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Would I have been spared my weight obsessions if I hadn't grown up in an extended Italian-American family that staged feasts to end all feasts, the sheer abundance of food connoting that massive consumption was possible--and that massive consumption was a joy in and of itself?
Would I have been spared if my mother hadn't coaxed me on to Atkins at the age of eight, planting in me the notion that a fad diet was a sensible eating plan and a possible antidote to my formidable appetites?
I don't know. But I've been asked those questions again and again as I've talked--on TV and on radio, to journalists and to bookstore audiences--about my newly published memoir, a chronicle of overeating and under-eating and trying all the while to strike the right balance, to integrate some much-needed discipline into my reckless love affair with food.
I've been asked those questions with particular frequency and urgency over the last week and a half, because there's been a fresh round of attention, as kids headed back to school, to the problem of childhood obesity, which has been deemed epidemic in this country.
Some interviewers and even some casual acquaintances want me to point fingers; such is the nature of confession culture today.
In fact I wrote a piece on the topic for the Week in Review section of the New York Times, and it yielded scores of lengthy, impassioned responses online. Parents want desperately to do right by their children, to help their children establish a healthy, tempered relationship with food that will keep them safe from unhealthy weight gains or losses and from acute food-related anxieties as time goes by.
But how to do that?
Although that wasn't the question in the front of my mind when I set out to write Born Round--I detailed what was in the front of my mind in a previous post on this blog--it was one of the many issues that I thought the book might be useful in addressing, at least implicitly and inadvertently.
I figured that in my story, people trying to work on their own eating problems and people trying to guide their children might find some warning signs, clues, and lessons. I didn't want to spell them out or name them, because I'm not certain there's a single correct moral to be drawn from my story. But there's fodder for discussion, tucked into what I hope is a moving, funny, larger narrative about all the ways food lifts us up and drags us down--an eternal blessing and intermittent curse.
I was fat by the age of 6, began fad diets by the age of 8, did a fast at the age of 17, and was throwing up meals at the age of 19. Some of this was probably visible to my parents, much of it probably not. My mother seldom told me I was overweight, but she did counsel vertical stripes over horizontal ones, and I knew what the message of that was. That made me anxious, but the foundation of anxiety came from the elementary school classmates who joked that my initials, F.B., stood for Fat Boy.