n: a feeling of discomfort or weakness caused by a lack of food, coupled with the desire to eat.
My granddaughter whined at me from her upside-down, twisted, three-point hand/headstand: “Cool Papa, is it lunchtime? I’m hungry.” Imani had disconnected herself from active play with her brother and his video game. “Skylander: Batman 3” no longer interested her. Her father had imposed a rule that specified that no video games could be played before breakfast was eaten. As the Christmas break caretaker, “Cool Papa” was entrusted with the enforcement of the rules, but Imani had outsmarted herself. When offered breakfast, she had declined, saying that she was not hungry. Five minutes later, she wanted a banana; five minutes after that, she asked for some chips. “No chips,” her grandfather said. “Waffles, oranges, apples …?” All declined. Xavion, her brother, had swallowed a giant bowl of breakfast cereal and was still busy amassing points in the video game.
“Spaghetti’s for lunch,” I told the whiner. While I was re-heating the pasta and sauce, Imani swung from the handle of the refrigerator door. “My stomach is growling,” she said. I stirred the sauce and looked at her: “I know: you already told me that.” As I continued to stir, I asked her if she knew what I was doing. “Cooking,” she whined, “but I’m really hungry.” When the food was ready, I served what I believed to be appropriate amounts for a six-year-old girl and ten-year-old boy. Both servings were inhaled within moments; requests for more promptly followed. This time, I served an amount of pasta (with no sauce for Imani) that would have satisfied an NFL training table. While their father, a barber, cut the hair of various members of the New York Jets, his children ate a quantity of pasta that could have powered running back Chris Ivory through the defensive line of the Tennessee Titans. They did not ask for more.
My grandchildren, despite what they say or think, have never really been hungry. When they were babies — and deep into toddlerhood — they were nursed as soon as they started to squirm. There are pictures of my grandson climbing under his mother’s sweater to fix himself a snack. In the summer of 2012, I spent some time with him and his sister, who — even at four — seemed to need to eat every two hours. Now six and ten, they have developed sophisticated palates: Xavi’s pizza is cheese, while Imani’s has pepperoni; Imani eats her French fries frozen and raw, while Xavi must have ketchup on everything. But they do not know what hunger is. They get breakfast before they go to school, eat lunch at school, and get a full meal immediately following school and then dinner. They do not have “food insecurity.”
“Food insecurity” is defined as “the state of being without reliable access to a sufficient quantity of affordable, nutritious food.” In 2013, According to Feeding America, an organization dedicated to education about and eradication of hunger in this country, 49.1 million Americans lived in “food insecure” households, a figure that included 15.8 million children. That figure did not include my two grandchildren nor any of my three children.
I took my two youngest children — now 25 and 26 — to the Wheeler Mission one Thanksgiving evening to help serve meals to the homeless. This was an attempt to help them to understand the benefits they enjoyed and to teach them service. I hope that they understand, just as I hope that my two grandchildren, and Imani especially, learn that “hunger” is not the same feeling for everyone, and to be thankful.