Soul Food

Michele Marr

‘o7 ‘Defend the rights of the poor and the fatherless; be fair to the

needy and the helpless.”f7 Psalm 82:3

During the past week I have been surprised and touched by the e-mail

and phone calls I have received about my Aug. 9 column, called “A great

lesson in kindness.”

I’ve heard from many people who are as enthralled as I am by the

remarkable power of kindness as well as the human yearning, and struggle,

both to do and to receive it.

My quest to understand the source and nature of human kindheartedness

began with a childhood friendship.

A girl in my second-grade class, I will call her Annalee, befriended

me. Annalee was a skinny girl with unkempt hair, who -- in spite of very

crooked and missing teeth -- was quick to smile and laugh.

We were both new kids at our school and from the first day of the year

we sat together for lunch in the cafeteria. I had a fine Pinky Lee lunch

pail with a matching thermos. Annalee carried her lunch to school in a

big, rolled up grocery sack.

My lunches were small banquets: a thermos of milk, a bologna or peanut

butter sandwich, a box of raisins or a bundle of grapes on some days -- a

banana on others -- a Butterfinger or Planters Peanut Bar, carrot sticks

or radishes.

Annalee’s sometimes had a slice of white bread folded over some

margarine, or a few Saltines neatly wrapped in a piece of waxed paper.

Some days she might have a carrot, too, or an apple. Her lunch was lost

in her huge paper bag.

She would take her lunch out then fold up her big paper bag and put it

in her lap. She ate quickly without saying a word. Then she would begin

to chatter while she watched me unpack and eat my feast.

At first I hesitated to offer her any of my food, anxious that I might

embarrass her. But as the days went on I sensed Annalee was too spirited

and too hungry for that.

I first offered her some of the milk in my thermos. With her

crooked-toothy grin she accepted. Then I began to trade her part of my

sandwich for her butter sandwich. I gave her my raisins or banana. I

divided my candy bar half and half.

As the year went on, my lunches grew smaller and smaller. Sometimes I

would find nothing in my lunch pail but my thermos of milk. It seemed to

me that my family had fallen on lean times.

As my lunches declined, Annalee’s grew. And she was as generous with

me as I had tried to be with her, and many times over more cheerful about

it.

Though she was just as skinny and unkempt as ever, something in

Annalee seemed changed. She seemed serene, composed. When she unpacked

her lunch she no longer folded her oversized sack and tucked it away in

her lap. She spread it out like a picnic blanket and placed her lunch on

top of it.

“Take whatever you want,” she would beam at me as she waved a hand

across the spread of food. Then she would push the bag within my easy

reach. Her happiness delighted me.

Then one morning I went to the cloakroom during class to retrieve some

homework from my coat pocket. There was Annalee on the floor with my

lunch pail and her big tattered sack.

I stood in the doorway, spellbound, and watched Annalee take a bologna

sandwich, a banana, a Butterfinger and a fat bunch of carrot sticks from

my lunch pail. Without a sound she slid them to the bottom of her worn

old sack.

At lunch I opened my lunch pail, opened my thermos and set it between

us.

“All I’ve got is milk again,” I said, watching for any sign of

discovery in Annalee’s face.

As she upended her sack and my lunch tumbled out, she seemed the same.

“That’s all right,” she smiled at me, “I’ve got plenty.” She flattened

her bag as she had come to do and unwrapped each parcel of food on top of

it. She slid it all in my direction. We ate.

I couldn’t reveal what I knew to Annalee, but my delight in her

impulse to be generous and her happiness in exercising kindness, was,

finally, more than I could keep to myself. So I shared my story with our

teacher.

I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. About midmorning the next

day, another student pushed Annalee from the cloakroom. She was holding

her brown paper sack tightly against her chest and my lunch pail in her

left fist.

“I want you to explain to the class what you were doing in the

cloakroom, Annalee,” our teacher said flatly.

Annalee looked dumbfounded. I watched as she told her story. Her face

trembled and her voice broke, but she didn’t cry.

At lunch we were separated, seated with our backs to each other. Our

teacher came to speak with me. She praised me for telling her what

Annalee had done. She told me that Annalee already had too much going

against her. Her father was a drunk and spent most of his earnings in

bars. Her mother was too lazy to get out of bed to dress Annalee or to

comb her hair. Annalee, she explained, couldn’t afford to add thieving to

those black marks. My heart felt as heavy as lead.

I suppose it was shame that kept Annalee and I apart after that. Then

the following year we were both at different schools. I kept Annalee’s

school picture in my desk and I often wondered if she kept mine.

A few years ago I told the story of Annalee to a friend. I described

how very much Annalee must have longed for the chance to be kind and

generous.

“Well,” my friend said, “the ends don’t justify the means.”

She had me there. But, I wondered then as I had wondered in class that

terrible day, what ends justified the callous humiliation of my

6-year-old friend?

* MICHELE MARR is a freelance writer and graphic designer from

Huntington Beach. She has been interested in religion and ethics for as

long as she can remember. She can be reached at o7

[email protected]