An Open Letter to All of You Good People of Earth

Thousands of shares, hundreds of emails, a handful of media opportunities, two weeks and one tweet from Rosie later, I find myself right back where I started, trying to decide how to follow up that letter.

Going viral was unexpected to say the least. When I clicked "publish" on the post, I had every intention of turning in for the night and carrying on with my evening (and life) as usual. Needless to say, that's not exactly how things panned out.

Many people have reached out in the wake of the story wanting to know how things turned out. Did Mike Jeffries respond? Was I going to participate in the Abercrombie protest? Had Ellen reached out yet? (A note to the curious: No. No. And no.)

But here is what did happen...

I received a flood of comments and emails from people of all sizes, shapes, ages, races, sexual orientations and walks of life, sharing their personal stories of bullying, body image and personal struggle.

While the vast majority of the comments were positive (a category into which I also lump comments from those who respectfully and constructively expressed their disagreement with my viewpoint in the letter), there will always be that small handful of people who chime in with hateful negativity no matter what the topic. In this instance, I think those responses served as shining examples of why this conversation is so necessary and important. At the core, the letter was never really about Abercrombie or Mike Jeffries. It was about the impact intolerance has on the world and on the individual. There is no hierarchy of hate. No form of hatred is more or less acceptable than another. Intolerance is unacceptable. Plain and simple. 

Many people have asked me when I knew this letter was "really something." While hearing from Rosie was surreal, the morning I opened my email to discover this letter from a teacher in Georgia was the moment the magnitude of everything really hit me:

"I would like to request permission to reprint Amy Taylor's article, "An Open Letter from a 'Fat Chick' to Mike Jeffries, CEO of Abercrombie and Fitch" for each student in 6th grade at [XXX] Middle School in [XXX}, Georgia.

The Language Arts Department would like to use this piece in a unit on bullying/fitting in during the 2013-14 school year, and students would need their own copy in order to annotate for understanding as they read. I appreciate your considering this request and look forward to hearing back from you."

As a writer, the greatest reward of all is discovering that your words have resonated with someone, inspiring them to take positive action. It has been remarkably humbling to hear how a single letter has empowered so many parents and teachers to start a dialog with their kids about the things they’re struggling through and dealing with on a daily basis.

Despite what some people perceived, the letter didn’t come from a place of anger. It came from the memory of everyone who has played a part in who and where I am today. Throughout my life I have known so many wonderful people who have been bullied and judged for everything from their sexual orientation to the way they speak, the neighborhood they grew up in to the color of their skin. The message of the letter belongs to all of us, I’m just the one who put it to paper.

As a marketer by trade, I’m acutely aware that every brand has a target demographic and a marketing strategy. Some verbalize it, some don’t. I respect the right of every American to speak their mind, whether I agree with it or not. Mike Jeffries’ alleged comments were simply an opening in the conversation that allowed me to share my story. The message I hope people end up taking away from all of this has nothing to do with t-shirts or jeans. We are all works in progress. We have all overcome something in our lives. We all have a story to tell. Chances are, someone out there needs to hear yours.

As for the future, who can say. In the wise words of my dear friend Josh Cox, "A hundred years from now, I’d rather be lost in the crowd of a revolution that started when everyone banded together as one to take our minds and bodies and lives back. If I do what I believe in the way I want to do it, I’ll be lost in a tidal wave of great people doing great things who never would have done those great things if they didn’t realize how great they were as people."

My sincerest thanks to every person who has reached out, left a comment or shared the post. You've given me a front row seat to the best side of humanity. For that, I will be forever grateful.

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Like this? Check out Amy's passion project, Good People of Earth

Life, Death and a Dinner Table: A Family Tale of the Healing Power of Eating Together

I have a fairly large extended family. For the most part, our current clan originated in Wichita, Kansas, but through the power invested in marriages, divorces, job transfers and time, we have been strewn out across the country over the years. You'll now find pushpins in our family map everywhere from the Florida Keys to Honolulu, Austin to Wisconsin.

As a result of our geographic divergence, it makes it very difficult for all (or even many) of us to ever come together in the same place at the same time. Years go by and we don't see each other. The younger cousins eternally frozen in my mind as munchkins at the "little kids table" are now high school seniors and sophomores in college. The home I cast as the scene for all family memories hasn't been in our family for nearly a decade. This is just to say - things change, people get busy, time flies.

