Food Deserts

I live a food desert, something that’s getting a lot of attention in the news lately. (I prefer food desserts, which is eating cookies for dinner, but that’s a different blog post altogether.)

There isn’t, in my opinion, a good definition for “food desert,” but it’s basically a place where healthy, affordable food is hard to get. That’s totally relative, and one key that everyone seems to be missing is access. Example: There aren’t grocery stores in suburban neighborhoods. But those who live in the suburbs choose to live there and have cars. No one thinks twice about access to food.

(I was talking to a friend about this topic, and she was like, “Yeah, I totally live in a food desert, too. I have to drive, like, 5 minutes to get to a grocery store, and I’m like, OMG, I only need some organic soy milk. Like WTF, put a store closer!” Um… I think you’re totally missing the whole point???)

So as I was saying, in the so-called food deserts, access to the healthy, affordable food is the problem. Example: The nearest grocery store is maybe a mile or two away, but the residents don’t have cars to get there. It’s impractical to take toddlers in strollers on that long walk, for example, and I can tell you from experience that bags of apples, potatoes, and canned vegetables are really heavy. So this is where the problem starts – that it’s more convenient to go to the corner gas station or liquor store and buy unhealthy and more expensive food. (And then it’s more difficult to save up to buy a car, to move to a better location, or to otherwise change the various situations - a huge downward spiral.)

While we’re talking about convenience, I would just like to conveniently point out this convenience store that’s on my convenient bus route to Kroger. (Sign enlarged for your convenient inspection.)

Convinent. What?

But back to the point.

Who decided that having a car is an American right? What’s wrong with not having a car? There’s this certain attitude of pity and condescension about frequent bus usage going around. Like my last post suggested, some people believe that privileged white girls should not be riding the bus with all the riffraff (other than to commute to and from work downtown, when only the white and privileged are passengers). I’m kind of sick of this mindset.

And now back to the main point. I choose to live this way, and it's really fulfilling. I feel guilty, a lot of times, that my lifestyle is a type of game, a test, a challenge for myself – just one more way to learn something new and see the world from a different perspective. And as I’m looking around at the families around me, I see that not everyone else living this way has a choice about it. It’s not a game, and they can’t just get out of it at any time. I wonder if I would be happy if it weren’t my own decision.

Please Judge Me

“Ask that girl. Dude, ask her.”

It’s just another Friday night, and I’m waiting for the bus, pretending that I’m not being gawked at by some teenagers. I can’t tell whether they’re male or female: late teens, baggy clothes, hats and sunglasses. They’re laughing and seem good natured. It takes me back to high school and even college – just laughing with friends like there’s no one else around.

I’m listening to their conversation because I have nothing better to do. “Gawd, I’mma tired. When’ll this damn bus come?” And, “Dude, I need some WEED!”

And then I hear it again, like a dare, “Just ask that girl.”

One of them takes a step toward me. I’ve been pretending this whole time that I’m invisible. I don’t see them, and they don’t see me. Like when you’re a kid and you pretend you’re asleep so your dad will carry you upstairs.

“Miss! Hey, miss.”

The kid steps toward me, so I have no choice but to look him (her?) in the eye, and I can’t help but think he probably didn’t have a dad who carried him upstairs to bed.

“Miss, I was wondering..."

But I don’t let him finish.

“I think you already know that I don’t have any weed,” I say, firmly at first, but then I can’t help but grin at the absurdity of it.

The kid is just a few feet from me when he lunges back toward his friends, losing the courage he had to approach me. He’s doubled up with laughter and hiding his face out of shyness. They’re all laughing, and so am I.

“We just… want to know… the time,” they’re saying at once, gasping for air.

It is extremely hilarious, given the contrast.

“Miss, what’re you doin ridin the COTA?” the weed kid asks me, completely incredulous. I guess girls like me aren’t supposed to ride the bus at 9:15 at night.

I feel like someone punched me in the stomach.

“I always do,” I say feebly. But that isn’t even close to answering what he was asking.

We talk for a while, and they won’t stop calling me “miss,” even after I tell them my name.

And I think I might cry, but not because this is a story about a little white girl who earns the black kids’ respect because she rides the bus like they do. It’s not that; I’ll never pretend to understand them.

I’m going to cry because it’s a story about some sweet kids on the street corner who think that they will always deserve to be on that street corner waiting for the bus.


*This happened to me in February, and I can't get it out of my mind.*