(Originally published in Body Outlaws: Young Women Write About Body Image & Identity (Seal Press, 1998; 2000; 2004). Thanks to Ophira Edut and Dyann Logwood for letting us reprint!)

When my father died a few years ago, the house was filled with visitors. My dad was a gentle person who picked cotton as a teenager, served in the military and worked thirty years as an auto plant supervisor. He was well loved in the community. On Sundays, he took the pulpit regularly at our Pentecostal church, preaching about the ways that kinship and a righteous life would save black people's souls. His early passing hit our congregation hard.

It was no surprise, the September week that the cancer took him, when the cars piled into my mother's gravel driveway. Doors swung open, delivering family and well-wishers, each newcomer bearing a lovingly prepared dish of home-cooked food. Fried chicken, glazed hams, buttered rolls, fruitcakes, cupcakes, homemade cookies. Comfort food. Soul food. As my spirit wept and my plate was piled higher, I truly understood what that meant.

Two months later, I swept the last crumbs from our refrigerator, feeling hollow and tired. At a time when I needed some spiritual strength, my beliefs no longer offered solid ground. I always thought that if you didn't drink or smoke, you'd live a long life. But at age forty-nine, my father, who did neither, got cancer, and at fifty-one he passed away. Witnessing that rocked my security and shook my faith in the strong, loving community that once sheltered me.

I grew up among black working-and middle-class, churchgoing folks who loved to eat. No matter what the occasion- family reunion, graduation, holiday or funeral- food was the guest of honor. It was also our resistance. Eating with zest and abandon was like turning centuries of oppression upside down. What's known today as soul food was once our sole food- scraps rejected by white plantation owners because they were considered unfit for consumption. That these recipes are now considered cuisine testifies to the ingenious ways that African Americans have always "made a way outta no way." By virtue of collard greens, pigs' feet and chitins, we declare, "See, we won't starve. We won't allow you to steal the joy from our lives. In fact, we'll have second, third and fourth helpings just to prove it."

As a girl, I was encouraged to eat and to get some meat on my bones. Rounding out was considered healthy. And as I got older and began to develop into a woman's shape, my opinions rounded out, too. My increasing physical presence had a profound effect on the men around me. My precocious remarks, which were "cute" when I was little, were suddenly deemed inappropriate. It was clear my elders felt I needed to be put back in my place. But my place had expanded with my size. I took up more space and fought with anyone who dared to tread too far across those boundaries.

Filling up space was important to me. It meant that in a larger world that might want to keep a black girl silent, I could not be ignored. As my body filled out, I got louder, smarter and bolder. My hand shot up in class, and I became known for being, well, a little bit cocky. It helped that I was born with a deep, distinctive voice. It was low and powerful, and I knew from my father's Sunday morning example how to dramatically project and inflect it in a way that made people stop and take notice. In high school, my favorite teacher, Trudy Adams, encouraged me to enter local speaking contests. After a while, my voice filled the tall shelf in our living room with trophies, blue ribbons and plaques.

It was strange sometimes, getting up in auditoriums to speak about racism and Martin Luther King Jr.'s legacy, often to a mostly white audience. In some ways, I now realize it was kind of brave. But my full stomach helped me use my full voice, and I delivered impassioned, fifteen-year-old diatribes with a steady gaze and an even tone.

Still, it wasn't enough for me simply to be heard- I wanted to be seen, too. Since my height peaked just under five feet, I decided to make up for my "shortcoming" by filling out in the other directions. My body was happy to cooperate. Between my own version of the four food groups- sugar, fat, salt and caffeine- and some sturdy genes, I became one thick soul sistah. People joked that they could tell I wasn't starving. But their teasing was meant as a compliment, for it implied that I was taking care of myself.

I became proud of my body, because I was beginning to resemble the women I admired at my church. Although it would take me years to adopt their poised sashays and proudly cocked heads, I looked in the mirror and felt thick, confident, and strong. (I would later be told by my doctor that I was "chubby, anemic, and unhealthy"- but more on that in a little while.)

Food has always been something of a status symbol in the black community, suggesting that a new day has arrived for African Americans to rejoice in abundant "health" and prosperity. I never thought for a moment that the hearty meals I enjoyed the most, meals that were part of my culture, could be harmful to my body. I just thought I was eating well.

I once went on a dinner date with a football player who was on a low-fat diet. He was under the impression I was a "salad and water only" kind of gal. At the Italian restaurant I ate three plates of food and he ate one. The waiter looked at my clean dishes in amazement and asked if he could wrap up my date's unfinished dinner. I spoke up and told the waiter that would not be necessary, as I planned to finish his dinner as well. "It's always the little ones who love to eat," my date joked. I told him I had been raised with, "Always clean your plate, and if it's a free dinner, eat all you can." He laughed, but, needless to say, we never went out to a restaurant again.

One thing I learned from the experience is that women are not supposed to be able to eat comfortably around men. We're supposed to sacrifice our pleasure and suppress our desire to be full. It we're full, we're satisfied- and we can think and produce. When women starve, we become weak, dependent on men for strength and stability. Hungry women are silent and invisible. Their wants, needs and desires go undressed. What I didn't realize was that unhealthy eating habits can be as dangerous as not eating at all.

