Given the season we are in, with our second woman as a viable presidential candidate, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it’s like for women—not just on the national stage but in our day-to-day lives.
I like to imagine that Vice President Kamala Harris and I would be friends in an alternative universe. We both enjoy cooking, are devoted aunties, love food and are members of the same sorority, with one marked difference: It’s highly unlikely that I will ever run for national office. That’s not just because I cannot imagine anything less interesting (shout-out to those public servants who do the daily slog of legislation), but also because I’m not thin and likely never will be again.
At some point during the pandemic, I started watching TikToks and found a couple of very helpful dietitians who talked about how food made by BIPOC folks was vilified as being bad for you.
That sent me down a rabbit hole exploring the white supremacy embedded in the concept of “good” food versus “bad” food. I’ve thought about how we’ve attacked food created by Black and Brown folks to perpetuate the narrative that not much good comes out of those communities—or that what does come out needs to be “fixed”—which often means gentrification of Black and Brown brilliance.
I grew up in a home with two naturally thin people—my mom and my brother—who are two of the most wonderful people in the world and who, like me, love food. My dad and stepdad, both lifelong athletes, have also never had weight problems, playing basketball and tennis until very recently. I found my love of working out in the 1990s with the advent of step aerobics, and it’s mostly a habit I’ve kept up. To say it wasn’t ideal for a fluffy woman to grow up with these parents and siblings would be an understatement.
The pandemic gave me time for reflection and the energy to cook for myself and my best friend, who hunkered down with me during the worst of it. Those TikTok dietitians helped me stop counting calories and stop announcing that I was “cheating” or eating something “bad.” I eventually stopped fighting with food and not much changed about my weight or bloodwork over the last three years.
When I would come back from vacation, I’d immediately weigh myself. In fact, I weighed myself every day. When I stopped fighting with food and started listening to my body—with the help of therapy and anti-anxiety meds—my relationship with food improved so much. Yes, I may order the burger when I’m out. Sometimes I eat it all, and sometimes I don’t. As I mentioned, I work consciously to stop vilifying food. It’s hard, but it’s better.
Food is fuel, and I consciously choose the best food for me. It helps that I live in Mississippi, where being fluffy is often seen as a plus, but I know that’s not the case for many women who are smart and capable but don’t “look the part.” America prefers its leaders to be thin—even though many, many of us are not. I guess they are a proxy for our hopes.
Still, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means for a Brown woman who cooks her family’s recipes and delights in tasty treats but happens to be thin—and what that means for the rest of us. I think it’s good for us all no matter what you think about her politics to rediscover our love of food and the joy it should bring us.
Editor’s note: The above column is not meant to be health or dietary advice. Please consult your physician about your dietary choices, especially if you have a medical condition.
This MFP Voices essay does not necessarily represent the views of the Mississippi Free Press, its staff or board members. To submit an opinion for the MFP Voices section, send up to 1,200 words and sources fact-checking the included information to voices@mississippifreepress.org. We welcome a wide variety of viewpoints.
