Vials of blood with multicolored tops sit in a yellow plastic holder waiting to be tested
NONFICTION

We Care a Lot

We Care a Lot

It’s hard to live in a space you’re also trying to tear down. But with care and community, a better future is possible.

Chef Fresh Roberson
no. 6, The Fat Issue
Spring 2022

I’m afraid to get pregnant. I’ve known for as long as I can remember that I’m supposed to be a parent. That I’ve wanted a child. When people wax romantically about life’s purpose, they assume that I’ve always known mine lies with food — cooking it, growing it, feeding people. And okay, sure, maybe that’s one purpose. But it’s not the one I’ve known for as long as I can remember. That one is motherhood. Caregiving for my community, but also a future child. While I’m not always completely connected to my identity as a woman, (my gender fluxes, y’all), I do know that I am supposed to be, I will be, I am . . . a mother.

“My research told me two things: I was a medical marvel for being able to conceive at all, and I was signing up for a C-section the minute I set foot in a hospital because I weighed over 300 pounds.”

Caroline Moore, The Story of Your Body

My fear isn’t connected to the scary statistics about trying to carry a child in my Fat Black Aging body.  It isn’t really about the fear of losing my child; I’ve watched and been at my partner’s side twice as they dealt with a miscarriage and ectopic rupture, losing two of our pregnancies. It’s not even that I’m entering my fabulous 40s this year, which makes me a “geriatric pregnancy,” or that as a very Fat, supersized body there are all types of complications I’m constantly told I should fear. 

My fear isn’t connected to the scary statistics about trying to carry a child in my Fat Black Aging body. It isn’t really about the fear of losing my child; I’ve watched and been at my partner’s side twice as they dealt with a miscarriage and ectopic rupture, losing two of our pregnancies. It’s not even that I’m entering my fabulous 40s this year, which makes me a “geriatric pregnancy,” or that as a very Fat, supersized body there are all types of complications I’m constantly told I should fear. 

It’s not those things, or maybe it is. It’s complex. Complicated. Both. And. But the culmination is simply: I don’t trust doctors. 

“Not all doctors…?” (To be read in exactly the voice folks use when we try to talk about the systemic harm a group has caused.) “Not all men, not all white people, not all police—” 

Okay, I guess… and. 

I can pinpoint the moments over the years that built the case against traditional health care. That had me lose my faith in the idea of doctors as healers of harm — to me, they seemed to perpetuate it. And I pride myself in spaciousness, in making opportunities for things to be different and change. People and institutions can learn and grow. So I didn’t jump hastily into this lack of trust; it was occurrence after occurrence. Incident after incident, built up over the years to bring me to this place.

The place where it takes me forever to finally make a doctor’s appointment somewhere. The place where I research for days and weeks, even months, before I can find the specialist I need. How much can I figure out in advance about this person’s fatphobia? Can I get any clues that they’ll treat my symptoms and problem, or will this be another conversation about my body size that ignores the actual issue? Will they actually touch my body or treat me with disgust? Have they treated or do they regularly treat “more acceptable” larger-bodied patients? While looking for an orthopedic surgeon and specialist, I researched where the Chicago Bears football players get taken care of. I’m sure their injuries actually get treated as injuries instead of opportunities for rambling, condescending lectures about weight.

“True or False: Patients undergoing chemotherapy are buoyed when you tell them their weight loss is a silver lining of cancer treatment.”

Michelle Weber, A Big Fat (True) Pop Quiz

Doctors have consistently taught me that they don’t trust me or my body. And my fatness takes up so much space in their brain, it’s as if they forget the countless years they spent in medical school, training to diagnose actual issues. (All tea, all shade.) Everything is because I’m fat.

Until very recently, doctors would take my vitals multiple times; it would be comical if it weren’t infuriating. My “normal” blood pressure couldn’t possibly be accurate. And even when I would say, yes, that’s the regular reading., they wouldn’t believe me until they took it at least two more times. “Oh, okay then.” 

Doctors have consistently taught me that they don’t trust me or my body. And my fatness takes up so much space in their brain, it’s as if they forget the countless years they spent in medical school, training to diagnose actual issues. (All tea, all shade.) Everything is because I’m fat.

Until very recently, doctors would take my vitals multiple times; it would be comical if it weren’t infuriating. My “normal” blood pressure couldn’t possibly be accurate. And even when I would say, yes, that’s the regular reading, they wouldn’t believe me until they took it at least two more times. “Oh, okay then.” 

Now the stress of a doctor’s visit elevates my readings to a level that feels satisfactory to them on the first try. 

Growing up, I had to get a physical every year before soccer season, and every year I dreaded it. My doctor would always talk about my weight. On one visit, trying to prove that I was a “good fatty” — before I finally dismantled that concept in my being — I mentioned that I was running several miles a day for training. His response was that I should talk to one of his front desk people, because she was doing a diet with only a few grams of carbs a day and it was working for her. But I’m here for my sports physical; how am I supposed to run and score goals and march in marching band on a few carbs a day?

While looking for an orthopedic surgeon and specialist, I researched where the Chicago Bears players get taken care of. I’m sure their injuries get treated as injuries rather than opportunities for rambling, condescending lectures about weight.

