| “Pero nunca faltó el alimento, Nos defendió con música tocando en casamiento’ A veces al horno, a veces de lata y microonda’ Compartíamos todo, la mesa era redonda Clase media-baja, nunca fuimo’ dueño’ El préstamo del banco se robaba nuestro’ sueño’ La cuenta de ahorro vacía Pero mami bailando Flamenco nos alegraba el día” – Residente | “But we never lacked food, He defended us with odd jobs playing music, Sometimes via oven, sometimes via can and microwave, We shared it all, the table was circular, Lower middle class, we were never owners, The bank loan stole our dreams, Savings account perpetually empty, But mom’s dancing always brightened our day” – Residente |
My mom and I used to play all sorts of games when I was growing up. One of them was the grocery store math game. My mom would read out the price of every item she put in the cart and it was my job to keep track of the running total. It was a great exercise in mental math and rounding. What I didn’t realize at the time was that it was also useful for keeping our grocery bill within budget. My sister was born 17 years after I was and when my mom didn’t play the same game with her, I wondered why. It took me years to realize that the answer was largely material: we weren’t broke anymore.
As my family and I were driving home from the grocery store the other day, I realized that I didn’t pay attention to the total at the cashier and that I wasn’t keeping a running tab of the items we put in the cart. It’s been years since I had to worry about money in a serious way, but the psychological scars from my youth rear their heads every now and then. There’s a guilt that comes with surviving. It’s not a guilt that should inspire sympathy in others but one that fuels a rage inside me. People might be able to imagine what it’s like to not have money, but it’s difficult to articulate or understand the mental toll. The anxiety of opening a fridge and rationing what you eat; not because you’re on a diet but because the next paycheck is 10 days away. The weight of that lifestyle follows you for years after you’ve left it. The taste of Vienna sausages and spam lingers in the back of your throat and taste buds. I’m the lucky one. These are memories rather than the present. Scars instead of wounds. Yet the fire rages. I hate the idea of anyone not having their basic needs met.
The COVID pandemic has made me hyper aware of food insecurity in my community. Currently, the unemployment rate in Central Falls is around 18%; higher than at any point in the Great Recession and the highest it’s been in the last 30 years (maybe longer but the data available starts at 1990). When any of the local non-profits hold a food distribution event, dozens, sometimes hundreds, of people show up. These are human beings in need. Regular working-class people. Moms like my own 15 years ago. Instead of outrage or frustration at the system that holds them in place, most of them are grateful. Grateful for something to eat.
I’ve volunteered at several food distribution events, and I’m shocked at the supply that we have available. When a State is faltering, it makes sure to feed its people as a means of quelling unrest. Hungry people make for unpredictable potential rebels. Letting people go hungry is a choice that we make in the United States. We have the resources, infrastructure, and capacity to stamp out hunger; but we don’t. If and when we emerge from this tripartite crisis (economic, health, and racial), we must hold ourselves and our government to a higher standard. A standard where, at the very least, no one goes hungry.