Tag Archives: Fat is a feminist issue

There’s no such thing as “healthy food”

There’s no such thing as “healthy food”.

I’ll just let that sink in for a moment.

And repeat:

There’s no such thing as “healthy food”.

It’s true.

There is Health Food, as a cultural construct1, but, as a cultural construct, it is ever changing; currently we are undergoing a cultural shift from low-fat to low-carbohydrate food earning the appellation. But, aside from the fact that we simply cannot agree on what qualifies, there is so such thing as “healthy food”.

One of the most frustrating things about being a fat woman is: everyone is convinced they have The Perfect Diet, and if I would just follow it, the fat would just walk away2. Everyone. Everyone. The veg*ns. The Paleos. The Atkin adherents. The raw food peeps. Eat no fat; eat tons of fat. Eat no grains; eat soaked grains. Eat a fastfood turkey sandwich every day; eat nothing from a store. Everyone is convinced they have The Truth on what is Healthy Food, and what the other guy (or the fat chick) is eating ain’t it.

Or, maybe, for the super open minded and tolerant, they’ll say we’re not quite sure just what healthy food is (except you won’t find it at McDonald’s). But by all the saints and Starbucks, don’t question the idea that there is such a thing as Healthy Food, because surely, if we just apply Science/Prayer/Common Sense/Historical Analysis/Noble Savage Wisdom, we’ll figure it out. And no one will ever die.

What? That’s the logical conclusion to the idea of Healthy Food. If we eat right, we won’t get sick. If we eat right, we won’t get fat. If we eat right, we won’t become diabetic. If we eat right, our kids won’t get autism. (If we eat right, we won’t be infertile, and we’ll be able to have children, who will obviously be free of all illness and defect.) If we eat right, we won’t be crazy. If we eat right, we won’t die from heart attack or stroke or cancer or liver failure or kidney disease or AIDS — and, if we eat right when we’re pregnant, neither will our children.

These are all things believers in the myth of healthy food have said. Half of them to me.

Ok, but let’s say that’s a hyperbolic misrepresentation of the position of Healthy Food’s believers3. Let’s say that when you say “she got diabetes because she ate like crap” you don’t actually mean “she wouldn’t have gotten diabetes if she’d eaten right” which itself could only be true if “no one who eats right gets diabetes”, which is utter bollocks. Let’s say that, instead, you have amazing powers of sight into alternate dimensions and a perfect ability to predict outcomes of statistical likelihoods4 — because that what it comes down to, risk, with some eating patterns carrying, on a population scale, different risk profiles than other eating patterns. You’re just saying healthy food improves your odds, not actually calling healthy food a panacea. But there’s still healthy food and unhealthy food, right?

No.

If we are not claiming there is a food, or a way of eating, that brings perfect health (which is assuming we can even meaningfully define “perfect health” in the first place), then the best we can do with food is risk management. “Healthy” can only exist as a comparative, not absolute, value.

So, compared to what? Which is healthier, raw cultured butter from pastured cows, or cold-pressed organic olive oil? That depends on whether you’re vegan, or lactose intolerant, or live in a dessert without a means of keeping food chilled5, I’d say. Which is healthier, a plate of brown rice spaghetti in fat-free sauce made from tomatoes from your own garden, or a protein shake with artificial sugar substitutes — to a diabetic? Which is healthier, the home cooked meal a growth-delayed, sensory-averse child absolutely won’t touch, or the McDonald’s chicken nuggets they’ll scarf?

Food — all food — brings things that are “good” for us, and things that are “bad”; or, more accurately, things that we need in that moment and things that we can store for later and things we don’t need (right then or at all) and things that we have too much of and things that actively harm us. All foods have all of these — only the specifics and amounts of each change. And the specifics are variable depending on our needs, which not only are different from person to person but each person’s needs change all the damn time.

Given that no food can fill all needs simultaneously6, and eating is a practice in good enough balance over time, how can we call a food “healthy” as an absolute?7 Food is meant to meet our needs8, and can only be evaluated on its ability to do so. Even a Twinkie is “healthy” for a person starved for caloric energy.

So there it is. There absolutely are foods that have a better need-filling to harm ratio in any given situation9. There absolutely are reasons to aim for eating foods that better meet more of your nutritional needs more of the time (though you have no moral obligation to do so). There so absolutely are reasons to call for large corporations to take out unnecessary harmful components from the food they sell and for, at the least, factual labeling about those additives. I disagree with not a piece of that, nor with helping people, should they wish, learn how to feed themselves in a way that meets more of their needs more of the time with less harm. Please, if that’s your calling, keep at it.

But the fact remains: there is no such thing as “healthy food”.

