One memory has stayed with me: It was evening, the baby was
put to bed and it was dinner time. My
mother explained that we were going to play restaurant. She put on an apron, took
a pad of paper and a pencil, and asked for our orders. She then went to the kitchen
sink, filled three bowls with water, brought them to us with spoons and
announced to each of us that it was our “hotdog” or “burger” or whatever we’d ordered.
She joined us in conversation as we “ate” our bowls of water and when we were
done, she cleared the table and washed the dishes.
One of us said we were still hungry and she apologized and
said the restaurant was closed and it was time to go to bed. We all went to
bed.
Sometime not long after that night, my uncle (her brother) Joe
and a couple of his older kids came by the apartment to check on her. He visited
because he was concerned that our father was going to come back and beat her up
again (and again and again). It was nighttime
and I said I was hungry. She shushed me and told me to go to my room. I whined
that I was hungry and it really irritated my uncle. Some uncomfortable and
confusing words were exchanged, my uncle said “just give the kid something to
eat, Nancy,” and my mother burst out crying, admitting that there was no food
in the house and she didn’t know what to do.
My uncle was furious. Why didn’t she tell him? How long had
this been going on? Voices were raised, but not violently the way it got when
my father was present, just sounds of frustration and anger.
The neighbor across the hall heard the yelling and walked
into the apartment to make sure everyone was safe. She sat down with my uncle
and mother, all the kids went to the bedrooms.
The next day my uncle arrived with a bag of groceries, and did that for a few weeks. Eventually my mother learned about the Surplus Food
Program, and when she could get a ride would go to Egleston Square and collect our allotment of
canned and bulk food, most of which was better quality than you could get at
the supermarket. It said USDA on the packages, which we pronounced Use-Da. We
jokingly referred to is as USED food; and we ate it happily.
Christmas of 1965 is the first Christmas I really remember.
Everyone was sent to bed on Christmas Eve, except me. My mother went to an
apartment upstairs and came down with a big box and told me that Santa Claus
had left this stuff upstairs and she needed my help getting it ready for Christmas
morning. Inside were gifts for all of us. This box of presents was from Globe
Santa, a charity created by the Boston Globe publishers. I remember clearly a
board game titled “The Globe” with the logo of The Boston Globe on the front. I
know there were other toys and games, but that is the one I remember. We had
that game for years.
1965 was our last year of abject poverty. In 1966, my mother
got a job as the bookkeeper of a social service agency created by Lyndon
Johnson’s Great Society poverty programs. We never got Globe Santa again, and
we always had food.
The surplus food program and Globe Santa are the two
programs I remember being so important in my life as a child. I hate hearing
Americans complain about “welfare” because we all have benefited from many
government programs that exist for the middle class and wealthy, but some want to
deny those in need the bare necessities of life. I may complain about the IRS,
but I would never complain about paying taxes. I may complain about the
government, but I would never complain about any money we spend feeding the
hungry, or clothing and housing the homeless. And every Christmas I make a
donation to Globe Santa because they made my life a better life that Christmas,
just as they have for tens of thousands of other children over a half-century.
If you are in a charitable mood, please consider a donation
to Globe Santa:
https://globesanta.org/
And stop complaining about poor people. Most of them are
children whose parents are doing their best to get their kids out of poverty.
Charity begins at the moment you choose to be charitable.
Happy holidays!
