Last Saturday me and BFF, Jessica, went straight from breakfast burritos at The Grind to Intersection for the Arts for a Kearny Street Workshop hosted modeling and runway workshop in anticipation of their sure-to-be-bomb fashion show on May 31, Celebrate Your Body (use code "fashionforward" for limited time to get $2 off price of admission), where you will see me, duh, modeling & strutting.

Was this the first time I've experienced the harrowing challenge that is le modeling? No. But Saturday was a crash course in working the runway. Stephanie of San Francisco's 31Rax was presiding as I and about 40 others (in a dazzling array of representation across the size, gender, race, and age spectrum) werq'd it to Rihanna et al.

Here are the 3 secrets that I learned about working the runway (and life):
1. Slow down - way down. Find the beat to the song that's blasting and really feel it in your hips and your feet. My burlesque training really came in handy on this one.
2. Make every moment photograph worthy (rule to live by!).
3. Make eye contact. As you walk down the runway, as you pose.

Check out Kearny Street Workshop's upcoming show, Celebrate Your Body, on May 31 in San Francisco. Save $2 off tickets with secret code "fashionforward" now.

Keywords: fat modeling, fat fashion, fatshion, plus size fashion

In today's New York Times post, "Plus-Size Bloggers Are Role Models," Bethany Rutter of Arched Eyebrow, spoke about how fatshion can lead to people “...examining their relationship with their body for the first time, questioning why they feel they should lose weight or why they feel they don’t deserve to enjoy fashion.” Bethany's words made me think about my history with fashion and the ways that fatshion has become such an integral part of the body liberation movement - and why.

I come from a long line of fatshionistas. My grandmother, Esperanza, was a master seamstress - having learned all her skills from her mother, Manuela - until she got Parkinson's. Her sewing subverted the patriarchy of my grandfather, who was threatened by her skills and her secrets; they subverted the post-production capitalism we had inherited, which said we could abdicate those skills in favor of mass-produced looks palatable to Western aesthetics; they subverted the thin-centric clothing manufacturers who said there was no room for her body or mine. My mother, Maria, liked to use glittery puffy paint to enhance denim skirts she'd turned into minis. She'd draw entire scenes from The Little Mermaid on the pockets of the skirts, and she'd turn discarded, seemingly hopeless things into elaborate and beautiful gifts for me. She made me leopard-print jumpers and fashioned my hair into gloriously high side pony tails. She helped me practice fierce quippy one-line retorts to defend my body against the rapid onslaught of attacks it constantly buffeted. I didn't have the skill to understand their labors of love. I hated that I couldn't find clothes in my size. I didn't want to be special or seen.

Clothing has always made me interact with my body in a very real way. As a little fat girl, it was clothing that became symbols of my body's failure to conform, and as a grown & ferosh fat lady, it is clothing that has become a claim to visibility and a challenge to conquer, alter and radicalize. I have to understand the dimensions of my body - how wide my upper arms are, how big my bust is, how my hips are shaped, how many inches I need to account for when I sit down (and my belly pops more!) - when I'm buying or altering clothes.

I feel like my wardrobe - the hair birds, the sequins, the tiny veiled hats, the endless nautical-themed outfits - is part of my healing process. It's the intentional flouting of feminine convention. It's the conscious refusal to make others feel comfortable by putting my lumps away. It's laying to rest my old, little girl ambitions of invisibility. And it's laying claim to a new politic of customized disobedience.