Hunger
I never reread books. I almost never re-watch movies. About the only thing I repeat is eating at the same restaurants -- and that's about fifty various ones across the Greater Bay Area in the course of a year. I eat out virtually every day. Food is pretty much the only familiar comfort in which I indulge, and even then, I eat less than most people.
All week, during these twelve hour work days, I've eaten about one meal a day, with only a few snacks. I generally have to remind myself to eat, because it's so simple for me to belittle hunger, which lasts only for an hour or two, and then is gone, as though nothing more than some childlike whim.
Mind you, I am hardly skinny. I eat little, but I exert less. For years, I worked running around on my feet all day without resting, then switched to a complete desk job. Four years in front of multiple monitors and I have grown slow. Without the small amounts of food I do eat in the course of a work day, I would probably go catatonic.
Most people love eating. For me, it is a chore, daily maintenance, akin to showering or sleep. I love the experience of dining out, trying new flavors and new environs, but the actual duty of digestion and sensation of fullness disgusts me. It makes me tired, sick, and a bit revolted.
I know you'll think I'm crazy when I say, ever since I was a kid, whenever I saw large groups of people sitting around, shoveling food into their mouths, it always made me angry and sick. I saw the human necessity to eat as a great hobbler. The smartest, the strongest, the fairest -- all are reduced to gaping orifices and gastrointestinal tracts, without any say in the matter. They are all hungry mouths by design -- and as a child, I saw that as the intrinsic cruelty of existence. All people are brought into this world hungry, yet without the facility to feed themselves. They rely on chance and charity, and those are never dependable.
Life is Greedy, I said. When you eat, someone starves. You live at the the expense of another taking your place at the table. It is not fair, but that is the way of the world. So I thought when I was eight, and so I think today.
When I was young, my being upset for everyone was my being upset at my own lot. Growing up, I was always, always hungry. My metabolism was crazy. I was the tallest kid around, from kindergarten up till the last year of junior high, where I was third tallest. My stomach could never be satisfied, and I resented that fact. The perpetual sense of emptiness was not the only problem. The real kicker was the sense of guilt when I ate more than others, that I needed more to live than others.
I went to public school my entire life, always eating public school cafeteria food. Those of you who are familiar with it can probably agree with me when I say that "food" is used here loosely -- it was terrible. I ate it, though. No one ever needed to tell me children were starving in Africa. I was starving right here, right now. One of the few things school served that I actually liked was fried chicken -- deep fry anything and it's hard to turn out terribly wrong. (Now, I pretty much steer clear of anything deep fried. I don't remember the last time I had french fries...)
I remember one lunch time around third grade, I had run out of class as the lunch bell rang to get into the lunch line as fast as possible. I was starved. Lucky me, they were serving fried chicken that day. I grabbed my two pieces of chicken and wolfed it down within minutes. However, I was still hungry. At this time, a Hispanic boy, about two years younger than me and small even for his age, sat down beside me. I eyed his food, and without thinking, quickly said, "Are you going to eat that?"
He looked at me and said, "No. Take it." In exchange, I gave him my milk -- which I've always hated, even now -- leaving him with a pint of milk and a piece of bread for lunch.
Over twenty years later, I still feel guilty for eating two extra pieces of fried chicken. I ask myself, did he really not want it? Or was he just intimidated because I was twice his size and the tallest kid in school? I then start feeling bad about knowing that I live at the expense of others, even if it is only at the simple level of food.
A few weeks ago, I was in the neighborhood KFC with some friends, grabbing take-out. Ahead of us was a homeless guy I've seen around the neighborhood for years. He was in his 50's, with long white hair, and he reeked of piss. He was paying for a two piece meal. (Bless egalitarian capitalism -- if you have money, you can eat, no matter what you look like.) And then I thought about my two extra pieces, and thought about the fact that I could buy all the fried chicken in the entire store without blinking, while he probably hadn't eaten in awhile. We both needed food, but food meant a lot more to him than me -- and I felt Bad.
He was standing next to me, eating his food right out of the box, and I reached into my wallet and pulled out the first bill I could find. I never give money to panhandlers, but I have given money and food to the hungry.
I offered him a twenty and said, "Here, take it."
"Oh no, I couldn't. That's very sweet of you, though."
I didn't know what to say. I wanted to help him, but I think I only ended up hurting his pride.
On the way out, he said, not to me, but the room in general, "Does anyone want some chicken? I've had my share." He had eaten one piece of the two piece meal, and was offering the second, because he was full.
