for my own shortcomings. Our young lives were filled with music and dancing lessons, visits with loving grandparents and a continual parade of pets. Wendy was a cello prodigy, playing a miniature instrument that had belonged to a prince, but even private lessons with esteemed tutors couldn't turn me into a violin player. I was terrible and retreated to the attic for my hours of practice. Eventually I switched to the piano and was able to play decently.

We led a normal, even a privileged, life.
Except for the things that my father was doing to me.

© 2004 by Debrah Constance, J.I. Kleinberg

About the Author

Debrah Constance is the founder of A Place Called Home, a South Los Angeles youth center that provides at-risk children, ages nine to twenty, with a secure, positive family environment where they can regain hope and belief, earn trust and self-respect and learn skills to lead a productive life, free of the gangs, drugs and poverty that surround them. J.I. Kleinberg is a California-based freelance writer.

J.I. Kleinberg was born in Burbank, California and grew up in Los Angeles. She holds a Master of Arts in Design from U.C. Berkeley. Following careers as an artist and a marketing professional, she is now a freelance writer. Her clients include individuals and businesses from a wide range of industries, including travel, health care, design, public relations, and entertainment.