19

 

I was so caught up in my own issues that I almost didn’t see her.

Julie was sitting on the park bench crying audibly. I walked past her, trying to ignore the sniffles coming from behind me.

As I walked by I remembered that I was her not too long ago. I also remembered that I didn’t want anybody talking to me, so I kept walking. But I also remembered the pain I felt inside and how alone I felt, and I didn’t want anybody else to feel that way.

I turned around and went back towards her. When I reached the bench I stood there, uncertain of what to do next.

I took a deep breath. “Hi, Julie.”

She raised her tear- stained face to mine. Recognizing me, she briefly nodded her head.

I sat down beside her.

“Can I help?”

She shook her head and whispered, “Nobody can help.”

“Maybe I can help,” I said. I don’t know why I persisted. There was something about her that said I should stick around.

I gave Julie a tissue from my pack. I’d discovered that I needed to carry them around, since there were many occasions when I was alone in the park or in the car, thinking about things, and tears came out of nowhere.

After she’d wiped her eyes and face, she said, “Thanks.”

I sat there with her, not saying a word, but being there. We watched the water from the Missouri River rush by, as if it had to catch a train to get downstream. The roar of the water had a calming effect upon me.

Suddenly she said, “My Dad lost his job five months ago and hasn’t been able to find work. We’re losing our house; it’s in foreclosure. And we don’t have any food. I’m hungry. My little sister cries herself to sleep every night because she’s hungry. I try to tell her that we’ll eat soon.

“I swallowed my pride and went to the lower school and talked to her teacher. She gives her lunch money every day now.” Julie paused. “At least my sister can each lunch,” she said with satisfaction.

She went on in a low voice. “Mama is too embarrassed to apply for food stamps. And Dad is too proud to ask for help. We’re down to our last jar of peanut butter. No bread. We each eat a tablespoon for dinner.”

There was nothing I could say. I couldn’t tell her that it would be all right, because I didn’t know if it would be. I just sat there, listening. Heartbroken. And ashamed. Julie’s family was really suffering while I had been concerned about appearances.

“I don’t know what my Dad will do when the peanut butter is gone. He says it’s a shame in our culture not to be able to take care of one’s family.”

My mind raced. What was the right thing to do? I had seen recent news stories about tragedies in families when all hope was lost. Although I didn’t know Julie, other than seeing her in class, I didn’t want anything to happen to her.

I did the only thing I could do in that moment. I opened my wallet and gave Julie all the money I had with me. One hundred dollars. I didn’t even keep any for lunch.

I could afford to miss one meal. She had missed so many.

She looked at the money. Then she raised her eyes to mine. Words did not come out, only tears.

There was no need for words. I knew what she wanted to say and couldn’t.

On my way back to the car, I thought about Julie and her family. Her father is an accountant. She’s the smartest person in the junior class and was sure to get scholarships to the best colleges. We were in the same physics class. She had a younger sister. I think her mother stayed home and took care of the family.

Mrs. Stevens was right. There were other students suffering besides me. I really can’t compare myself to Julie. I have never missed a meal through all that has happened to us.

We still had money to take care of every day expenses. We still had food. We still had hope that Dad would be cleared.

She had no hope, at least any that she could see. The economic woes of the country were affecting students at our school. I just couldn’t see it until now.

After school I went to see Mrs. Stevens. I told her that I would do the story on how the recession had affected students in our school, but I didn’t want to use any names. She said it wouldn’t be much of a story if no names were used.

We finally decided that I could use fake names if students didn’t want their real names used, only I would have to indicate that at the beginning of the story.

I was really excited about investigating this story. I felt that I could get students to talk to me because of my family’s public humiliation. Even though it’s not the same thing, the result is the same, although to a different degree.