March 2008
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Food for Our Souls
By Dyann Logwood
An excerpt from Body Outlaws, Edited by Ophira Edut
When my father died a few years ago, the house was filled with visitors. My dad was a gentle person who picked cotton as a teenager, served in the military, and worked for thirty years as an auto plant supervisor. He was well loved in the community. On Sundays, he took the pulpit regularly at our Pentecostal church, preaching about the ways that kinship and righteous life would save black people's souls. His early passing hit our congregation hard.
It was no surprise when, during the September week that cancer took him, the cars piled into my mother's gravel driveway. Doors swung open, delivering family and well-wishers, each newcomer bearing a lovingly prepared dish of home-cooked food. Fried chicken, glazed hams, buttered rolls, fruitcakes, cupcakes, homemade cookies. Comfort food. Soul food. As my spirit wept and my plate was piled higher, I truly understood what comfort food meant.
Two months later, I swept the last crumbs from our refrigerator, feeling hollow and tired. At a time when I needed some spiritual strength, my beliefs no longer offered solid ground. I always thought that if you didn't drink or smoke, you'd live a long life. But at age forty-nine, my father, who did neither, got cancer; at fifty-one he passed away. Witnessing that rocked my security and shook my faith in the strong, loving community that once sheltered me.
I grew up among black working- and middle-class churchgoing folks who loved to eat. No matter what the occasion—family reunion, graduation, holiday, or funeral—food was the guest of honor. It was also our resistance. Eating with zest and abandon was like turning centuries of oppression upside down. What's known today as soul food was once our sole food—scraps rejected by white plantation owners because they were considered unfit for consumption. That these recipes are now considered cuisine testifies to the ingenious ways that African Americans have always "made a way outta no way." By virtue of collard greens, pigs' feet and chiltlins, we declare, "See, we won't starve. We won't allow you to steal the joy from our lives. In fact, we'll have second, third, and fourth helpings just to prove it."
As a girl, I was encouraged to eat and to get some meat on my bones. Rounding out was considered healthy. And as I got older and began to develop into a woman's shape, my opinions rounded out, too. My increasing physical presence had a profound effect on the men around me. My precocious remarks, which were "cute" when I was little, were suddenly deemed inappropriate. It was clear my elders felt I needed to be put back in my place. But my place had expanded with my size. I took up more space and fought with anyone who dared to tread too far across those boundaries.
Filling up space was important to me. It meant that in a larger world that might want to keep a black girl silent, I could not be ignored. As my body filled out, I got louder, smarter, and bolder. My hand shot up in class, and I became known for being, well, a little bit cocky. It helped that I was born with a deep, distinctive voice. It was low and powerful, and I knew from my father's Sunday morning example how to dramatically project and inflect it in a way that made people stop and take notice. In high school, my favorite teacher, Trudy Adams, encouraged me to enter local speaking contests. After a while, my voice filled the tall shelf in our living room with trophies, blue ribbons, and plaques.
Still, it wasn't enough for me simply to be heard—I wanted to be seen, too. Since my height peaked at just under five feet, I decided to make up for my "shortcoming" by filling out in the other direction. My body was happy to cooperate. Between my own version of the four food groups—sugar, fat, salt, and caffeine—and some sturdy genes, I became quite thick. People joked that they could tell I wasn't starving. But their teasing was meant as a compliment, for it implied that I was taking care of myself.
I became proud of my body, because I was beginning to resemble the women I admired at my church. Although it would take me years to adopt their poised sashays and proudly cocked heads, I looked in the mirror and felt thick, confident, and strong (I would be later told by my doctor that I was "chubby, anemic, and unhealthy" —but more on that in a little while.).
Food has always been something of a status symbol in the black community, suggesting that a new day has arrived for African Americans to rejoice in abundant "health" and prosperity. I never thought for a moment that the hearty meals I enjoyed the most, meals that were part of my culture, could be harmful to my body. I just thought I was eating well.
Although my parents forced me to eat fruits and vegetables as a child (a practice I abandoned in my teens), they never taught me what healthy eating really meant. Today, magazines like Heart and Soul and Essence devote themselves to encouraging a new culture of nutrition, fitness, and health among African Americans. And although this trend is growing, we keep these strange new values at a safe distance from our most sacred and authentic spaces. Nobody from my hometown would dream of suggesting, say, a vegetarian church picnic. And while I've heard talk of local churches educating their congregations about diabetes, cancer, and heart disease, few people would willingly quit the chiltlins, ribs, and ham hocks.
