Weight Stigma

BEDA (the Binge Eating Disorders Associations) is dedicating a week to raising the awareness about weight stigma, the first of what they anticipate to be an annual event. Specifically, the focus this year (from September 26-30) is on "Healing Myself First: Challenging Weight Stigma from the Inside Out”, which means being honest with ourselves about prejudices we carry about weight.

To achieve this, the CEO of BEDA suggests that we asks ourselves questions like, “Do I contribute to 'fat talk,' such as, 'I need to lose 10 pounds,' or, 'You're too fat to wear that,' or, 'You look great! Did you lose weight?'"

The beauty of this approach is the inward assessment – including my own. I will freely admit that when I see people who are heavy wearing certain clothes, I cringe: bikinis; Speedos; shirts that are too small and ride up to expose the person’s stomach; skin-tight outfits that seem to be at least two sizes too small; etc. I don’t generally think of this as weight stigma, though, more simply a matter of what I feel to be in good taste. I feel the same way about people wearing pants that are too big and fall halfway down so you see their underwear. It just comes up more with people who are heavy because it’s harder to find clothes that fit well if you fall into that category.

And if I know someone is trying to lose weight, I may comment that they look good, primarily because I know how nice it was to hear that for myself. On the other hand, I try to say that to people in general when they look nice, regardless of how much they weigh, because I also know how much I missed that when I was overweight.

Otherwise, when I see people who are heavy, I more often feel sympathy for them, remembering how difficult it was for me. But my own experience has made me more in tune with that – I think many people carry weight stigma without even being aware of it. Or they may try not to show it, but it can still come out.

For instance, I remember in gym class that even if the other kids didn’t actively make fun of me (although they sometimes did that), they certainly didn’t want to be near me. During those horrible times of forced group activities like square dancing, it seemed to me that anyone who had to actually touch me did so only after overcoming an instinctive recoil. I don’t know whether that was real or in my imagination, but I suspect that for at least some, it was all too real.

Or when I was spending the night at someone’s house, and the woman of the household commented, “I hope the bed works for you, since it’s just a twin and you’re a such big girl.” As I wrote in my journal: “I didn’t say anything to that, because it was her house, and I know she meant well, but I can’t tell you how upset I was about it. Nothing so drastic as fleeing in tears, but just a sort of sick helpless anger inside that nothing can quite cure. Honestly, what are you supposed to think of that? Yes, I know I’m overweight – I’m not stupid.” I still remember that fourteen years later.

I therefore urge people to follow BEDA’s suggestions, so that such words get a second thought before they slip out. Because contrary to the popular rhyme, while sticks and stones may break my bones, in the end, words may hurt me even more.

Holy Healthy

This weekend I attended a conference hosted by the Institute of Integrative Nutrition, where I’m getting my certification as a health counselor. The conference included a number of amazing speakers, most notably Deepak Chopra. It was held in downtown New York, but I decided to stay in Brooklyn, since I found a UU Bed and Breakfast with a very welcoming couple who gave me tea and cookies upon arrival and provided a wonderful home and breakfast.

Among other things, my hosts and I talked a bit about church, and on Sunday morning, they said, “We’d invite you to go to services with us, except that you’ll be at the conference. But it sounds like that will be another form of church.”

“Yes, it will,” I agreed.

The first few sessions on Sunday provided great information and reminded me how important this is. But it was when a yoga instructor came up and got us moving that I reflected anew about how what I’m doing is a ministry. 

As we went through the exercises - waving our arms, circling our hips, etc. - she asked us to repeat after her. “Peace. Love. Happiness. Bring it. Rock on!” And then, “Holy. Holy. Healthy. Healthy. Holy, healthy, holy, healthy.”

The energy in the room brought tears to my eyes, remembering how the work we are doing - helping others learn how to heal themselves to discover their own optimal health - truly is holy, that we were engaged in a sacred and spiritual practice.