No concern that I actually went to the doctor for ever seemed to matter. Only my fatness. Over the years I learned to say on repeat: “Do smaller-bodied patients ever present with this issue? What do you tell them?” Constantly asking became exhausting. Not being heard became exhausting. Fighting and pushing back became exhausting. Conditions getting worse and ignored became exhausting. I often didn’t bother going to the doctor

Add that to the stories of pregnant Black folks, even famous ones like Serena Williams, not being listened to by doctors. How can I trust that I’ll be safe as a fat Black pregnant person who is not famous? I’m afraid.  

Sometimes I think about what navigating the world would be like without the constant onslaught of medical fatphobia. What fighting for food system changes would be like if we didn’t fight for them on the backs of poor folks and fat folks. If we didn’t need to tout claims of fighting ob#$!ty to get funding. If we could get basic healthcare without stigma or body shame. I remember the spaciousness that appeared when I realized I didn’t have to diet ever again. That I could reclaim all the energy hating my body used. That I didn’t need to spend any more money buying into that diet industry. And what all, instead, was possible in that space. In that freedom.

That letting go came when I first found my people, in 2004: unapologetic fat queers at the annual Nolose Conference. As I attended those conferences year after year I learned how to fight and advocate for myself and others. I quickly found space to love and be unapologetic in my body that was powerful, sexual, strong, and amazing. But what I got most from those spaces was a true understanding, for the first time, of community care.

My primary love language is Acts of Service, and I’m most definitely in love with my community and people. I navigate my world striving to create spaces of Access, Abundance, Pleasure, and Real Choice. It’s complex, needing to live in a system you’re trying to destroy. While we have to be here, my goal is how to create spaces where people feel held, that are restorative and nourish and care for our whole well-being.

“Caring for each other is how we survive to do the rest of our work. This is not meant to downplay the serious abolitionist work that needs to be done in order to create marked change for fat people, but there is no change without care…We cannot help people resist, cannot get organized, cannot be a movement without care.”

Spring 2022’s feature,
No Health, No Care

My first Nolose conference was one of the first spaces I’d been in that felt intentional and overflowing with care. From sign language interpreters, to room assignments based on needs, to wheelchair-accessible venues. Strong chairs without arms to dig into our thighs. Plenty of food for vegan-at-the-time me, and plenty of food for folks who ate meat. In the lounges, I had access to a shame-free range of snacks from carrots and hummus, pieces of fruit, chips, candy; the list was abundant. Pool parties made space for all bodies and comfort levels. Where there were folks whose job was to check in and see that I was cared for. Before then, I hadn’t ever seen a space that was truly inclusively designed. 

Now I prioritize my community and my people with that kind of loving care. I make space in my work for bodies that look like mine. Our farm might feel different than other farms. More space between rows, opportunities to sit down to do tasks. The language we use, and how we push back. I dream of creating a retreat space on our future land that is a space of care and connection to the land, food, rest, and what folks need to take care of their well-being. 

My first Nolose conference was one of the first spaces I’d been in that felt intentional and overflowing with care. From sign language interpreters, to room assignments based on needs, to wheelchair-accessible venues. Strong chairs without arms to dig into our thighs. Plenty of food for vegan-at-the-time me, and plenty of food for folks who ate meat. In the lounges, I had access to a shame-free range of snacks from carrots and hummus, pieces of fruit, chips, candy; the list was abundant. Pool parties made space for all bodies and comfort levels. Where there were folks whose job was to check in and see that I was cared for. Before then, I hadn’t ever seen a space that was truly inclusively designed. 

Now I prioritize my community and my people with that kind of loving care. I make space in my work for bodies that look like mine. Our farm might feel different than other farms. More space between rows, opportunities to sit down to do tasks. The language we use, and how we push back. I dream of creating a retreat space on our future land that is a space of care and connection to the land, food, rest, and what folks need to take care of their well-being. 

And while I work to create spaces and escapes from the grind that show care and make others feel held, I am pushing to make me less afraid to visit doctors. Less afraid to get pregnant. I chair the board of a LGBTQ+ community health center. It’s a space that is trying to be better; a space that is a work in progress, as we all are. And I hope as I push and advocate,  I’ll feel a little more of the “care” in healthcare. I’m dreaming that in that place of care, there is space for the conception of both a plan and a human with a little less fear. 

“Caring for each other is how we survive to do the rest of our work. This is not meant to downplay the serious abolitionist work that needs to be done in order to create marked change for fat people, but there is no change without care…We cannot help people resist, cannot get organized, cannot be a movement without care.”

Spring 2022’s feature, No Health, No Care

Chef Fresh Roberson is fighting for accessible quality affirming health care for all, centering POC, queer, GNC, trans*, and fat folks. She is deeply passionate about food programming being commonplace in healthcare and in healthcare free of body shaming and honoring the principles of H.A.E.S (Health At Every Size). They are a farmer, chef, and aspiring writer, creating spaces for pleasure, access, and choice in Chicago and beyond.

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The Story of Your Body, Caroline Moore
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Freedom Song No. 28, Aurielle Marie