  1. Whence we have the terms “crunchy” and “granola” to describe people — as many would describe me. ↩
  2. SOMEONE BUY ME THIS. ↩
  3. It isn’t. ↩
  4. Remind me not to play craps with you. ↩
  5. Helloooo rancid oils. ↩
  6. For example: the presence of calcium inhibits the absorption of iron (and, pertinent to both me and the Boychick, oral thyroid hormone supplementation), and therefore we need to eat some foods high in calcium and deficient in iron, and others high in iron but lacking calcium. ↩
  7. Even postulating the theoretical existence of a food that perfectly filled all of our nutritional needs simultaneously in a perfectly balanced way: would it be healthy to be bored out of our ever-loving gourds by eating the same exact thing all the time? ↩
  8. Not just nutritional needs, but emotional, ritual, social, and so on — none of these is more or less important than others. ↩
  9. A large apple may do as well for our theoretical Twinkie-eater — though only if they have the teeth to eat it. ↩
36 Comments | Posted on 21 January 2012 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Kyriarchy | Tags: , ,
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Linkanikos

Another link round up from the lovely Emily. With luck, I’ll even have a chance to read them all soon. Probably whilst nursing.

Hello all.  How’s you?  Me, oh you know…  Now we’ve gotten the pleasantries out of the way, down to linkage.

At Big Fat Blog, in Scotland, a couple might have lose four of their seven children because their parents “failed to help them slim down.”  There’s email addresses at the bottom of the post you can use to help support keeping this family together.

Wikileaks revealed that the U.S has been lobbying against breastfeeding campaigns in the Philippines.  PhD in Parenting wrote about Evenflo breast pumps, and how a company goes from good to very, very bad.

Oregon Health & Science University researchers have developed a new contraceptive that is more focused and safer, controlling mechanisms that result in the release of an egg.  Intriguing.  s.e smith at Bitch on pop culture representations of parenting with mental illness.

At Tiger Beatdown, Sady wrote a lovely post about feminism, critique and feeling virtuous.

Massive unemployment: proof capitalism doesn’t work.  Another sad sign of the times – climate scientists establishing a legal defense fund because of all the lawsuits they’re facing.

In Greece, the rebel dog Loukanikos barked at some police offices in Syntagma (Constitution) Square.  Arwyn has her Doctor Who fandom, I have stray dogs in Athens.  Ok, I have Doctor Who too.

And speaking of, Doctor Whooves is feeling impatient.

Arwyn again: The dear (pony-fied) Doctor was obviously not in postpartum baby-land. As Kareena says, babies distort the space time continuum. Truer words ne’er were spoken!

1 Comment | Posted on 16 September 2011 by Arwyn | Category: Guest Posts, Parenting | Tags: , , , , , ,
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Fat and pregnant and beautifully blessed

And more than a wee bit exhausted. Especially since we’re also1 buying a house and moving.

But, I took some time out last week from packing, panicking, and sleeping to be blessed by a lovely group of friends, both near and far. And, for the first time, got myself hennaed, a gorgeous stylized tree right on my already-lovely fat and pregnant belly.2

a picture of the breasts, torso and stomach of Arwyn, a white woman. she is wearing a black bra, and her 38.5 week pregnant stomach is covered with a large hennaed oak tree, henna paste still on and quite dark. ps she is gorgeous.

Right after finishing, henna paste still on

I walked around for the next week randomly smiling as I remembered this was under my clothes:

another photo of Arwyn, this time a full body shot taken in a mirror with the phone she's holding upright in her left hand. She's wearing glasses, jeans and a navy blue blouse with white stars and white-and-rouge moons which is tucked up underneath her breasts to expose her pregnant belly. her belly is covered with a large hennaed oak tree, skin stained light red-brown by the henna. she is smiling slightly, and remains gorgeous

And the next day, after flaking off the paste.

But also because this3 was echoing in my ears:

And so, we offer this prayer today, for you, Arwyn:

May you
be valued and cherished,
as a woman, a writer, a healer
a lover, a partner, a mother,

May you
be given help when you need it

May you
love this child fiercely, and gently

May you
have the strength to seek connection, not control

May you
be surprised,
and answer “here I am” when you hear the call,
and may you bend like a willow tree
in the face of the unexpected

May you
forgive freely, forgiving even the unforgivable,
and be forgiven in return

And finally, and perhaps most importantly,
may you be kind to yourself, to your children, partner, family and friends
and be treated kindly in return.

And for your child:

May it grow up given every chance to thrive, to flourish, to live a life as rich and full of experience as can be. May the child live free from harm, from trauma, from unnecessary pain and suffering. And most of all, may it be it happy and loved, by you, [The Man], [the Boychick], and all in its life.

This, please. In these last hours, days, perhaps weeks4, I walk in the hope of this.

