Hunger in History

Time alarm clock went off: it didn’t (the battery fell out); approximate minutes stomach spent grumbling: 2; hours spent envisioning food: 35
It’s about 5:30 p.m. and I’m home alone, wandering through my house between spurts of homework. In the kitchen, rich dinner smells waft into my nostrils: potatoes and cheese, onions, milk. My stomach is empty, hollow. On the stove is a frosted pan of food, I don’t know what. I take of the lid and stick my nose in. Ah…succulent, warm, full. I put the lid back on with a soft clatter and step away, instead filling a glass with water.
I’m 35 hours into an extra-credit opportunity for history class – a three-day fast. We’re learning about the Depression. About days with just bread and water and oatmeal. About unemployment and gas stamps. I’m not the only one embarking on this not-so-nice adventure. There are others, too, water bottles in backpacks, journals in hand. The first day, we can have two pieces of bread. The second day, we can have one. The third day, we can have none.
Before I started fasting, two pieces of bread seemed so small, so little, so meager. But as the day wore on and my stomach protested, I looked forward to those two pieces of bread like they were slices of crumbling chocolate cake, sweet and moist and still warm. In my life, the soft flesh of plain rye bread has never been more appreciated.
Hunger puts things into perspective. An apple that yesterday was eaten without a thought today is stared at and studied and longed for. Today, it is the utmost prize. Everything is lived in a daze, trying to get through things fast so that tomorrow and food will come. It’s hard to focus without visions of juicy chickens and mashed potatoes and cheese on crackers and soft chocolate chip cookies cropping up in the mind. Hunger prompts questions: What is worthwhile, and what is not?
Gandhi once said that poverty was the greatest violence. His words now strike me in places where before they did not. They make me want to do something, to send a ship full of food and love to the starving people around the world. They make me want to work for peace from the bottom up, to start with remedying a simple thing like hunger.
It’s time for my last bit of bread. I hold it in my hands, savoring its smell, its weight, its substance, and then, closing my eyes, I place it into my mouth and chew, slowly, deliberately, gratefully.