A Different Kind of History Lesson
7.27.07


NEWSFLASH -- Every now and then a genuine opportunity for educating the masses on African American history’s repercussions presents itself.  You have to watch for these occasions, but they do come and usually at a time and in a way one would least expect. 

My most recent experience with this phenomenon was in one of my weekly weight loss classes.  For the sake of convenience, I attend my meetings in an economically privileged area adjacent to my place of employment.  You can imagine what this means.  Just in case you can’t, let me tell you.  Chairs are primarily filled with white women between the ages of 25 and 65.  Most of these women are gainfully employed, yet they clearly maintain an upper middle-income lifestyle (and thus mindset).  I have no complaints about this.  As my focus at the meetings is on how to lose weight and permanently control my diet, race is not a primary factor.

And yet, it is.  We talk about weight and diet, but the context of the conversation is (naturally) a reflection of who is in the room.  For instance, when we discuss eating responsibly at bar-b-ques, someone always brings up their delicate skin burning in the sun.  Discussing enjoyable physical activity somehow leads to line dancing and a discussion of the best country and rock n’ roll stars.  Certain types of music just never seem to come up.  Can you guess which ones?  And WHENEVER eating properly on the road is addressed, people speak fondly of taking a trip to their “home country,” which is almost always located somewhere in Europe .  These are rather benign discussions and there’s nothing irritating about them on an individual basis.  But when the white point of view is the dominant view in various ways, meeting after meeting after meeting (I’ve been at this for a while), it can begin to get pretty annoying.  I wouldn’t call it enraging, as people are genuinely unaware of their viewpoint not being the only viewpoint.  They are not expressing racism, but their conversations are limited –to say the least.

At my last meeting I had one of those great opportunities to share a bit of my own history within the context of weight loss.  It was not a conscious decision, but once I got going, I figured that I should just be real and continue.  After all, I was only expressing my personal viewpoint. I wasn’t being racist or anything…

“So what are some of the main habits that we formed in childhood that have led to our weight problems?” 

This is a simple prompt asked by the leader and designed to be equally inclusive of all people in the room.  And so it begins.

“Well, my family is Italian and we eat a lot of Italian food.  When I was growing up…”

That’s all it took.  I was soon witnessing a full-blown discussion on a variety of immigrant food experiences – all of them being white.  People were actually interrupting one another to get in their two cents on how difficult it was to eat healthily when one was bombarded by ancestral background.  All the familiar countries emerged – Italy , France , Ireland , Scotland , Russia and Israel .  Even some lesser-known contenders were later mentioned – Czechoslovakia , Romania and Wales .  Normally this would be okay, but everyone save two others and me were involved.  What pushed me over the edge was the actual bitching and moaning about how these rich foods had damaged their ability to choose a healthier diet.  While they were definitely proud of their heritage, more and more members spoke as dietary victims of cultural history. One comment served as the proverbial last straw.

“Well, I mean it’s very hard to get away from it.  For generations my people ate these rich, high calorie foods and having that passed onto my grandparents, my parents and myself from past generations is one of the main reasons it’s hard for me to really change my diet and what foods I eat.”

What?  Bitch please.  My turn!

“Well,” I said as I watched the one other African American in the meeting rolling her eyes.  “I understand what everyone’s talking about.”

Heads nodded and there were faint smiles.  They always like when one of us chooses to participate.

“I mean, I’m still working off of a slave diet.”

Silence.  No heads nodding.  Absolute confusion.  Time to elaborate.

“You know I’m listening to you guys talk about all these rich foods being in your family for generations.  I don’t know anything about that.  I do know that my maternal great-great grandmother told my mother about the day she was set free.” This is true.

Confusion begins to transform into being uncomfortable.

“She also talked about what she had to eat as a slave in Alabama .  Bad stuff. I don’t mean fried chicken and biscuits.  She didn’t have it that good.  But everything was pretty much fried and put in grease to make it taste good.  The slaves needed something since they only got the most disgusting parts of the animal to work with.”

A couple of coughs.  I turn to the leader and say the following with a full smile.

“I’m glad you asked that question.  We still eat a lot of what is called ‘soul food’ in my family.  It’s very, very fattening but its considered comfort food and even though it almost always leads to diabetes, we still usually have it. It’s what we know.”

Now it should have been left at that, but the leader just couldn’t resist.

“Uh, I’m sure there were some rich foods in your – uh – heritage as well.”

