I am hungry, and consumed by thoughts of infinite tomorrows. What will become of the people of California in this time of crisis? Hunger gnaws at my stomach. I desperately need to eat. Anything of substance, anything edible. It’s been so long since I felt the gentle craving for food, or the thrill of appetite, of desire and the pleasure of eating. Now I am weak, and thin. I can no longer think, and my legs will not hold me up. My stomach no longer growls, as if it were already dead. The Great Depression has laid waste to our fields. There are no more potatoes, no more rutabaga, no more cassava. The people of California ate through them all in a heartbeat. The Wall Street Crash stole everything from us. Now I am poor, without a cent to my name.
What am I to do with my children? My daughters are wasting away, and my baby’s always looking for the teat. I can only make her a few drops at a time. It’s my duty to feed ‘em. It’s my duty not to show these kids how weak I feel. It’s my duty not to show ‘em how badly I want to eat. America is suffering. My country’s fighting for air. California’s on the brink. There are no more rations left to give to the poor, to the unemployed, to lonely mothers. When my daughter said to me, just now: “Momma, I’m so hungry!” with an innocence I can’t fathom anymore, I couldn’t explain it to her.What would I even say? “Sorry honey, the Wall Street Stock Exchange done went belly up, and the shareholders lost all their money.” Yesterday people were protesting on Wall Street again. How did this happen? How did capitalism go bust in this nation of all places? They got no answers, just confusion. Now my two boys want to kill birds so they can eat them. People will do anything when they’re hungry. When a man is hungry, it’s horrible. When a man is hungry, it’s the end of the world. I am hungry, and I can’t go on. My baby’s still asking for milk. First she cries, then she screams, then she quiets down from exhaustion, and then it starts again.
The people of California done pulled up all the crops from the fields around here. It was chaos. I think you’d find more to eat on the moon. Them craters are probably filled with bounty. I’m so hungry. I think I might sell the tires off my car. Can’t eat them, anyways. It’s rubber. Synthetic material. Wherever I look, whatever I see, ain’t nothing that you can eat. But if I sell the tires off my car, where will I go? I’ve heard the government’s handing out soup in Chicago. Folks waiting in line there for thin broth. I hear in New York the fat cats are handing out sugar. I dream of sugar sometimes, and sometimes just a hot bowl of vegetables. Potatoes, beans, lentils – anything that grows. I guess I’ll sell these tires, anyhow. Gotta keep on going, come what may. Tomorrow we’ll get our crust of bread, maybe some rice. Even if it’s just a crust, or just a handful of grains. I’ll take anything these days, even the leaves off the trees. If only I had coal to burn and water to heat, and vegetables to make a soup with…I never dreamed I’d end up here.
I’m a Californian to my bones. I’d rather die in this fair land than leave California. “Ain’t that right, Natalie?” I say to my little girl. “Momma, my tummy’s growling like a bear. I’m hungry.” The mother wraps her arms around the two girls. They are not alone. Millions of Americans are suffering and dying of hunger. They wait in line for spoonfuls of sugar. They beg from anyone who has a patch of land to their name. Solidarity takes root among them.
Gotta keep going, come what may.
Alan Alfredo Geday