Hungry

We were always home alone and at times without food. I can’t ever remember a time when our refrigerator, freezer or cupboards were fully stocked. While waiting for Babalu to bring food, we would take matters into our own hands. I remember an instance when we saw our back neighbors raking food into their garbage. Looking out of our bedroom window, we patiently waited for them to finish so that we could go out and fetch the food. As soon as they were done we ran out and ate the food right out of the garbage can. My brother and I remember the meal being sausage and rice; however, my sisters remember it being fried fish. Nevertheless, our neighbors saw us eating out of the garbage can and were kind enough to prepare a meal for all of us. Right after, the police arrived at our door. Not wanting to go to a foster home, my brother closest to me and I jumped out of a window and ran away. Neither of us remember where the hell we went, but we knew weren’t getting in the police car. My younger siblings were taken to the police station until my father was contacted.

We would also go around collecting soda bottles. During those times you could sell them for 10 cents each. We would try and collect a dollar’s worth so that we could get a drink, and cookies or potato chips. I also remember taking on the school’s fundraisers, selling candy, taking the money made and buying food. Now, whenever my son claims to be hungry despite the abundance of food available to him, I ignore him because I know what it means to be hungry. And when you’re hungry, you eat what ever is available, no matter what it is or where it comes from.

Our story is far from uncommon and is current state. There are children living now as we lived then which perplexes me when I hear about major philanthropic efforts going outside of America. I am by no means minimizing the horrific socioeconomic conditions in other countries, but I’d like a better understanding of how one could look to feed someone else’s child before feeding their own.