Beans, Toilet Paper, Socks

Danielle Morris — Beans, Toilet Paper, Socks

“I’m in the sixth grade. My little brother Jer and I are racing [00:00:30] home from the school bus. It’s a frigid winter day and our current rental house doesn’t have working heat. A thin layer of ice coats the walls of the bathroom and the uninsulated garage, that’s our shared bedroom. To keep the roaches and rodents at bay, we keep all of our food stored in an old steamer trunk on the kitchen floor.”

“Kicking off my shoes, my stomach cramps. The food stamps are due [00:01:00] and I haven’t eaten since we finished the leftover beans the night before. On good days, I can smell the beans before the bus even pulls away. The other kids make fun of us by pinching their noses or pretending to gag and shame snakes around my belly, creeping up my chest and my neck until my face is bright red. But that shame vanishes the second I walk through the door. It’s funny [00:01:30] how a thing can make you feel so ashamed one second and so joyful the next. On the days that I smell beans, I know Jer and I are going to have dinner for at least a couple of nights, which is the closest thing that my 12-year-old brain can imagine is luxury. Lifting the lid of the heavy trunk, my heart drops. I had hoped to find some saltine crackers or maybe a jar of peanut [00:02:00] butter, anything to stave off our hunger, but there’s nothing except a little bit of leftover rice.”

“I always give my brother half of whatever food I have.” Sorry. ​“I always give my brother half of whatever food I have, and every time shame wraps me in a dark cloak. I’m perfectly aware I shouldn’t have to give half of my food to my brother. But awareness doesn’t change [00:02:30] my reality of doing without, without warm winter clothes or breakfast or lunch. I take to hiding socks and underwear that no longer fit because the idea of throwing them away makes me feel sick. Every coin I find, I stash away so in an emergency, I can buy a loaf of bread. When I’m on free school lunch, which isn’t often because we move around an awful lot, I smuggle [00:03:00] food home so that he can have something to eat before he goes to bed. When I’m old enough to have a job, I use my paycheck to help pay rent, but I also hide boxes of granola bars all over my room. None of this makes me feel good, and before I know it shame’s my albatross. It’s around my neck, always whispering that I’ll never have enough because I’ll never be enough.”

“Years pass [00:03:30] and a childhood of constantly doing without has trapped me in a state of constant hypervigilance for my own families well-being. The only way I know to fight the anxiety and the fear is to stockpile staples. I haven’t crossed the line into hoarding, but I absolutely cannot function with fewer than a dozen rolls of toilet paper in the house. My partner [00:04:00] never says anything about my dragon ways. Every once in a while, he’ll question if we really need another tube of toothpaste, but in the end, he lets it all go because it’s not that big of a deal. And honestly, sometimes it turns out to be a good thing that we have a shelf stable supply of goods. Times when the checks are short or we’re dealing with unemployment, it’s really comforting to know we don’t have to wipe our asses with with leaves.”

“So, now it’s spring 2020 and we’re taking our high school senior on a out-of-state college tour. It’s early March. The WHO hasn’t even declared Covid a pandemic yet, but all of that changes on our trip. The tour our son took was the last in-person tour that school would give for nearly two years. Driving down a deserted snowy highway in the middle of the [00:05:00] pandemic, NPR reports on all of the shortages. Toilet paper is gone from all the shelves. There’s no rice, there’s no food, there’s nothing. Panic starts to claw at me, and it just tightens when we pull into a gas station in the middle of the desert, even there not one roll of toilet paper or a can of Chef Boyardee is in sight.”

“Sitting in the car, [00:05:30] I do a mental inventory of what we have at home. We have a 25 pound bag of beans. We have black beans, pinto beans, Mayocobas, we have chicken stock, and I do all of my mental thoughts, and I know that between the pantry and the freezer, we have enough to get us through an entire year. We have plenty of food. And [00:06:00] suddenly the shame releases itself. And warm pride floods my body as I realize my trauma response to growing up in extreme poverty is actually kind of useful. As dusk turns into night, I lean back in my seat and smile knowing that when the shit hits the fan, I can provide for me and mine.” Thank you.