The Taste of Liberation

I TURN ON THE FAUCET and baptize the collards under ice-cold water for several seconds. I pick the leaves apart with my 12-year-old hands, casting the stems to the side.

A few feet away, my mother reheats her coffee in the microwave and then, between sips, crumbles cornbread and chicken liver into a large, sage-colored bowl. The familiar scent of sweet potato pies dances around the kitchen, along with the unmistakable laughter of my mother on the phone with one of her girlfriends.

Later, I’ll wash and dry the countertop before anointing it with a blanket of white flour in preparation for my mother to make the rolls—my mother’s grandmother’s recipe and the most relished part of the Thanksgiving and Christmas meals. To this day, my mother is one of a few family members who has recorded the secret, something she has always carried with pride.

Some of my first memories about food are stories like this one, at home with my mother conjuring her magic in the kitchen, creating something wonderful out of simple ingredients, as is our legacy as black women. Her food was more than just food; it was nourishment.

Before seminary, before I found language for my womanist theology and politics, before Trayvon Martin and Renisha McBride ushered me into the movement, my hands were actively developing the muscle memory that would later fuel my healing. It took me 15 years to realize that during those times in our kitchen with my mother, I was developing practical tools for my own survival and healing: cutting, peeling, dicing, skinning—not just kitchen duties, but small acts of self-determination.

My addiction to ‘non-food’

I began eating food in secret in high school, mindlessly devouring mini Snickers bars, ice cream, pizza rolls, and French fries in the parking lot at McDonald’s as a way to comfort myself and to avoid what I was truly feeling. When I was stressed or feeling depressed about school or what was going on with my family, I would stuff my face with junk food, making sure to hide the wrappers beneath my mattress.

My addiction to processed and junk food peaked in college. Though I attended a Christian university centered on building community and God’s love, racialized tension was—and is—present. Sure, the university affirmed blackness when it was marketable (diversity!), but the unique issues faced by black students—getting stopped by Public Safety while returning to campus at night, being put on the spot by a professor to give “the black opinion” during class, enduring the complaints of white hall mates about the smell of TCB scalp conditioner, and even waking up to a swastika carved into one’s personal belongings—were devalued or ignored. I still carry the painful memories of these experiences and those of my peers.

And being surrounded by a sea of size-2 white women didn’t help my continued depressive and emotional eating habits. I ate whatever I could to temporarily feel calmer or happier, not really aware of the toll it was taking on my body. Outwardly, I was a high-achieving, well-respected, well-educated, “strong” young black woman, but inwardly I was not well—not in my spirit or in my body. The non-food I used as self-medication reflected this.

There were occasional spurts of exercise when I was feeling guilty about the way I was eating, but overall I was pretty sedentary. There was a point during my senior year of college when I was constantly having migraine-like headaches. At the time, I attributed it to too many hours squinting at my biology books, but now I know that what I was (and wasn’t) eating was also a contributing factor. Food had a grip over my health and my quality of life. I was completely unaware.

Food as self-medication

At age 20, I saw food as something to fulfill my addiction to sugar or salt. The concept of food as a strategy for healing was entirely foreign. I didn’t have anyone in my life to show me how food could nourish me, boost my energy, help regulate my mood swings, or bring me healing.

For many of us this is generational. As black women, too many of us have witnessed the women in our lives—our mothers, grandmothers, aunties, and cousins—who outwardly kept their entire world spinning while privately suffering in silence. And there’s not often space to consider eating healthfully when you’re struggling to simply survive and provide for your children.

While my father was deployed overseas, often for six to seven months at a time, my mother raised me and my four younger siblings, two of whom have mental disabilities. And because we were stationed in San Diego County, away from our family in Ohio, my mother did this alone.

I love and respect my mother more than anyone else. She was the first person I ever loved and is a woman and mother I desire to emulate. Yet eating holistically and taking care of her body was not something she practiced. The same woman who gave me those early tools for healing also used food as a form of self-medication. Witnessing this made an indelible mark on me as I was coming into womanhood. I do not shame her for what she could not provide. I can only humbly honor her for immense sacrifice, courage, brilliance, and fierce love.

An ethic of wholeness and healing

My journey to healing through food and a whole-foods, plant-based lifestyle began in seminary where I was introduced to womanist theology, a theological language that was not only salvific for my soul but also for my physical body. I wrestled with the meaning of evil and hope in the context of current and historic black suffering, including the lack of affordable, healthy food; the then-recent killings of Renisha and Trayvon; and the generational trauma of rape, subjugation, and servitude of black women and girls.