A homeless man was honestly offering me food. I was hungry, and I felt horrible for it.
I think for my upcoming birthday, I will fast again. I need to remind myself: It's not right feeling guilty for living.
All week, during these twelve hour work days, I've eaten about one meal a day, with only a few snacks. I generally have to remind myself to eat, because it's so simple for me to belittle hunger, which lasts only for an hour or two, and then is gone, as though nothing more than some childlike whim.
Mind you, I am hardly skinny. I eat little, but I exert less. For years, I worked running around on my feet all day without resting, then switched to a complete desk job. Four years in front of multiple monitors and I have grown slow. Without the small amounts of food I do eat in the course of a work day, I would probably go catatonic.
Most people love eating. For me, it is a chore, daily maintenance, akin to showering or sleep. I love the experience of dining out, trying new flavors and new environs, but the actual duty of digestion and sensation of fullness disgusts me. It makes me tired, sick, and a bit revolted.
I know you'll think I'm crazy when I say, ever since I was a kid, whenever I saw large groups of people sitting around, shoveling food into their mouths, it always made me angry and sick. I saw the human necessity to eat as a great hobbler. The smartest, the strongest, the fairest -- all are reduced to gaping orifices and gastrointestinal tracts, without any say in the matter. They are all hungry mouths by design -- and as a child, I saw that as the intrinsic cruelty of existence. All people are brought into this world hungry, yet without the facility to feed themselves. They rely on chance and charity, and those are never dependable.
Life is Greedy, I said. When you eat, someone starves. You live at the the expense of another taking your place at the table. It is not fair, but that is the way of the world. So I thought when I was eight, and so I think today.
When I was young, my being upset for everyone was my being upset at my own lot. Growing up, I was always, always hungry. My metabolism was crazy. I was the tallest kid around, from kindergarten up till the last year of junior high, where I was third tallest. My stomach could never be satisfied, and I resented that fact. The perpetual sense of emptiness was not the only problem. The real kicker was the sense of guilt when I ate more than others, that I needed more to live than others.
I went to public school my entire life, always eating public school cafeteria food. Those of you who are familiar with it can probably agree with me when I say that "food" is used here loosely -- it was terrible. I ate it, though. No one ever needed to tell me children were starving in Africa. I was starving right here, right now. One of the few things school served that I actually liked was fried chicken -- deep fry anything and it's hard to turn out terribly wrong. (Now, I pretty much steer clear of anything deep fried. I don't remember the last time I had french fries...)
I remember one lunch time around third grade, I had run out of class as the lunch bell rang to get into the lunch line as fast as possible. I was starved. Lucky me, they were serving fried chicken that day. I grabbed my two pieces of chicken and wolfed it down within minutes. However, I was still hungry. At this time, a Hispanic boy, about two years younger than me and small even for his age, sat down beside me. I eyed his food, and without thinking, quickly said, "Are you going to eat that?"
He looked at me and said, "No. Take it." In exchange, I gave him my milk -- which I've always hated, even now -- leaving him with a pint of milk and a piece of bread for lunch.
Over twenty years later, I still feel guilty for eating two extra pieces of fried chicken. I ask myself, did he really not want it? Or was he just intimidated because I was twice his size and the tallest kid in school? I then start feeling bad about knowing that I live at the expense of others, even if it is only at the simple level of food.
A few weeks ago, I was in the neighborhood KFC with some friends, grabbing take-out. Ahead of us was a homeless guy I've seen around the neighborhood for years. He was in his 50's, with long white hair, and he reeked of piss. He was paying for a two piece meal. (Bless egalitarian capitalism -- if you have money, you can eat, no matter what you look like.) And then I thought about my two extra pieces, and thought about the fact that I could buy all the fried chicken in the entire store without blinking, while he probably hadn't eaten in awhile. We both needed food, but food meant a lot more to him than me -- and I felt Bad.
He was standing next to me, eating his food right out of the box, and I reached into my wallet and pulled out the first bill I could find. I never give money to panhandlers, but I have given money and food to the hungry.
I offered him a twenty and said, "Here, take it."
"Oh no, I couldn't. That's very sweet of you, though."
I didn't know what to say. I wanted to help him, but I think I only ended up hurting his pride.
On the way out, he said, not to me, but the room in general, "Does anyone want some chicken? I've had my share." He had eaten one piece of the two piece meal, and was offering the second, because he was full.
A homeless man was honestly offering me food. I was hungry, and I felt horrible for it.
I think for my upcoming birthday, I will fast again. I need to remind myself: It's not right feeling guilty for living.