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I remember growing up when we had to carry lunch to school because mother could not afford to pay for hot meals for all of us. I do not recall what we had for lunch, but it was in a paper bag and we were under strict orders to bring the bag and all of the contents home after school. The next morning we carried the same bag to school. Waxed paper and everything was reused.
Looking back I can see the discrimination that was alive and well even then. The tables for lunch were set up in the hallway down the center of the first floor. They ran all the way between the first grade class room and the second and third grade classroom. We were not allowed to eat at the end closest to the kitchen. Our designated place was at the end of the table nearest the stairs that started at the door of the fourth grade class and ran up to the 5th, 6th, 7th and 8th grade classrooms.
Since the Bartholomew kids were the only ones that had to carry their lunches we ate alone. The expanse of table that ran from where we were to where the "hot lunch" kids ran was an expanse that I never conquered. Every night I prayed that we would be rich and could afford hot lunches, but it never happened.
Every morning the smells from the school kitchen rose through the whole school. Mrs. Ritchie could make my mouth water and my stomach cramp with those aroma's that wafted through the halls. As sad as this may seem to you, I can still feel the humiliation of those days. There was no such thing as a "free lunch". Mother explained that if she had the money to pay for lunch for 3 or 4 of us kids that she could buy groceries to cook food for the whole family. I did not understand that back then and thought she was just mean, but now I do. Mother always said "Hind sight is 20/20 looking back."
We would steal sideways glances at the "hot lunch eaters" and as long as I had a sister with me, I was alright. It was just that when I was alone, it was like I was on an island in the middle of the poverty ocean. I did not resent the kids that could afford hot lunches, but I resented the fact that I was not allowed to set near them. It was kind of like I had a disease and might contaminate them. I want you to know that I can put myself in Anya Howard's shoes the only difference being that I lived it 5 days a week when school was in session.
I have since grown into a woman and sometimes talk to people who can remember back when they carried a lunch to school. One lady told me how her lunch usually consisted of a potato sandwich. Another carried carrots. A man told me "nothing".
Today, I can laugh about those days of poverty. I have not missed a meal in years and it shows. I love my mother fiercely and I am very proud of my heritage. I am proud that I grew up in Nickerson, Kansas on the dead end street called North Strong Street. It is that backbone that drove me to make sure my kids had hot lunches and never missed a meal. It is that background that makes my heart ache when a little girl is embarrassed by a woman that could have and should have paid for her meal.
Where is our compassion? Are our hearts so cold that we can not see the hunger in a little girls eyes? I have tried to convey to my children love thy neighbor, do good to them that spitefully use you, and pray for those who persecute you. I think they get it. And I will pray for the cafeteria lady and the rules that made her do what she did.
Every day is a new day and a chance to do better and help our fellow man.
I remember growing up when we had to carry lunch to school because mother could not afford to pay for hot meals for all of us. I do not recall what we had for lunch, but it was in a paper bag and we were under strict orders to bring the bag and all of the contents home after school. The next morning we carried the same bag to school. Waxed paper and everything was reused.
Looking back I can see the discrimination that was alive and well even then. The tables for lunch were set up in the hallway down the center of the first floor. They ran all the way between the first grade class room and the second and third grade classroom. We were not allowed to eat at the end closest to the kitchen. Our designated place was at the end of the table nearest the stairs that started at the door of the fourth grade class and ran up to the 5th, 6th, 7th and 8th grade classrooms.
Since the Bartholomew kids were the only ones that had to carry their lunches we ate alone. The expanse of table that ran from where we were to where the "hot lunch" kids ran was an expanse that I never conquered. Every night I prayed that we would be rich and could afford hot lunches, but it never happened.
Every morning the smells from the school kitchen rose through the whole school. Mrs. Ritchie could make my mouth water and my stomach cramp with those aroma's that wafted through the halls. As sad as this may seem to you, I can still feel the humiliation of those days. There was no such thing as a "free lunch". Mother explained that if she had the money to pay for lunch for 3 or 4 of us kids that she could buy groceries to cook food for the whole family. I did not understand that back then and thought she was just mean, but now I do. Mother always said "Hind sight is 20/20 looking back."
We would steal sideways glances at the "hot lunch eaters" and as long as I had a sister with me, I was alright. It was just that when I was alone, it was like I was on an island in the middle of the poverty ocean. I did not resent the kids that could afford hot lunches, but I resented the fact that I was not allowed to set near them. It was kind of like I had a disease and might contaminate them. I want you to know that I can put myself in Anya Howard's shoes the only difference being that I lived it 5 days a week when school was in session.
I have since grown into a woman and sometimes talk to people who can remember back when they carried a lunch to school. One lady told me how her lunch usually consisted of a potato sandwich. Another carried carrots. A man told me "nothing".
Today, I can laugh about those days of poverty. I have not missed a meal in years and it shows. I love my mother fiercely and I am very proud of my heritage. I am proud that I grew up in Nickerson, Kansas on the dead end street called North Strong Street. It is that backbone that drove me to make sure my kids had hot lunches and never missed a meal. It is that background that makes my heart ache when a little girl is embarrassed by a woman that could have and should have paid for her meal.
Where is our compassion? Are our hearts so cold that we can not see the hunger in a little girls eyes? I have tried to convey to my children love thy neighbor, do good to them that spitefully use you, and pray for those who persecute you. I think they get it. And I will pray for the cafeteria lady and the rules that made her do what she did.
Every day is a new day and a chance to do better and help our fellow man.
