When I remember wanting, I remember shoes.
I lingered in the back of the cafeteria line in elementary school, hoping no one noticed that I needed only forty cents for my reduced lunch. Someone pointed at my shoes.
“Those aren’t real,” he said. “They only have two stripes. Mine have three.”
I looked at my stupid black shoes with two white stripes and yearned for the line to move.
My family kept foster kids on the weekends, which allowed us to shop at the food bank where we filled a grocery cart for $10. The coveted items were held in the food bank’s freezer—veal, bison, ostrich or whichever nearly expired meat did not sell. There were never the Cool Ranch Doritos or Fruit Gushers that I eyed in my classmates’ lunchboxes. What was it like asking your mother to buy your favorite snack from the grocery store? How did it feel to get to choose?
Once a month, I stood beside my mom in the sterile hallway of the food bank, waiting for the metal doors to swing open. We charged forth with the other customers as a herd of animals, bolting for dented cans of creamed corn and syrupy fruit cocktail, squished loaves of bread, and forgotten cakes that read Happy Birthday Paula. My mother laughed as she crossed out the name with icing, adding her own beside it. She closed her eyes and blew out the candles, and I understood that her wish was never for a different cake.
When our elementary school announced a canned food drive for the needy, my mom
gave me a plastic bag. I filled it with cans from our pantry, so heavy it needed double bagging. I lugged my haul onto the bus. Look at me, I begged. Look how generous I am. I carried far more cans than any other kid.
Ms. Overby asked if I wanted to set the heavy bag down and offered to bring it to the donation box at the front entrance of the school.
“I want to take it,” I said quietly. I plodded through the familiar halls, the handles of the plastic bags digging into my small wrist. I took the longest route, detouring by the library, pausing to look at artwork I’d already seen a hundred times. Maybe I’d bump into the librarian. Perhaps the principal would be leaving his office soon. I longed to be seen by as many people as possible. I wanted to scream look how much we have to give.
Finally, I reached the oversized cardboard box. I deposited the cans and returned to my classroom emptyhanded, sliding into my chair.
Was it self-preservation or the quiet work of a mother who never showed how dire the situation was? There was my family, and there was the needy. It did not occur to me that we could be the same.
The donations were collected, loaded onto a truck, and delivered to the food bank, where they lined the shelves my mother and I stalked the next month. I ran my fingers along the curves of the cans, across the peeling labels and dented tin, unaware of their journey.
Amy is a nonfiction writer who lives down a gravel road in North Carolina with her husband, two kids, dogs, cat, and chickens. She holds a BFA and MFA in creative writing. She loves running, board games, and when people cancel plans. Her bumper sticker aptly says: Don’t honk, I’m already crying.
Image Credit: Flickr Creative Commons/Megan
So poignant, Amy!