  1. WHAT THE HELL WERE WE THINKING OMG NEVER DO THIS NEVER EVER EVER EVERRRRRRRR ↩
  2. The Fetus was not making it easy, doing barrel rolls more or less the entire time, but the lovely Nichol did perfectly anyway. ↩
  3. A blessing written by a dear friend rendered by distance unable to be there herself, but whose presence was felt via her words, read aloud by those there. ↩
  4. Please, at least one week. ↩
8 Comments | Posted on 28 August 2011 by Arwyn | Category: Body | Tags: , ,
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Fat and 36 weeks pregnant and… ready for birth?? Pictures, pools, and ranting

Tonight the midwives dropped off the birth pool. As of today, if I go into labor, we’re not calling it premature, we’re not going to try to stop it, and, barring other indications, we’re not going to the hospital.

Give me a moment to boggle, run around in a panic, and faint from all there is left to do.

…

!!!!!!

_______

Ok, back now.

36 weeks clothed

Fat and pregnant: 36 weeks

Ignore the confident expression: I’m too stunned to realize I should be panicking.1,2

One of the many reasons I love and appreciate the midwives model of care is the normalization of the wide range of experiences of humanity, and of pregnancy and birth in particular. Midwives, in general (and as allowed by law, by which they are often, instead, constrained), would not induce at 36 or 37 weeks — but neither would they immediately call spontaneous labor at those gestational ages “abnormal” or pathological. Similarly, midwives not bound by laws on gestational length rarely are concerned by 41 or 42 (or, depending, 43 or 44) week pregnancies.

Those who do not follow the midwifery model of care, whether they name it such or not, are much more likely to have a narrow range of non-pathological — and, conversely, be much more willing to interfere in the biological process, with the assumption that whatever complications might be introduced by such interference they can “manage”.

What is the point of this?

We are finding out3 that when it comes to pre-term inductions4, it simply isn’t so. When we induce large number of babies at (what we believe to be5) 37 weeks of pregnancy, more babies get sick. More babies spend time in the (expensive and traumatic) NICU6. More babies have breastfeeding problems. Likely, more babies die.

That is all old news to a birth geek like yours truly: the more we interfere without needful reason, the more problems we introduce. (Even when we interfere with compelling need, we introduce problems, but the balance of good can be on the side of intervening.) No, what makes me rant is the headline this “news” is appearing under:

Doctors To Pregnant Women: Wait At Least 39 Weeks

If you don’t see why this makes my eye twitch and keeps my massage therapist permanently employed de-kinking my neck, let me explain:

It is, once again, women’s fault.

Nevermind that doctors7 were the ones who convinced women that inducing at 38, 37 weeks was just fine and perfectly safe. Nevermind that the majority of early inductions are based on medical advice and/or scare mongering. Nevermind the host of misogynist, anti-family, capitalist forces leading to women wanting to schedule a birth:

desire to have the attendant with whom they have built a relationship — which is no trivial reason! — in a system that devalues humanity and relationships in favor of maximum profitability; limited parental leave postpartum or limited medical leave prenatally; pressure from employers and the need to overcome the perceptions of the “mommy track”; need for community and familial support postpartum; limited community support or understanding for the normal discomforts and changes of pregnancy; and the list goes on…

No, it is, simply, always, women’s fault — this time for being silly, for being vain, for being ignorant, for being selfish. Nevermind also the breathtakingly beautiful and complex calculations all pregnant mammals engage in, often unconsciously, as we weigh the best good for our offspring (both in the moment and singularly, and in the long run and in aggregate)8: women, when it comes down to it, need to have our babies rescued from ourselves. Thank gods there are doctors.9

Or, for my part, thank gods and my many privileges — including living in Portland, Oregon aka Midwife Central — that I have access to alternatives, and the health necessary to enjoy them. While there is still so much to worry about — which house will I birth in? will we get our act in gear and get the tub liner and other supplies in time? am I going to get the professional pictures I so desire? is everything going to go well; will my baby be ok? — I don’t have to worry that my care providers will pathologize my experience, interfere needlessly, and blame me for any bad outcomes.

Leaving me free to enjoy this, likely final, pregnancy — however long it lasts.

The bump above my belly button? Baby butt.

