mice on wheels
Ever notice how you learn a new word, then hear it everywhere you go? When you’re pregnant, all you see is pregnant women walking the streets or moms pushing strollers? You’re thinking of going to Paris, and suddenly every newspaper, TV station and poster has something to do with France?
In recent weeks, it seems that poverty, welfare and hunger have permeated my brain. And I keep overhearing snatches of conversations. Yesterday the clock radio went off really early — maybe 5 a.m. From a dead sleep, I heard a man say, “Well, those deadbeats on welfare don’t want to get their hands dirty when they can stay home drinking and smoking cigarettes.” Huh?
At the grocery store the other day I heard both of these comments: “We have more food than we know what to do with,” and “We have nothing to eat at home” (the latter of which seemed unlikely to be true, from a glance at the speaker).
The things people say. The things they think. The way we talk. The way we eat. The things we throw away. The thoughtless statements that fall from our lips. The crumbs we leave, or do not leave, for others.
I could make mincemeat out of all of these statements, and probably will, later. But I post this short blog this morning with the request that you think about your food security today, and then spare a thought — just one — for someone who might not have as much as you, and how you would feel in that position. And how you would feel if you heard opinions stated as facts on the radio that seemed directed at you, when you were struggling.
Julia Park Tracey is an award-winning journalist, author, and blogger. She is the author of "Veronika Layne Gets the Scoop" and "Veronika Layne Has a Nose for News" (rep'd by Booktrope). She is the Poet Laureate of Alameda, California. She's also the conservatrix of The Doris Diaries, the diaries of her great-aunt Doris Bailey Murphy. Her articles have appeared in Thrillist, Quill, Paste, San Francisco Chronicle, and in many magazines; her latest poetry appears in The East Bay Literary review.