Although my parents forced me to eat fruits and vegetables as a child (a practice I abandoned in my teens), they never taught me what a proper diet really meant. Today, magazines like Heart and Soul and Essence devote themselves to encouraging a new culture of nutrition, fitness and health among African Americans. And although this trend is growing, we keep these strange new values at safe distance from our most sacred and authentic spaces. Nobody from my hometown would dream of suggesting, say, a vegetarian church picnic. And while I've heard talk of local churches educating their congregations about diabetes, cancer and heart disease, few people will go whole hog to quit the chitlins, ribs and ham hocks.

But my father's death was a wake-up call for me. The emotional toll left me fatigued and depressed, and my own health began to break down. Somedays I didn't have enough energy to get out of bed, or I was beset with headaches so intense I could hardly see.

Finally, I went to the doctor and discovered that I was anemic and dehydrated. I didn't know much about dehydration- I figured I got some water in my system when I drank soda and fruit juices. "You mean to tell me I have to drink eight glasses of water a day?" I asked my doctor in shock. "And add fruit and vegetables to my diet- and take iron pills- in order to function?"

In spite of my dismay, I gave nutrition a chance. As I moved through the grieving process, I needed the energy to get out of bed every day. Food that tasted good didn't necessarily make me feel good after I ate it. Healthy food helped me heal.

I was surprised how quickly my body responded to the new regimen. I took garlic pills to strengthen my immune system and drank herbal teas that reduced my migraine headaches. I also drank lots of water and carrot juice, which boosted my energy and helped me stay awake without caffeine. I even tried tofu, which I had once scorned, refusing to believe that it could taste as good as beef or chicken. (Well, that may be true, but when prepared well, it ain't half bad.) And there was something culturally reminiscent in my new au natural lifestyle: My grandmother could throw a handful of herbs into a pot and make a tea that would cure any ailment in no time.

Gradually I added new regimens: I joined a gym, bought vitamins and even went to counseling. I know the stereotype: "Black people don't need counseling- that's for crazy white people!" But my soul needed more than literal food. I believed strongly that my body and soul were interconnected, and I wanted to take a holistic approach to my healing.

The change showed up on the outside: I lost about twenty pounds. It was never my intention to get smaller, but that's what happens when you cut junk food from your diet. Funny, as the pounds came off, my family began to worry that I was unhealthy. Their main concern was that I "wasn't eating right."

Sure, black women come in all shapes and sizes, but it's no coincidence that what we call "healthy" is exactly what white America considers the opposite- twenty pounds "overweight" and yes, "fat." Even the naturally thin among us will scorn that flat dimensionless body type that the fashion magazines wave in our faces. After all, it reminds us of a mold that 99.9 percent of us will never fit, even with the "right" body. Save for a Tyra or a Naomi, most black women intrinsically know we'll always be "too much" of this or "not enough: of that to fit the American beauty standard.

But what, really, is a healthy African American body? Somewhere in the struggle to reclaim what is uniquely ours- that real or imaginary physical difference from our oppressor's image- black women have forgotten to define our health on our own terms. Even as we continue to embrace the diversity of sizes among us, we must ask, what does a healthy body feel like? It's a loaded issue that carries the threat of loss, or cultural alienation. If we abandon our foods and our notions of health, what do we put in their place?

At the brink of the millennium, being healthy may be the most rebellious act a black woman can commit. It we develop healthy body image, without developing healthy bodies, it's a hollow victory. We can't survive as a people if we're dying young. We need a cultural prescription for well-being- one that will give us the energy to continue the fight.

It's a challenge for sure, and one that often begins at the back of the buffet line. My willpower was put to the test last summer when I dropped by my cousin's graduation barbecue. Surrounded by platters of honey-baked ham and mounds of potato salad and with savory steam rising from the backyard grill, I felt a nostalgic pull toward the serving table. Sitting quietly on a picnic bench, my Styrofoam plate bearing a meager heap of collard greens and skinless chicken, I felt more than conspicuous. I was caught in the act of culinary treason, deserting my culture like the oft-caricatured Ph.D. who comes back to the 'hood and is met with hostile suspicion.

Not that anyone was hostile toward me. Bewildered, perhaps, or a little amused. A few people even nodded in encouragement when I explained my new health credo, mumbling affirmations as they spooned up potato salad swirled in tangy barbecue sauce. Mostly, I think they just felt sorry for me, because I was missing out on all that delicious food- the joyous bonding ritual, the ecstasy of each perfectly seasoned bite. By my glum face, they could tell I knew it, too.

Still, I stuck to my resolve- and continue to do so to this day. I was fueled recently after watching the movie Soul Food, which was based on the premise that traditional food can unite a black family. Although my mouth watered through most of the footage, I also hoped for a message- one that would support prevalent statistics about the detrimental effects of a high-fat, high-cholesterol diet. Instead, when the matriarchal grandmother passes away from diabetes, her next of kin gather over fried chicken, collard greens, cornbread and dessert. This year, I graduated from college- and you know food was a guest at the celebration. Naturally, my friends arrived expecting the table to be set with the usual suspects. Instead, they were greeted with platters of cut fruits and vegetables, as well as a few traditional dishes prepared in a healthier fashion. I knew they were a little weirded out by it, so I encouraged them to fill their plates and gather around the various couches and chairs.

Funny, since food wasn't the party's focus, people started to talk. In the past, they would clean their plates and then want to go home for a nap. This time was different; and the recipe, it seemed, was a success. Our mouths weren't too stuffed to sit and reminisce, talk and bond- which we did, for hours. Our voices lifted the delicate sweetness of memories, the juiciness of laughter, the tenderness of loving spirits that seasoned our culture with a rich and wonderful flavor.

Want more? Read the interview with the author!