Island Vibes Magazine

Balancing the Scales: Finding a happy medium between macaroni pie and a healthy, trim body

Posted on 21. Aug, 2009 by admin in Health

By Kimberley McLeod

My mouth began salivating at the thought of curried goat, rice and peas, sweetbread and beef patties. My taste buds had been too long deprived of the delicious Caribbean delicacies that so frequently occupied the stovetop and oven shelves of my Brooklyn kitchen. At the end of every semester away at boarding school, I anticipated returning home to these authentic meals. I had consumed enough of my failed attempts at macaroni pie that didn’t quite “pie” and stew chicken that didn’t exactly “stew.” Surely whatever concoction I conjured up tasted amazing, but they just weren’t quite the same and lacked that Caribbean je ne sais quoi.

Finally summer commenced and my olfactory glands were floating in aromatic ecstasy. Soon I was tearing jerk-flavored meat off chicken bones, dousing thick slices of homemade bread into saltfish and its oily gravy, and coming pretty darn close to climaxing off the sugary goodness of mango and cherry preserves. Mmmm.

I felt nauseous.

What used to make my stomach growl ferociously, now made it churn in self-resentment. How could I possibly eat all this crap, I wondered to myself. This absolutely mouth-watering, belly-griping, flavorful, sickening, delectable, disgusting crap.

I suddenly hated myself for no longer eating side salads and daily servings of veggies. I used to drink water with every meal, for Christ’s sake! And worst of all, I had fallen into this workout slump. At school, I exercised five days a week and was able to maintain a size that I was quite pleased with. Although I was far from my chubby toddler days (I shudder at the thought of the nickname “Fat Dumpling”), I was always determined to lose more weight. I had a plan and I stuck to it. I was healthy, I looked good and I felt fabulous.

I hated my family even more for ruining this well-oiled machine. It was their fault for enticing me into consuming hundreds of six-pack-dissolving calories. I eyed the items from the grocery store—super-sized tubs of butter, countless blocks of cheese, and colossal parcels of flour that resembled kickboxing bags. It was carb heaven and I was standing right at its gates…with my mouth wide open.

Whenever I picked at my food or cut my portions in half, I was teased for liking my “White” food more and “denying” my Caribbean roots. I was a weight-obsessed, health-conscious, calorie-checking freak. I was “too American.”

I returned to boarding school and received compliments from my “too American” friends. “Did you lose weight?” they asked in anticipation. “You look good,” they added with smiles of approval. Months later, I visited my family in Trinidad and was met with concerned eyes. “Are you happy?” my grandfather inquired while wrapping his hand around my arm. To him, thinness was an affliction. I was inspected and urged to put more on my plate. Meanwhile, my sister and mother were praised for their fuller size.

Black media often glorifies thick thighs and large posteriors, but Black women do not live in a community that is insulated from the larger American cultural messages about what is attractive. We are receiving these messages every day and we’re internalizing them. In March 2009, a new study revealed that Black teenage girls are 50 percent more likely to suffer from bulimia than White teenage girls. While I didn’t suffer from bulimia, I wasn’t far from it. On several occasions, I knelt against the cold tiles on the bathroom floor with my face inches away from the toilet, contemplating whether I should use my finger or my toothbrush. I tried to make myself purge, but fortunately I failed.

The conflicting messages I received have made me more critical of the decisions we, as Black women, make about our bodies and eating lifestyles. According to the Center of Disease Control, four out of five African-American women are overweight or obese (the highest rate compared to other groups in the U.S.). Girls with an eating disorder who are African-American or from low-income households are much less likely to be diagnosed or treated. And while it will take time for the government to redirect funding of educational programs about body image to these at-risk women, this is a conversation that can start today in our homes.

It didn’t start in mine until I was in college and began challenging my family’s unbalanced diet and failure to exercise. It’s a dialogue (and at times argument) that still needs to happen everyday.

There is some happy medium that I have yet to find—a place where the nutritionally-challenged and food-deprived worlds meet. A place where my Caribbean people use healthier ingredients and exercise portion-control. A place where my fellow Americans no longer treat food as an enemy and embrace all sizes. I hope that one day they can exist in equilibrium.

Share this on