The following article was published on the Opinions Page of the Toronto Star on Wednesday October 10, 1990. I wrote it.
It is still upsetting for me to read these words and remember what it felt like to write them, to remember what it felt like to be poor and hungry. When I wrote this, I was trying as best I could to reach people who had not been poor, who hadn't known that kind of hunger.
If you are fortunate enough to be one of them, I hope it reaches you.
The next time you feel hungry, remember these words.
Imagine your kitchen without food. Imagine your wallet empty; imagine there are no helpful friends to lend you a few dollars until payday. Imagine no money for coffee, cigarettes or distractions to push the hunger down. And imagine your hunger growing, demanding attention, insisting you do something to make it stop.
Take one small step in your mind and imagine making a decision most people find almost unimaginable: Asking for food at a food bank. This is what it's like.
The phone number you can call to find out where to go in Metro Toronto for food is 392-6655. The information service is Foodshare.
When I called, a man answered and asked how he could help. I said I needed food and he asked where I was in the city. I told him the nearest main intersection and he suggested several agencies and gave me their telephone numbers and hours.
He was respectful and concerned. He mentioned I could call back if none of them provided me with food. He did not ask my name or address.
Stop 103 was the place I chose. It's in the basement of a church on Ossington near Dupont.
There is a counter to the right of the doorway there. A staff worker behind it said hello, asked me to sign in and asked if I had been there before. I said yes.
Only a few people were waiting. In 15 minutes another staff worker called my name and led me to a desk behind a partition. He asked how I was and when I responded with an automatic "fine," he said "no, really, how are you?"
He asked how long I had been out of work and how I filled my days. His care was genuine and I tried to reassure him about my life. He knew from my file I have the use of a refrigerator and a stove. I guess people who don't are given different food.
I returned to the waiting area. In a few minutes my name was called and I walked to the back. Another staff worker stood in a separate room. He began passing food over, saying the name of each item as he placed it on the counter between us. Here is a list of what he gave to me.
Protein: four small eggs, one inch of unsliced bologna, half a plastic cup of peanut butter in a plastic bag, one packaged macaroni and cheese dinner, one 425-gram can of stew, one 284 ml. can of Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup.
Carbohydrates: one loaf of whole wheat bread and about a half loaf of mixed bread slices. A small (67-gram) package of Lite Pop popcorn.
Milk products: a 500-gram container of cottage cheese and a 250-gram container of onion-flavoured chip dip.
Other: three ten-ounce bottles of papaya juice, one 70-gram package Melita Premium coffee, ten tea bags, about 1/2 pound of white sugar, eight chocolate candies.
He offered me breakfast cereal but I refused it because I had some at home. He pointed out a shelf in the main room with fruit and vegetables on it. I thanked him, put the food in two plastic bags and went to the produce.
There were boxes of cabbage, apples, oranges, potatoes, a few eggplants and battered tomatoes. I took an apple and a small bag of potatoes and then left.
If you wonder from the description above or the words that follow if I am
ungrateful for what was given, let me tell you: I was hungry. I am
grateful for being fed. In a world where people die of starvation every
hour, there is something awe-inspiring about a society caring enough to
give food to people because they do not have enough to eat.
It is a quiet miracle and deserves respect. The compassion of the people who collect and distribute food also deserves respect. Many are volunteers and some look no better off than the people they help.
However, I doubt the people who donate food think about this when they give. I believe they think about a young single mother struggling to raise her child, or a refugee family in a bewildering new world. They think of the unshaven man with wild hair who stands on a street corner with a hand out, the pain of life so clear in his eyes most of us look away as we walk past.
People give to food banks because it is impossible to walk on any main street in Toronto and not see the suffering of the poor. And every year, it seems there are more poor in Toronto. Despite all the money spent, the problem is getting worse.
I do not have solutions to offer from my limited experiences of poverty. I do know food banks are necessary because thousands of people in Metro cannot afford to pay their rent and buy food. Until a way is found to give them or help them earn enough money to live in this city, they have to be fed somehow.
The groceries listed above did not last a week and Stop 103 allows one visit per month. Many agencies have a one-time-only policy. I'll survive. What worries me is how the single mothers and the families with small children will cope with the limited amount of money and food they are given.
Because there are consequences to hunger. It blunts some pains, but at a
price of reduced energy, reduced ability and reduced pride. In a
developing child, hunger permanently hurts the growth of body and mind.
Shame, self-pity and the constant feelings of failure that accompany
poverty are as corrosive to character and morality as a strong acid. The
spiral leads downwards to despair and desperation.
These are words. Take a walk in Parkdale, down the far west of Queen Street, any Friday night if you need a picture. Look in the eyes of the boarding-house residents, the ex-psychiatric patients, and try to find some faith. Look at the young women selling their bodies and try to find some dignity. Look at the drug dealers; try, if you can, to feel some hope for our future.