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The horses reared back their fat trans heads and snorted and whinnied. Their unshod hooves stirred dust fat trans clouds. The cowboys kept after them. So that no matter how heroic was the horse's resistance, there always came the terrible moment when the cowboy triumphed and the horse relinquished its will. Sometimes the belt left welts. On those days, I wore knee socks to fat trans school. Even now that I am old, I feel Mama chase me from room to room, the brown leather belt flailing, its brass buckle closer and closer. I hear the buckle slash the air. The shame that Mama's beating me compounded with the shame of my fatness left me cowering. I was nervous. I began to flinch, noticeably, at unexpected noises—backfires in the street, dog barks. If someone bumped me, I jumped. By the time I got to fourth grade Mama and I didn't see much of each other. On weekdays, she rarely arrived home until dinner and she was gone Sunday, because she was the soprano soloist in a midtown church and she frequently sang both morning services and in afternoon chorales and oratorios.
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