I was once that wife

By Meg Smith

 

I was once that wife.

 

Yesterday, I passed the soup kitchen, but they serve more than soup to folks in the community who are hungry. Many of them are homeless, some of them are mentally ill who have no money and don’t or can’t work, and a few are alcoholics or on drugs. It’s a kitchen and dining operation with a store front thrift shop one street over from the worst crime in town, right next to the cemetery, where most of them will end up in back corner unmarked graves. Staffed by a devoted and caring group who are used to the hard core clientele, the soup kitchen folks are assisted by many volunteers in the community, students from the local colleges doing internships or service projects for credit, or churches that send in donations. They hadn’t opened for lunch at the time I drove by, and the hungry were slumped against the building, talking and smoking, a couple laying in the handicapped parking place closest the entrance with caps pulled over their eyes.

While I was among the fortunate who had been able to financially support the soup kitchen, donate items to sell in the thrift shop, and serve, there was a hunger memory tattooed on my brain and I often felt uncomfortable just driving by because I knew I was a few paychecks removed from being in the soup kitchen line, as were most of the population. 

My brain didn’t conjure the hunger memory as stomach growls, but feelings of gnawing pain, longing, and a sense desperation and loneliness. It was never as bad for me as it was for those at the soup kitchen because mine wasn’t a way of life, but more like a vacation from sustenance. As a graduate student living on $330 per month, I had a few bills, mainly the rent for my garage apartment that was $225 per month, which included utilities, but that didn’t leave me a lot to live on for the month, particularly after the phone bill for my land line came. That month, I found myself with about twenty dollars and three weeks to go until payday. I made a trip to the grocery store, stocked up on potted meat, soup, and crackers, but went through them in a week.

Family and friends I called didn’t have anything to spare, and I probably couldn’t have paid them back if they could’ve spotted me a loan. So, I suffered. At least, I thought it was suffering. Certainly more suffering than I ever had ever experienced. The first two days weren’t bad. I still had coffee and water to drink, and my stomach grumbled.  By day three, I had some pain and began to have a sense of tiredness and wanted to sleep more. By day four, I could tighten my belt a notch. I got the idea, since I had a master key that I should sneak around other offices when people weren’t at work and see what I might find. I found some crackers and candy, not chocolate bars, but hard candy and mints people had in bowls on their desks. I took enough to last me several days and hoped they wouldn’t ask questions.  

I was miserable and by the next week, I had lost two belt notches and several pounds. I called the Welfare department, but they couldn’t provide any assistance since I was a student. It was tough to believe that I could not get assistance because I wasn’t unemployed and wasn’t seeking full time employment. I was bitter and resentful of governmental policies that were not helpful and would allow someone trying to better himself to starve. I hung up on them and reasoned I would have the phone disconnected, that it would give me a bit more to spend on food next month.

I had a little candy per day, maybe a cracker or two, and my typical coffee and water. At some point, I told some of my friends who shared they, too, had gone hungry, had resorted to dumpster diving behind fast food restaurants next to campus after closing to salvage food they could reheat in dorm microwaves. I simply couldn’t bring myself to do that. I wasn’t that hungry.   Friends invited me for dinner and even though I was excited, I let them know I probably couldn’t bring anything. I probably had two helpings of everything and that helped and carried me a couple of days.  

By the end of the week, I still had enough gas to drive to my apartment, was thankful my old car still ran, and noted a sack by my upstairs apartment door. When I topped the stairs, I looked in the sack and found all sorts of groceries, at least fifty dollars’ worth. There was no note. I lifted the sack, went inside, and tears dropped from my eyes as I opened a jar of peanut butter, a jar of grape jelly, a loaf of bread and made the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich of my life. I have no idea how someone knew, but I suspect it was one of my professors who’d studied under Maslow and saw to it basic needs were met for those she knew. I’d kept it quiet and was embarrassed I hadn’t done a better job of managing what little I had, but I never worried again. I took a second job and worked my way through college, so I could get a better job and wouldn’t go hungry again.