No this bitch didn’t.  Do I dispute other ethnic claims?  No, I don’t.  What she really wants to say is that it couldn’t have been that bad. 

Okay, let’s dance.

“Well, funny you should say that.  I’m sure there are rich African foods, but being stolen and cut off from our history and all – I don’t even know which country I’d refer to, let alone which foods.”  I then turn back to the larger, somewhat mortified group. “You guys are so lucky!  You can say exactly which foods came from where.  You can really zero in on the problem.”

I then turn back to the leader.  “But you make a good point.”

She smiles, somewhat.

“We definitely eat some of the same rich, fatty foods that are part of the general southern diet.”

A little tension eases out of the room.  People feel somewhat vindicated.  My people couldn’t have been treated that badly if they ate some of the same foods that white people ate in this country.  But I’m not through making my point.

“I mean the house slaves, usually the ones who were descendents of the slave master, they got some pretty good dregs from the kitchen when they could.  And of course they knew how to prepare a lot of those southern dishes since they were forced to cook for their owners.  So I guess you’re right.”

The leader nods.  She doesn’t want to drag this out.  This is uncomfortable for everyone.  They don’t talk about the oppression of their ancestors – not because it didn’t occur, but because it didn’t occur on this soil.  And if it did, it paled in comparison to slavery.  Any fool knows that.  And so does any fool who is trying to lose weight.  The bottom line is that they had nothing to complain about and as usual their viewpoint was limited.

The leader pipes back in.

“Well, the larger point is that family habits are very hard to break simply because they go back for several generations.”

Did she think I was done?

“Exactly!  I mean we’re free now, so to speak, but it’s hard to break out of that cycle.  Sort of like what other people were saying about their immigrant backgrounds – except for being physically owned of course.”  It’s important to state this with a simple smile, demonstrating my oblivion to how others might be feeling as I shove my history down their throats.  Tic for tat, I think.

Now people want to point out that their family didn’t own slaves.  But they don’t know this for sure and it would be giving way too much credence to what I’ve been saying.  Aside from that, and I’m not above admitting this, it has nothing to do with weight loss.  But neither did their fond memories of seeing the rolling Scottish hills or finding their ancestral crest in Venice .  The leader takes another stab at regaining control of the meeting.

“Well, we’re all pretty much in the clean-your-plate-club.  That goes across all of our backgrounds.”

I see more nods of approval and people that were looking directly at the floor now shift their eyes back up.  But I’m not quite finished.

“I agree with that.  I mean, my people didn’t eat off of actual plates – not in the fields.  But they definitely ate everything they could whenever they got a chance.  The physical labor was really hard work.  That’s the difference. They burned off their calories while working for their master.”  Another thought occurs to me.  “Or I guess sometimes when they ran away.”

The leader pounces on what she sees as a way out.

“Yes, people in this country did a lot more physical labor.  If you go even further back, that’s why everyone’s ancestors could eat so much and not become overweight or obese.  They burned it off by walking – um - building and all kinds of activities that we do less or none of today.”

She looked at me.  Was I going to let it go and allow them to get back to business as usual?  That was a smart move on her part: taking it back to times before African chattel slavery in this country.  I glance at the clock on the wall. There are about five minutes left until the meeting is over.  We still have to congratulate those who lost weight and do a pre-discussion of next week’s topic.  I decide to let it go, for now.  Unlike most others in the room, I’m not oblivious to those around me who don’t share my viewpoint, history or skin color and I decide that that’s enough for today.

“That’s true.”  I leave it at that.  No follow up, even though I could provide plenty.  And they know it.

She goes on and people are back to talking again, though they’ve definitely been impacted.  I wonder how long the effect will last, how long the veneer of mindlessness will remain removed.  Probably until people make it to their cars or finish running their evening errands.  Everyone is now jumping in on physical labor and how little they do in comparison to past generations.  I know that their immigrant ancestors did do a great deal of physical labor (some still do) and that what we do today is much, much less.  But still there is a difference.  Physical labor and physical ownership overlapped for my people – not for theirs. 

This fact carries over into more than my diet. It is a part of my soul and colors how I see the world.  It is what it is.  And I refuse to apologize for this.  It should be noted that apologies are not limited to verbal lamentations. They extend to being quiet when your history – the actual history of this country – is being ignored, dismissed or glossed over.  So I spoke up and people listened, if only for a few minutes.  They didn’t like what they heard but that wasn’t because it was a lie.  It was because it was the truth.