I hurt, You hurt, We hurt
“How much is it?” “Can I put a few things back?” “Mom please!” “I can’t.” “Please!” “We don’t have enough money.” “Excuse me Mam’.” “Do you mind if I pay?” “Thank you.” “You’re very welcome.”
Today I am making a wide right turn, because of what is currently happening to families, and more importantly, children deserves a major focus of attention. Whether we acknowledge it or not I, You, we are all quietly and privately suffering and hurting. We have a ring side seat to view our neighbors, our friends, our families and extended families as they are all being put through the financial and emotional grinder. It’s impossible not to watch what’s occurring and not feel an emotional tug when you look, these days, into a child’s eyes. The pain is not easily recognizable, it’s almost asymptomatic. They look normal, they walk normal, they even talk normal. There are no visual cues that outwardly display that something is wrong. But there is and the cause is not as simple as it seems, it's us, the adults, we are the blame. I love you, is, and has quietly become synonymous with hurting you. Soldiers enter a battle charged and ready for combat, understanding the enemy and the objective. Children are not soldiers; they are not built for combat. They are not born rigid and hard. They are made into it, and that’s what’s occurring now. Nothing is more difficult to witness, than the face of a worried child.
The look says normal, but the mind is under severe and intense stress. When I talk with kids, and even more frightening, young people. These conversations unearth some notably different attitudes, and positions regarding their peers and their futures. Positions that should not be formulated, this early in life by a child. Unfortunately, I have seen what hunger and fear of the unknown can do to an adult mind, I don’t want to imagine what it does to a child. If something isn’t done, and soon, I fear that we will have a generation of children and young people so desensitized that the administering of PTSD protocols may not be enough.
Halloween came and went, and I passed out candy as I have for the past decades except, I felt as though candy, for many of the children, was supplementing missing elements of a basic diet. Because in more than a few instances, as fast as I handed it out, I saw many kids eating it. I don’t particularly buy the best brands, and this year I was donating time to a favorite charity, but they, the kids, paid no attention to the brand, and the empty wrappers blowing on the facilities ground highlighted some of my preliminary suspicions. I cannot with 100% accuracy, validate this position, and it was more of an intuitive feeling from visual cues than facts. That is until later in the day we handed out various sandwiches, and all my suspicions were then validated.
There is nothing more rewarding and satisfying than seeing children eat. I know I like a good cheeseburger smothered in onions and drowning in ketchup. But children rejoice over food, they smile, they laugh, they bounce. Kids eating together bounce in unison, heads bobbing, arms flailing, no need for a napkin, the back of the hand will do just fine. The joy is infectious. I wish I could be that happy about eating French fries. This, however, was different; and although they exhibited the usual exuberance associated with children eating together. They were happier to see the sandwiches. It was food that brought the joy.
If that was true, and I am not suggesting with certainty that it was, it is no less troublesome. An event designed for kids to have some fun was unbeknownst to the donors, all of whom truly believe in benevolence, became a place for children and their families to eat. Food, food seems to have firmly returned to a position in America that again has many families staring at it through windows. Poverty has returned, and it has brought with it a group of people that have never known, in a lifetime, the feeling of being hungry. The New Hungry. The idea of a food bank, for many, was and has been an obscure thought. A food bank was a place where you got to drop off can goods, corn, peas, ravioli, and beets stacked in paper bags or carried in brand name canvas bags. Now that very same group barely 18 months later are waiting in cars, SUV’s, and trucks for food. Virtually, the very same food that they donated 18 months earlier is being returned to them. Unfortunately, what many, without an unfiltered news source, are unaware of is the sheer number of people who have always had less, has increased.
Within the past 18 months two groups, normally worlds apart along with their children, have now collided.
If you have been reading “60 is The New 40.com” or if this is your first time, I thank you. But for my subscribers, you know that on Monday’s Bonefish Grill, and their bar shaped like a porcelain hockey stick, is where you can find my reserved bar stool. On this evening, sitting next to me were three young people, two young women and one young man. At a second glance I saw that the young woman sitting closer to me and the young man that was further down the bar were wearing military issued fatigues. So, I asked if they were in military, and they replied, “yes”. I told them thank you, and shook both their hands and I put their drinks on my tab. Not a big deal and it was easy, because it was $5 Martini Night. However, they were treating the Martini’s like lemonade, and it begged the question, “are you guys taking a taxi home”? As they drank, we talked and I discovered why they were drinking like they were just home on leave. They were each preparing for Eviction! They were each more than $4,000 behind in their rent.
Inconceivably, neither had received a paycheck since September, it’s almost November and these are Federal Employees like so many others are unpaid. But these young people, and their situation is so tragic, because they are employed to protect the country, to die if necessary, yet they are not receiving a paycheck. How is it possible, that someone who is provided by the government with an AR-15 and a handgun, knives, trained in combat fighting is not being paid? That’s absurd. How can that happen? I can’t imagine the motivation to fight for what you have been sworn to uphold, now has become the very instrument of your fiscal and emotional demise. There will be no need for The Secretary of Defense to monitor the weight of a soldier, if most will never be able to buy a home, pay the rent, or buy food. As I watched them leave, and yes, I offered to pay for rides home, but I was assured that they were fine, and it did seem as if the third member of the party was sober. Later as I prepared to leave, after two beers and a plate of French Fries. Normally I would be elated because K.C. crushed The Commanders, but that that night didn’t feel like a celebratory evening. In a week, just five days, I had already seen children hungry, people sworn to protect the country, who now couldn’t pay their rent. And this was just Monday.
Saturday is simple for me, cut the grass and a lot of it, wash the truck, watch some college football, and prepare for the Podcast "SportstalkwithJonandJohn@youtube.com" then eat some dinner. But first I need to go food shopping, so off I went to a Big Ass Store whose name will remain anonymous until they decide to advertise with us. Time to paint with the credit card. Isles to avoid; the refrigerated meat, orange juice, frozen fruit, coffee, some breads, and of course cereal. Shopping was very easy as for some reason the place was dam near empty and there were live people at the registers! Excellent, except for the family in front of me. Which consisted of a relatively young father with one child in his arms, and a mom of equal age with one in the basket (shopping cart), and another one in her basket. She had a pensive look on her face, even though the one child in the shopping cart was happily eating a chicken nugget. It looked all too familiar with one exception. She, the pregnant mother, began one-by-one to slowly remove items from the shopping cart, which turned the cashier's face the very opposite of euphoric. "Can I get a void" she yelled. Neither were the faces of few people behind me, luckily there were plenty of empty lines open. It seems there was a problem with the card this family was using, the one absent of a bank's name, and only containing a name, a long number and a state picture.
The scene forced me to reminisce about a challenging past. When my first son was born, we Ro and I, lived in Albany N.Y. and I worked as a cook in a restaurant called Valley’s Steakhouse on Central Ave. Long hours in a hot kitchen with no AC helps only to keep your weight down. After our son was born is when I was introduced to WIC. Before then I had never heard of it, and never considered it. But one day while standing in a food line with Ro and my newborn son, after we paid for the Pampers, food, household necessities, and insecticide. There was but little left for a baby, here is where WIC stepped in. We were able to buy Similac, and everything nutritionally necessary for a growing child. With no deprivation of pride.
I ate a good dinner on Saturday, grilled NY Strip steak, fresh mashed potatoes and broccoli sauteed with minced garlic. Earlier that day too, a family went home with all the items in their shopping cart, and thank you wasn’t necessary. Because someone discreetly paid the bill.
It only takes One Person.
*Now until January 2026, 15% of all proceeds from products purchased will be donated to Second Harvest Food Bank*
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