It was the words of womanist theologians, writers, and preachers who made me reconcile what it meant to be black and female in a world where black women and girls are consistently deemed unvaluable and invisible. The black Christ that theologian Kelly Brown Douglas described—a Christ who challenges us to bring the entire black community to a place of wholeness—forced me to consider the ways in which pursuing wholeness and healing were not yet a part of my spiritual practice. And when I thought about Delores Williams’ definition of sin—the violence, disempowerment, and internalized racism black women face—as well as her definition of salvation—what brings positive social change to the real conditions of real black women—I found permission to no longer diminish myself for the sake of Jesus, but to honor and love Jesus by honoring and loving myself.

It is because of these words that I re-evaluated my relationship with my body. Do I see myself as being beautifully created in the image of God and worthy of being loved by God? Do I love myself enough to care for God’s creation, my body? Does what and how I am eating promote an ethic of wholeness and healing?

Although I wasn’t aware of it at the time, I was being converted. The seeds my mother and I planted 15 years earlier in the kitchen burst forth with vitality.

Choosing myself, unapologetically

In the past, food fueled my depression. Now it fuels my activism, my theology, and my work with nutrition, food sovereignty, and black girls. As a person who has been involved in the Black Lives Matter movement, it can be easy to focus on the fast killing of our people while ignoring the nutritional violence that is slowly killing us every day. Yes, our lives matter, but so does our everyday living, wellness, and future. This is why I cook for myself every day. For me, cooking creative, whole meals is a radical act that says, “I matter to myself, my community, and to God. I am not disposable.”

It is also a form of therapy, a way for me to more healthfully process the violence that affects my community every day. I still remember the meal I cooked on the day I heard the news about the killing of the Charleston Nine: plantains, yellow rice, collard greens, and black beans, with Nina Simone’s “Mississippi Goddam” playing in the background on repeat. I was more than saddened, I was numb. Tending to my body in the midst of such grief created space for me to process in a constructive way, even if for a moment.

This is why I believe that caring about what I do and do not my put in my body—and teaching others how to do the same—says, “Yes, I am still here.” It becomes a tangible form of resistance, an act of radical self-love against the oppressive systems that seek to kill us, both swiftly and slowly.

Food is also a way for me unapologetically to choose myself. Our society, churches, and movement spaces have proven that it is much easier to value the sacrifices of black women rather than the lives of black women. These two ideas are not synonymous. Requiring black women to sacrifice pieces of themselves for the sake of the movement is damaging and devaluing. It is the opposite of liberation. Taking the time to make myself a coconut milk curry or homemade almond milk is a way for me to disrupt the narrative that what I can produce and offer others is the source of my worth. It has taken time for me to develop the courage to center myself in this way, and it is still something that I struggle with, but I know now I am entirely no good to any fight for justice if I am not well. I am grateful to have a life partner and a family that affirms me in this path, even if it something that they do not always fully understand. This, I know, is a privilege that not all black woman have.

The taste of freedom

I often ask myself, “What would a world where black folks are truly safe and free taste like?” For me, it would be crunchy, with lots of texture, spice, and bold color. It would taste like goodness, groundedness, and comfort; like heritage food from my ancestors—collards, okra, millet, and sweet potatoes—but also newer foods that I now crave and appreciate: green radishes, sauerkraut, brown rice noodles, and tempeh. It would be affordable without exploiting the lives and labor of black and brown people around the world. It would taste like justice and Black Girl Magic.

The tools to heal our bodies as black women are becoming more accessible. The question we must ask ourselves is, “Do you want to be made well?” (John 5:6). For those of us not on the margins and who are privileged to have access to these tools—fresh, healthy produce; clean water—our duty is to create pathways for these things to be affordable and readily available to our sisters. This is the heart of an inclusive womanist theology: Either we all are free or none of us are free.

Every day I am reminded of the work that is required to be a black woman who is healthy. I work predominantly with black women in North Philadelphia who are mostly poor and who receive SNAP benefits. I am challenged to interpret my beliefs about food and self-care in a way that is fully accessible to women who do not hold the same formal education and level of upward mobility that I have. I am convinced that being well is our birthright as black women. I believe that wellness through food can be developed and expanded to include every black girl and woman, regardless of class and economic status.

I no longer want to be strong—I want to be whole. I want the abundant life that God intends for me and my family. I want to experience pleasure, joy, and fulfillment. I want to grow, cook, and eat food that gives me life and I want to teach others how to do the same. I want people to know and believe that food has the power to transform and heal. These things are not tangential to the mission of black liberation and freedom; they are at its very core.