I had a job interview on Friday morning, my first in nearly two years. It's been five years since I worked in a traditional full-time position and I almost can't remember how it felt to be comfortably, gainfully employed. While we've learned to live on a great deal less, it is a constant struggle to keep our heads above water. The possibility of another income would be amazing, to the point that I can't let myself think about it too long. In fact right after the interview, I try to squash any hopefulness because the disappointment might be too much to bear.
I picked up groceries on the way home from the interview and was stocking up the cupboards when I noticed a pair of short, fat cans on the top shelf. It gave me pause, made me think of how far we've come and how much we've survived. These cans, you see, are a piece of our history. I frequently tease my 23 year-old son that these cans are his inheritance and my legacy.
In August of 2000, I moved into Family Student Housing at UC Santa Cruz with my 11 and 8-year-old sons. Getting there at all was a miracle. Balancing work, school and being a single parent, it took me 3 ½ years to get through two years of Jr. college and another nine months of scrimping and saving to get us there. We arrived two weeks before classes started. Three weeks before financial aid was distributed.
By the middle of the second week, we were down to a jar of peanut butter, a half-pack of spaghetti a couple of wrinkly potatoes and a box of saltine crackers. We filled all three of our juice pitchers with water and added a few drops of food coloring to each so there would be a variety.
"I'm having Blue with dinner." Max announced, setting the table for our Peanut Butter/Cracker Sandwich dinner, "Would you like some Yellow, or are you in the mood for Red?"
Not wanting to see the fight that was bound to break out over the last Saltine, I dug through the "Welcome to Santa Cruz" brochure they'd left on my doorstep and thumbed through the Resources section until I found the number for the local Food Pantry. I picked up the phone and chewed nervously on a raw spaghetti stick as Imade the call.
The pantry, as it turned out, was actually a group of pantries, different ones open on different days. The first place they sent me to was a little church in the middle of a run-down neighborhood out near West Cliff. It took all the courage I had to get out of the car and knock on that door. No one answered. I knocked twice more, walked around the church and found the whole place was locked up. Frustrated, I drove home.
The phone was ringing as we come through the door and the woman I'd spoken to before apologized and explained that she'd sent me to the wrong place for that day. After getting new directions, we went back out to another church in a nicer neighborhood.
We were met on the steps of this second church by a large man who ushered us inside and introduced us to a handful of children tucked up to a long table in the kitchen, each one with a bowl of shredded vegetables and a stack of egg roll wrappers before them. The man explained that these children and their families were living at the church and one of their chores was the preparation of meals.
Max and Jory cozied up to the table and one of the older girls showed them how to wrap a proper egg roll. As they joined in the work, the man excused himself to the pantry with two large paper bags. When he returned, the bags were heavy with staples and I felt a sudden wave of guilt at the thought of taking food from these people, returning to my little hilltop apartment and sleeping in my own bed. We had so much and yet here we were, asking strangers for help.
The man handed one bag to Max and the other to Jory. I thanked him simply, trying to choke the tears down into my throat. Some of the children followed us out to the car and stood, waving goodbye as we drove away. Once we were around the corner and out of sight, Max dove into the bags like it was Christmas morning. In the backseat, he tossed the food at Jory, cataloging each item as he went..
French salad dressing, three cans of off-brand soup, sliced cranberries, a bag of pinto beans and another of brown rice. A loaf of white bread and a package of bologna, some Hummus, a jar of mayo, six jello pudding cups five packets of kool-aid, and of course, another glorious box of Saltines. Last, but by no means least, he withdrew the two fat cans stamped PORK and BEEF.
"Is there a pig in this can?" Jory asks, holding it up so I can see the silvery can in the rearview mirror.
"It appears there is.”
“And a cow in this one?" Max waves the BEEF can back and forth.
“Apparently”
"Are we really gonna eat them?" Jory asks, eyeing me suspiciously in the mirror.
"Only if we have to." I promise.
"I'm not putting THAT in my mouth." Jory insists.
"That's 'cause you're not really hungry yet." Max says, tossing him a pudding cup.
We have moved four times in the thirteen years between that day and this one. On each occasion, I have boxed up the BEEF and PORK and carried them into our new home, tucking them into a high cabinet, not in the back where I'll never notice them, but right up front.
I want to see them. I want to be reminded every once in a while that no matter how bare-bones we've gotten, I'm still not desperate enough to crack open those rusty lids, hear the schlop of the geletin-packed meat escaping the can, and rack my brain to figure out how I'm going to serve up the canned BEEF or PORK to my family. If the time comes, they'll be there. But for today, we're doing OK and it's important for me to remember that.
UPDATE: How lovely to wake up and find myself at the top of the REC List! Since I'm here, I'd like to include links to
Feeding America and the upcoming documentary "
A Place At The Table". We CAN make a difference and work towards curing hunger in our own communities and across the country.