Meg Dowell Writes

One half cup of rice. No soy sauce. No chicken perched on top like an edible reward. Just the equivalent of one half of a cup, dumped onto a napkin. Lifeless. Somewhere else in the world, though, just that half cup of food could save someone’s life. They don’t care if it’s bland, or not hot enough, or too cold—too sticky or not sticky enough, or just not enough overall.

In all honesty, I am not a rice worshipper. I’d take a bowl of pasta or a piece of dry toast over a plain plate of rice most days. This morning, however, I was grateful for my rice, thankful for its weight in my hand, even delighted of its familiar lack of taste in my mouth. I devoured that rice as if I would never see such a rare delicacy again.

I’m fine with pretending. Sitting around a tablecloth, sliding rice between my lips grain by grain, almost makes it easy to imagine, even for a moment, that I’m someone, somewhere, else. I’m hot and sweaty. I’m dizzy and thirsty. And someone has been kind enough to give me rice—cooked!—on a real napkin. This is the best Monday ever, I think. This is my first real breakfast in almost a week, I think.

I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to roam the world hungry, but I do have to close my eyes and allow myself to wonder what it would be like if I didn’t have a choice. What if there really wasn’t any food for me to feed my body with, if I wanted it? What if I couldn’t sleep at night because I couldn’t stop praying that God would please, please provide me something to eat tomorrow—even just some rice?

Of all the things in a day to complain about, why does everyone seem to pick food as one of the options at the top of the list? This restaurant service is too slow, they whine. This steak is a little bit pink in the middle, they sneer. Oh, I don’t think I’ll have those fries, they declare; they’re covered in grease.

There’s a bagel sitting alone in my freezer right now. I would gladly clothe its frosted existence in peanut butter and give it to someone who can’t just walk into the kitchen and press the defrost button on their microwave. I’m almost out of plastic knives? Darn. I guess I’ll just eat it plain, then. Tragic, yes? No. There are people out there who would give anything to stop their stomachs from gurgling, to feed their headaches, to nourish their wavering bodies. I refuse to let someone starve who doesn’t deserve it, who didn’t ask for it, who should be given a chance to live. I’m going to do something.

I’m going to stop people from dying. It’s my mission.