This was Written from the Stomach - quicksilver_47
THIS WAS WRITTEN FROM THE STOMACH
I was born hungry. I was born in a shack, cold and damp. I was born right into the giant grasp of poverty; of hunger. When, like so many of the children who were born at the exact second I was, I cried for milk, my mother, like any mother, took me in her arms, and rocked me, slowly, gently. She held me close, and I could feel her rough hands, that were shaking from labor, run across my face, in an attempt to soothe me. But I was hungry. I was desperately hungry. And so, no matter what comfort my mother offered, I simply cried louder. My lungs were pierced with air that carried the fetid scent of blood, sweat, trash, and rat urine. My stomach, little as it was, shouted, demanded that I be fed; demanded that warm, smooth milk enter my body.
And then my mother started crying.
As she gripped my fragile body tightly, I heard her say, “My little one… I am so sorry I have no milk to offer you. I too, am hungry. “
Her precious, salty tears, trickled down her cheeks, slid off of her chin, and dropped themselves into my young mouth. Her tears and her sadness served as my first form of food. This was how I was marked as a child of hunger; a child of poverty.
Ten years passed quickly. Soon, my mother could no longer bear the pain that knawed in her stomach, and she succumbed to Death’s seemingly sweet call. She left me to fend for myself, and I sometimes find myself wondering if she wasn’t just waiting to leave this world. After all, she too, was born hungry.
Now, my dear reader, let me show you the life I was left with; the life I am living right at this very moment.
I am a scavenger. My friends and I hunt, day and night, for anything edible. Every morning, we go around subdivisions, begging. You ask, my dear reader, why is it we don’t get ourselves jobs? Why do we not seek others who might be willing to let us handle their chores? The answer is simple. We do not look like children who can be trusted, much less hired to work in a household or a small store. We look like the rags we wear. And unfortunately for us, our looks mean a great deal to those who could give us the means to live.
We beg and ask, make ourselves look pitiful and weak, just to get a few morsels of food. At night, we play tag with cars, jeeps, and drunk drivers, and then play hide-and-seek with the policemen who aim to take us off the streets and into a children’s home. A restaurant’s scraps are worth the hours we spent under the heat of the sun. It is these scraps we race around the streets for.
Sometimes, however, there are not enough scraps to feed us all. During these times, our night-time races lead us to various garbage cans. Ah. Do not give me that disgusted look, my dear reader. Do you not think, we too are sickened by the oily containers, the ripped table napkins, and the Coke bottles dripping with anything other than what they are supposed to contain?
Oh, how you underestimate us. We know that we will get sick. We know that what we put into our mouths might as well be the cause of our deaths. But what choice do we have? We were born hungry. We are growing up hungry. Do you not think we will die hungry as well?
My dear reader, I am appealing to you, hoping that you will see my worth as a human being like yourself. My friends and I are hungry. We need you to move. We need you to do something about our predicament. Tell others of our plight. Please… Our stomachs have been neglected long enough.
My dear reader, listen to me, to us; we are the children born poor and hungry.
Stand up. Take Action.
Now.