A Feast of Radical Self-Love

An Ode to Mothers (and Grandmothers)

One summer in college I went to Atlanta to visit my grandparents. They were building a new house and living in an apartment complex with a pool. Coming from the more frigid Midwest, where people rushed to enjoy swimming in the few short months allotted to summer, I was looking forward to the hot Southern sun and swimming in pleasantly warm water, still amazed that so many complexes and subdivisions had their own pools, a luxury I didn’t then associate with the history of segregation.

It was the late 90s and I was full hippie, with hairy legs and an assortment of hemp jewelry. My grandmother, Winnie, who had grown up in a working-class family in the low country of South Carolina, was a stylish Southern woman. Although she never finished high school, she had channeled the knowledge of the women around her to become an excellent cook, quilter, decorator. She was a quiet but forceful presence. I don’t remember her raising her voice, or seeming angry. Southern womanhood is a complicated thing: some iterations permit a domineering, loud persona, some require a performance of sweet femininity, almost all are so bound up with class anxiety that women down here are well-coiffed, well-heeled and styled meticulously.

My grandmother was permissive about some things but she always nudged me towards conforming to these expectations of Southern women. That summer day at the pool she said nothing about my legs (or my armpits), but the next morning I woke up to a can of shaving cream and a razor on the side of the tub. This was how Grandmother worked, and I immediately caved, going back to the pool later with bare legs. She never mentioned it, and I complied, until back in the pants-clad Iowa fall, the hair grew out again and I returned to my bohemian ways.

With my grandmother, Winnie, Myrtle Beach 2013.

I think of that memory fondly, because I miss Grandmother, and also because now that I’m a mother I’m trying to channel her methods of quiet suggestion. She died a few weeks after I gave birth to Alex in 2016,  so she never got to see me become a mom. My mom, Debbie, said goodbye to her and then almost immediately came to help me through a difficult postpartum c-section recovery. I’m not sure how she was able to do that, but I’m so thankful she did.

When I think about how my mom grew up, in the 50s and 60s, in Atlanta with summers spent in Tampa visiting her grandmother and cousins, I’m also thankful she broke with a lot of traditions, including the indoctrination of girls into these types of feminine scripts my grandmother followed. I don’t have any memories of Mom commenting on my body or my clothes (although she must have had some thoughts, 90s styles being what they were). I also don’t have any memories of her complaining about her own body or bemoaning her appearance.

Once I started to teach women’s and gender studies courses, first at the University of Oregon, and then later at PC, I became overtly committed to what I realize my mom had taught me all along: that your body is not the reflection of your worth as a human being, that your actions and thoughts and feelings matter more than the clothes you wear, that being obsessed with appearances was a type of snobbery and elitism that was itself unbecoming. I’m not sure how Mom was able to break free from these very powerful Southern gender systems, but I’m glad she gave me this gift. It’s especially come in handy as my body changes with motherhood and aging.

I’m reading a fun novel right now, Girl Crush by Florence Given (more on that in a future newsletter!). On a recent podcast she hosted Sonya Renee Taylor who champions the idea of radical self-love to counter body shaming. I started reading her book The Body Is Not an Apology , and in it she makes the case that self-love (something beyond body positivity or self-acceptance) is one of the keys not only to unlocking our individual potential but also dismantling larger systems of oppression that operate through control of bodies:

“It is through our own transformed relationship with our bodies that we become champions for other bodies on our planet. As we awaken to our indoctrinated body shame, we feel inspired to awaken others and to interrupt the systems that perpetuate body shame and oppression against all bodies. There is a whisper we keep hearing; it is saying we must build in us what we want to see built in the world. When we act from this truth on a global scale, using the lens of the body, we usher in the transformative opportunity of radical self-love, which is the opportunity for a more just, equitable, and compassionate world for us all” (5).

This past summer I was in Atlanta again, at the Ponce City Market with my best friend, Christine, and a new friend, Margaret. We had ridiculously priced coffee and avocado toast, and I wondered what my grandmother would have thought of the whole scene. We went to Madewell, and I tried on a bunch of clothes, hoping to find something that complimented my rounder, post-children stomach and full hips and thighs. I found a comfortable one-piece romper, black and good for sweating in through the impending humidity. It was a struggle in the mirror, my first thoughts were to imagine a younger, thinner, body. I countered with affirmations, trying not to fat-shame myself. I bought the romper, we checked out, and outside a woman in her 20s was sitting at a table, reading a book and drinking a coffee, wearing pants and a halter top that exposed the soft rolls of her belly. When I was her age, I covered my belly, ashamed it didn’t conform to what I thought was the ideal. I love that many young people today seem to be rejecting those things, realizing that the system is rigged, especially for women.

So this Thanksgiving, I wish for all of you a feast of radical self-love. Mom’s having us over, and she’s making the whole dinner, and I’m so grateful we can rest and be together. More than just the meal, though, she’s given me the means to enjoy and appreciate it. For this I am truly thankful.

P.S. My good friend Lindsay has a very handy blog where she shares her delicious recipes with implicit sides of radical self-love. Check out My Therapist Cooks, especially if you’re still finalizing that Thanksgiving menu.