  1. Totally happy-bragging aside: there’s a “plus size women’s resale” store just half a mile from the Boychick’s new preschool — and, with luck, less than a mile from our new house — and I scored three new-to-me tops for pretty cheap there today, meaning I now have more than three dresses, one blouse, and two stolen-and-cut-up tshirts I can wear without flashing obnoxious belly panel everywhere. AND I got to support a local, fat-friendly establishment. Win all around! ↩
  2. Aside the second: this taking pictures of myself thing really does get easier the more I do it. ↩
  3. Or rather, the medical community is finally admitting. ↩
  4. And, really, a whole slew of other interventions, but let’s focus on induction for now. ↩
  5. I get very annoyed at comments like “without an ultrasound measurement in the first trimester, a woman’s due date could be as much as two weeks off”. No, without accurate dating, the “due date” could be inaccurate by days to weeks. But ultrasound is not the only method of accurate dating: I could tell you the exact date of ovulation for both the Boychick’s and this pregnancy, thank you charting. ↩
  6. Neonatal intensive care unit. ↩
  7. Here being used as shorthand for all those who attend birth under a more medical, and not midwifery, model of care. ↩
  8. For more, see Sarah Blaffer Hrdy’s Mother Nature. ↩
  9. This is sarcasm. ↩
29 Comments | Posted on 3 August 2011 by Arwyn | Category: Body | Tags: , , , , ,
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Fat and pregnant: 30 weeks

Since it’s been a while, allow me to present a selection of pictures in payment for your patience.

27 weeks, in the same position as the baseline:

Yup, everything's growing

29 weeks, taking video of the three most adorable vow-renewal attendants you could imagine (I haven’t gotten permission from the parents of two of the three to share any of the pics of them, so you’ll have to trust me):

And two days ago, at 30 weeks (little did I know when I bought this dress it would make such a fabulous maternity top):

(You can tell which picture me and my dinky camera phone did NOT take, aye?)

And now, a wordy tangent:

All the clothed pictures you’ll see of me from here on out (until the Fetus decides to come out, at least) are likely to be either in a dress or wearing a dress-as-top, for the simple and pragmatic reason that that’s all I have that fits. It’s a strange feeling, to dress so femme, not on the occasional whim, when the mood strikes, but every single day, because there aren’t any other choices that cover these gawdawful belly panels.

And it’s all the stranger because I’ve long had a complicated and difficult relationship with femininity. Internalized misogyny thanks to a second-wave era upbringing, the micro-culture of my nonconformist family, having my body take on a woman’s shape before I was ready to let go of a child’s life, a lifetime surrounded by fat shame and fat hate, including in my own family, and a deeply hurting psyche that said (and, as we’ll see, says) I’m not good enough, worthy enough, beautiful enough for beautiful things: these all contributed to a discomfort with anything “feminine” and especially with any desire of mine for femininity, for “girly”, for pretty, for nice. Wanting these things is a sign of weakness, these factors conspire to inform me, a deviance, an acquiescence to colonization by patriarchy.

It pains me to write these words, and know that some part of me still — always? — believes them to be true, for all I can see their falseness.

It’s getting better. I can buy make up now without wanting to hide it (though I will never want to wear it more than twice a year). I can ask for recommendations for and schedule an appointment with a hair stylist (though I will never buy Product, for a variety of reasons not least of which is I can’t be arsed). I can shop for and say I want a gorgeous, versatile dress (though I will always pull jeans on by default).

But when the dress shows up wrong: I can’t stop from hating myself for how much it bothers me. I can’t admit how much I care. Because it’s wrong. It’s weak. It’s shameful. It’s just a silly dress, and I shouldn’t be bothering with them anyway, it’s all foppery and femininity and I’m too good and I’m too ugly for such frilly finery.

It’s just a dress, and if I care, then I’m just a girl.

My brain is not always a stable or comfortable place to be. (But then, whose is?)

I care. And there’s a girl inside of me, who hated pink but wanted to sometimes, just sometimes, love it too, who hurts like hell when she’s finally allowed something pretty and it all goes pear shaped, because perhaps she’s allowed an indulgence, but only if it’s clear that it doesn’t matter, that it’s a silly pastime, a self-aware amusement and nothing more. But she’s not allowed to care.

It’s that message, from my own mind, that hurts more than anything. And the tears that flow from that only fuel the disdain.

The whole situation is more than a little ridiculous.

But it’s also entirely serious.

The dress in question, by the way, is the one in the second picture above. I’ve been assured it looked lovely, and it went well enough on the day that I didn’t devolve into a panicky puddle (it helped that my mantra was It’s Not My Day), but it didn’t show up the way it was supposed to. And I wasn’t supposed to care.  But, of course, I did.

It would be easy to laugh it off and blame pregnancy hormones, and certainly that’s a culturally accepted out. But although they complicate it, exaggerate it, I cannot lie and say they created this too-much-caring, this contempt-of-caring.

For if nothing else, it’s not unique to me. If you listened to the Think Out Loud radio show I participated in1, you heard much confusion between gender-neutral parenting and anti-femininity parenting, where the point was not so much to offer our children options but to erase any leanings toward the girly.

The activist in me sighed to hear it, but the girly-girl, the long-denied dress-wearer, cried.

  1. And if anyone knows where to find or has made a transcript of it, please let me know! ↩
18 Comments | Posted on 23 June 2011 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Kyriarchy | Tags: , , , , , ,
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