But my father's death was a wake-up call for me. The emotional toll left me fatigued and depressed, and my own health began to break down. Some days, I didn't have enough energy to get out of bed, or I was beset with headaches so intense I could hardly see.
Finally, I went to the doctor and discovered that I was anemic and dehydrated. I didn't know much about dehydration—I figured I got some water in my system when I drank soda and fruit juices. "You mean to tell me I have to drink eight glasses of water a day?" I asked my doctor in shock. "And add fruit and vegetables to my diet—and take iron pills— in order to function?"
In spite of my dismay, I gave nutrition a chance. As I moved through the grieving process, I needed the energy to get out of bed every day. Food that tasted good didn't necessarily make me feel good after I ate it. Healthy food helped me to heal.
I was surprised at how quickly my body responded to the new regimen. I drank lots of water and carrot juice, which boosted my energy and helped me stay awake without caffeine. I even tried tofu, which I had once scorned, refusing to believe that it could taste as good as beef or chicken. And there was something culturally reminiscent in my new au natural lifestyle: My grandmother could throw a handful of herbs into a pot and make tea that would cure any ailment in no time.
Gradually, I added new regimens: I joined a gym, talked to my doctor about vitamins, and even went to counseling. I believed strongly that my body and my soul were interconnected, and I wanted to take a holistic approach to my healing.
The change showed up on the outside: I lost about twenty pounds. It was never my intention to get smaller, but that's what happens when you make healthy food choices. Funny, as the pounds came off, my family began to worry that I was unhealthy. Their main concern was that I "wasn't eating right." Sure, black women come in all shapes and sizes, but it's no coincidence that what we call "healthy" is often considered the opposite—twenty pounds "overweight."
A healthy body image is very important, but without developing healthy bodies at the same time, it's a hollow victory. We can't survive as a people if we're dying young. We need a cultural prescription for well-being—one that will give us the energy to continue the fight.
It's a challenge for sure, and one that often begins at the table. My willpower was put to the test last summer when I dropped by my cousin's graduation barbecue. Surrounded by platters of honey-baked ham and mounds of potato salad with savory steam rising from the backyard grill, I felt a nostalgic pull toward the serving table. Sitting quietly on a picnic bench, my plate bearing a meager heap of collard greens and skinless chicken, I felt more than conspicuous. I was caught in the act of culinary treason, deserting my culture like the oft-caricatured Ph.D. who comes back to the ‘hood' and is met with hostile suspicion.
Not that anyone was hostile towards me. Mostly, I think they just felt sorry for me because I was missing out on all that delicious food, the joyous bonding ritual, and the ecstasy of each perfectly seasoned bite.
Still, I stuck to my resolve, and continue to do so to this day. I was fueled recently after watching the movie Soul Food, which was based on the premise that traditional food can unite a black family. Although my mouth watered through most of the footage, I also hoped for a message, one that would highlight the detrimental effects of a high-fat, high-cholesterol diet. Instead, when the matriarchal grandmother passes away from diabetes, her next of kin gather over fried chicken, collard greens, cornbread, and dessert.
This year, I graduated from college—and you know food was a guest at the celebration. Naturally, my friends arrived expecting the table to be set with all the usual suspects. Instead, they were greeted with platters of cut fruits and vegetables as well as a few traditional dishes prepared in a healthier fashion. I knew they were a little weirded out by it, so I encouraged them to fill their plates and gather around the various couches and chairs.
Funny, since food wasn't the party's focus, people started to talk. In the past, they would clean their plates and then want to go home for a nap. This time was different; and the recipe, it seemed, was a success. Our mouths weren't too stuffed to sit and reminisce, talk, and bond—which we did for hours. Our voices lifted the delicate sweetness of memories, the juiciness of laughter, and the tenderness of loving spirits that seasoned our culture with a rich and wonderful flavor.
Ophira Edut has been featured in numerous media sources, including Ms., the New York Times, MTV and Entertainment Weekly. She lives in New York and lectures at colleges and conferences nationwide about body image and the media. Her book “Body Outlaws” is in its third edition and has been translated into Greek and Chinese, adopted as college curriculum nationwide, and made into a stage play.
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Content last updated March 1, 2008.
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