Deepak Chopra’s wonderful talk reinforced this. It ended with a meditation where we focused on moments that brought us great joy, great love, where we felt compassion for another, and finally when we felt equanimity and peace. He said those are the moments that we should strive to live for, and make them more present in our lives.

The images that came to mind for me were largely entwined with my health. When I was struggling with my body image and weight, I couldn’t let that go long enough to experience true joy, love felt conditional, I couldn’t muster compassion for myself and only sometimes for others, and I was too tormented to experience peace.

Which is why I consider this work a ministry. If I can help others learn to find joy, open their hearts to love, bring a sense of compassion to their interactions with themselves and others, and allow them to feel peace - that, to me, is sacred. And I couldn’t be happier to be on the path that will allow me to share this sense of holy healthiness with others.

The American Cheese

One of my recent assignments for my health counseling program suggested that we look at packaging and advertising to assist in thinking about our own marketing strategies. I wasn't quite sure what do with that, since I tend to deliberately ignore and/or be oblivious to advertising.

But it reminded me of a commercial I started seeing around the 4th of July for Kraft Singles, which still appears in different formats. It started off by saying that Kraft was "the American cheese", the implication being that it was this way because it's a "can-do" type of cheese. (What, exactly, does cheese do?)

But the part that really got me was this: "Hey, our country put a man on the moon, maybe because we put cheese in our sandwiches."

Yes, they used the qualifier "maybe", but even the possible association between cheese sandwiches and the space program is ludicrous. Is that why we landed on the moon before the U.S.S.R. - they didn't eat enough cheese? Or more specifically, not enough Kraft Singles, which they wouldn't have probably eaten anyway because it's an American product?

Apparently I’m not the only one to be bothered by this. I did a quick internet search on Kraft Singles to see if I could find the exact commercial (I couldn’t – all the YouTube ones are shorter versions that don’t include the man on the moon reference), and found:

• Digital Papercuts writing about the shock of the ad and the horror of processed foods
• CommercialsIHate.com has some interesting comments as well
• And more on The Straight Dope

Even assuming the advertising department at Kraft views this as tongue-in-cheek (which I doubt), it completely trivializes the fact that many Americans actually suffer after eating cheese. When I was little and having cheese sandwiches every day, I assure you that it did not give me a "can-do" attitude or make me a better student. If anything, the opposite was true. Being allergic, all the dairy made me feel like I had a constant cold, complete with runny nose, sore throat, and muzzy head. Once I stopped eating it, I was able to get through the day better since I wasn't constantly blowing my nose or sneezing. Does this make me un-American?

I’m sure that many people support this type of advertising, but personally, it does make me sometimes want to live elsewhere. Somewhere, for instance, that doesn't treat processed foods as manna. Furthermore, do we really want to say that our country got where it was by suckling cows? Somehow, to me, that doesn't make me a proud American, and it’s not a marketing scheme I plan to use.

Goldilocks Gets it Just Right

[Note: When I did the facilitator training for “Am I Hungry?”, when we got to the section on how much to eat and getting it just right, one of the women commented that it reminded her of Goldilocks. Since we just finished that section in my latest workshop, I thought I’d use that as a starting point for this little story.]

            Goldilocks’s parents dropped her off for lunch a few minutes before noon at the quaint cottage in the woods where her new friend Bera Baird lived. She knocked at the door, excited to see her friend, and also looking forward to lunch, since her stomach was already growling.

            The door opened, and Goldilocks smiled at Bera, a girl about her own age with brown hair, brown eyes, dimples in her cheeks and arms and legs, and a warm smile. “Come in,” she said. “We can go in the kitchen, but we have to wait a few minutes for lunch.”

            Goldilocks sniffed at the aromas eagerly. “Is it still cooking?”

            “No.” Bera hesitated in the hallway, looking around. Then she dropped her voice to say, “My mom is a little weird about food sometimes. We have to eat right at noon, and she’s really fussy about what she eats. So don’t say anything, okay?”

            “Okay.”