A year ago my grandmother passed away after a brief battle with cancer. Weddings and funerals. For better or worse, these are the things that  finally bring a modern family together. As each branch received the call, they made plans to descend upon the teeny, tiny town of Frederick, Oklahoma - my grandmother's childhood stomping ground. She had elected to be buried in Frederick beside her parents.

Frederick. How do I explain Frederick? It is perhaps best described as a blip town. A blip I fell very much in love with. Frederick is the kind of little place you pass through on a rural highway heading somewhere else. The last census put the population at under 4,000. I'm not sure what industry supports the economy there, I can only guess farming, and I remember reading somewhere that the median income in Frederick was well under $30,000.

In many ways Frederick feels like a land untouched by time. It struck me as the kind of place that could be described (and accurately so) as the heartbeat of America. A place steeped in family, God and the American dream. Unpretentious and hardworking. A welcome smile with a little grit under the fingernails. A land where people know their neighbors - and the value of a hard day's work. Frederick isn't relic as much as it is artifact. It isn't un-evolved, rather it's a place - and a lifestyle - unperturbed. From what I have gathered from my mother's accounts of visiting the sleepy tow in the 50s and 60s, not much has changed for Frederick the past half-century...and that's okay.

My family descended on Frederick like a bit of a storm. If you're going to stay in Frederick, your lodging options are limited to two motorlodge-type hotels on the outskirts of town. If you don't like the first, no worries. The other option is right next door. But if memory serves, one of the signs boasted that they were now offering wireless internet, so you may want to take that into consideration.

Our first afternoon in town, we took a driving tour around the city - and down memory lane. 40-some years later, my mother's memory was still able to trace its way back to the modest farmhouse my great-grandmother (Mimi) and great-grandfather (Homer) had owned together. It is the place where my grandmother grew up. My mother reminisced about the small patch of land my great-grandmother had tended, a vegetable and flower garden, and beyond it, the land my great-grandfather had tilled. She regaled us with stories of Mimi, the industrious wife of a farmer, snapping the necks of dinner chickens and plucking them clean. It was a stark contrast to the gentle, quiet, if not a bit frail, great-grandmother I remembered. In my mind, she was a soul better suited for gently cradling a cup of tea than slaughtering unsuspecting chickens. The image of her strong and fearless doing what had to be done gave me new perspective.

I come from a long line of strong, courageous females, it would seem.

The funeral went as funerals go. The chapel and cemetery set in a picturesque, rural area outside of town. It was a beautiful day, unseasonably warm, and cows were murmuring off in the distance. I suspect our unusual quietness was a bittersweet recognition of the irony that bidding a loved one farewell was the one thing that had a way of bringing the living back together.

After the casket had been laid, we mobilized the troops. We'd need lunch before everyone traveled back to their separate corners of the world. Having had our fill of Pizza Hut (and having no inclination to try Sonic), we ended up at a little local restaurant called The Bomber Inn.

My people are not a small people. At 5'10" I am one of the shorter cousins on my mother's side of the family. As we descended on The Bomber Inn, the staff and regulars looked at us incredulously, but only for a moment before shuffling chairs and tables to make it work. We crammed into booths, shared menus, stormed the single restroom. Clearly strangers, nobody poked or pried. They just made us feel welcome.

I don't recall what I ate that day. A grilled cheese or a chicken-fried steak, who can say for sure? I remember strange things from that afternoon. One of the waitresses asking my cousin to come into the kitchen to reach something on a high shelf. An older gentleman approaching my uncle to tell him he had a "mighty handsome family." More than that, I remember a feeling. A feeling of being acutely aware of the importance of eating together that day.

The truth is we cannot control the ticking of time. We don't get a say in when or how or where things come together or fall apart. We get busy, stressed, preoccupied, but at least a few times a day, life forces us to stop and eat. And we can choose to do that together.

Author Norman Kolpas once said, “Food, like a loving touch or a glimpse of divine power, has that ability to comfort.” That afternoon, crammed in booths at The Bomber Inn, we weren't just eating lunch, we were celebrating a life. We weren’t just nourishing our bodies, we were nourishing our hearts and our spirits, too.

It's unlikely I will ever be in Frederick again. I doubt I'll be back at The Bomber Inn. But I often think of the kindness they showed us that day, and I hope they know that more than a meal, they gave us a rare and precious moment of togetherness in the heartbeat of America. It won't soon be forgotten.