            They went into the kitchen, where Bera’s father was already seated at the table. He was a huge man in every way, his stomach pushing against the edge and his head considerably higher than Goldilocks even sitting down, with brown curly hair and a thick, bushy beard. “You must be Goldilocks,” he rumbled, his dark eyes twinkling at them. “Glad you could join us.”

            “Thank you for having me.”

            Then she looked to where Mrs. Baird was at the counter, a woman so skinny that Goldilocks wondered how she could even stand up; it seemed a sharp gust would blow her over. The woman spared them a glance and quick, automatic smile. “Hello, girls,” she said. “Lunch will be ready at noon.”

            Goldilocks glanced at the clock. Nine more minutes. Her stomach growled again, and she clasped her hands over it in embarrassment. She didn’t know what to say, and so she watched as Mrs. Baird filled the plates with baked chicken, rice, broccoli with cheese and green beans, but in very different ways.

            On the first plate, she piled food on top of each other, so that it was balanced precisely but precariously and almost overflowing. For the second plate, she started by scooping rice into a tiny measuring cup before adding it. Then she cut a sliver of chicken, put it on a scale, frowned, and whittled it down a bit more. Finally she counted out the number of green beans and broccoli pieces and added them without any cheese. Goldilocks had heard about such behavior but never witnessed it, and she tried not to stare in fascination, remembering Bera’s comment. Mrs. Baird filled the third plate more naturally, adding enough food to mostly fill it but without weighing, measuring or counting.

            That left just one plate empty, and two minutes to go. Mrs. Baird turned to Goldilocks. “How much would you like?”

            The girl considered. “I think the first plate would be too much, and the second one too little, but the third one looks just right.”

            Mrs. Baird nodded and with quick efficiency served the food. “Go ahead and sit down.”

            She set their plates down in front of them, and they all took their seats just as the clock turned to twelve. Goldilocks carefully waited until Mr. Baird tucked into his overflowing dish, and Mrs. Baird cut her food with mechanical precision, before starting on her own. She and Bera talked a little as they ate, about school and homework and vacations, but Goldilocks also enjoyed the meal. The chicken was nice and juicy, the rice cooked well and pleasantly spiced, and the vegetables tender but not mushy, just the way she liked.

            She paused to look at her friend’s mother. “Thank you for the food, Mrs. Baird. It’s very good.”

            “Is it?” The woman looked down at her now-empty plate in surprise. “I suppose so.”

            Goldilocks turned back to her food but found that her eyes had been bigger than her stomach. She still had a little left, but she was full. She glanced at Bera, who also had a left a tiny bit of rice. Bera asked, “Mom, may we be excused?”

            Mrs. Baird looked at their plates. “You’re not going to finish?” she asked in surprise.

            “I’m full,” Goldilocks admitted. “But it really was very good.”

            “What are you girls going to do?” she asked, eyeing the leftovers hungrily.

            Bera said, “I was going to take her out to the woods to play.”

            “Better you than me,” Mr. Baird said, stretching and yawning hugely. “It’s nap time for me.” Goldilocks looked at his plate in amazement, cleaned of all except for a few green specks of broccoli. “But you have fun.”

            He left, but the girls helped clear the table first. As Mrs. Baird loaded the dishwasher, she paused over the few leftovers, murmuring, “The chicken was 150, the rice 100, green beans 20, broccoli 40, so that’s 310, which means I can have this, or have a 90 calorie snack later, or maybe both if I exercise enough, or if - “

            “Come on,” Bera said, tugging her hand.

            As they went outside, Goldilocks asked, “What was she doing?”

            Bera rolled her eyes. “Counting calories. She does it all the time.” Seeing her friend’s expression, she shrugged. “I don’t understand it, either. And I don’t know why Dad has to sleep all the time and never wants to play.”

            “Well, I do,” Goldilocks said. “I feel great, and I’m excited to see the forest.”

            “Me, too,” Bera said, and they wandered off to play.