In the heart of Boston, across from where the Globe Corner Bookshop used to stand, there is an Irish Famine Memorial that commemorates the influx of 19th century immigrants who came to Boston fleeing hunger in their homeland.
The Memorial consists of two free-standing sculptures, one of which depicts a tattered trio of prone and emaciated figures–man, woman, and child–leaving their famine-stricken home, an empty basket of want lying at their feet. The second statue shows three figures standing upright as they stride into their adopted country, the man’s eyes looking into the future while the woman looks back, refusing to forget from whence she came.
The Irish Famine Memorial was unveiled after my ex-husband and I had moved from Boston, so whenever I return to this particular corner, it’s strange to see new-to-me bronze figures there. One set of my maternal great-grandparents immigrated to the States from Ireland, but they arrived at the turn of the century, decades after the particular famine that this Memorial commemorates. I know I should swell with part-Irish pride whenever I see the monument which stands as testament to my ancestors’ struggle against poverty and want, but instead this Memorial makes me feel odd and awkward. To the figures in the statue, Boston represents the land of hope and promise, a way out of starvation and despair. In my mind, though, Boston is the exact opposite, a city I moved to when I was too young to know my way around the world: the city where I first learned the meaning of the world hunger.
Apart from one school-sponsored week I’d spent in Ireland as an undergraduate, Boston represented the first time I’d been out of Ohio. I grew up the daughter of committed homebodies in Columbus; as the first in my family to go to college, my decision to attend a school three hours away versus the university down the street represented the first in a string of misunderstood leavings. Where did I get my urge to wander, to leave? Wasn’t Columbus and its colleges good enough for me? Although my parents fully supported my decision to attend the University of Toledo on full academic scholarship, going to college was the beginning of a journey that would take me further and further away from Columbus and my family’s known world.
I met my ex-husband in Toledo, where I stayed after graduation and then married. Within a year of our marriage, we moved to New England–to Malden, Massachusetts–where he would search for a job and I would wile the summer months until starting my Masters program at Boston College. We landed in Massachusetts with no jobs, only the promise of my slim scholarship stipend and the hope that my then-husband would find gainful employment. We landing in Massachusetts with only the dream of making it in Boston, a city where my then-husband had spent several years as an undergraduate music student. Chris had lived in Boston but I had not. Whereas he had experience and a handful of in-town friends to temper his idealism, I had only my dreams of a city that both reminded me of Dublin (a city I’d wanted to re-visit) and was imbued with the essence of those authors–Emerson and Thoreau–I’d both admired and envied as a teenager.
Chris and I had several months’ of our modest Midwestern salaries in savings, but we nearly depleted this reserve our first day in Massachusetts. In order to park the car we’d driven all the way from Ohio, we’d need a permit; to obtain a permit, we’d need to register our car, obtain Massachusetts car insurance, and switch our Ohio drivers’ licenses. Our first day in Massachusettes, we trudged from one bureaucratic office to another, queuing and waiting to write one check after another: six months’ car insurance here, plates and registration there, a hefty check to cover a road test we didn’t need to take (but were required to pay for) in order to get Massachusetts drivers’ licenses.
At the Department of Motor Vehicles in Malden, we each nearly flunked the computerized test covering road signs and signals we’d never seen in Ohio. What’s a rotary? What the heck does a solid red and green light signify? Our bodies still aching from a two-day drive and our still-loaded car parked temporarily at a series of parking meters, we came to realize that first day in Massachusetts that we weren’t in the Midwest anymore. Everything was twice as expensive as we had envisioned, and everything was three times as difficult. I felt like a stranger in a very strange land when the fellow at the Malden DMV office looked at the address on my Ohio drivers’ license and, in a thick Boston accent, posed a question I’d been silently asking: “Why in the name of God would you leave beautiful Toledo, Ohio to move to stinkin’ Malden, Mass?”
That first day in Malden was a wake-up call. Our ant-infested basement apartment was the cheapest place we could find, but it still stretched the limits of our modest budget. Our surprisingly expensive wrangles with Massachusetts bureaucracy had nearly depleted our savings. The money that we thought would cover us over the summer while Chris looked for a job would last merely a month: by the time we deposited his first Massachusetts paycheck, our checking account had dwindled to a couple dollars and some change.
That starving summer before I started classes at Boston College–that starving summer before Chris got a decent job and I got a string of do-anything part-time positions to bring in extra cash–we lived on oatmeal for breakfast, macaroni and cheese for lunch, and rice and vegetables for dinner. That first summer in Malden, the only thing we could afford to do on Friday or Saturday nights was drive around North Shore suburbs seeing the new-to-us sights: quiet neighborhoods interpersed with gleaming strip malls with restaurants we couldn’t afford to enter. That first summer in Malden I had seemingly endless hours to myself as Chris worked long hours selling furniture for a store that was too slow delivering commission checks. That first summer in Malden I learned the meaning of the word “lonely” as I sat home in an ant-infested basement apartment, my closest kin in Ohio, as distant and inaccessible as a foreign country.
I’ll never forget one day that first summer while we were waiting for Chris to receive one of his first paychecks. I’d grown tired of staying home alone in Malden; there’s only so long you can sit and read while your stomach rumbles its way from oatmeal to macaroni to rice. It was sunny and gorgeous, and I’d scrounged a couple dollars and change from what was leftover from my weekly walk to the grocery store, where what I could afford to buy for the week roughly equalled what I could carry without a car.
Those couple dollars and change represented a daytrip from Malden to Boston and back: I had enough money for two subway tokens and lunch. After eating a vegetarian-by-necessity diet for so long, I craved meat. Knowing there was a McDonald’s on Tremont Street across from Boston Common, I planned to grab a quick lunch there before setting off to wander the city. I thought I knew exactly how much a McDonald’s hamburger, fries, and small Coke cost, but I’d miscalculated the tax: when I went to pay for my order, I was 5 cents short.
Never underestimate the humiliation a person feels when they plan to pay for a meal with pocket change only to discover they’re 5 cents short. I could, of course, have given the cashier my return subway token, but then I’d have no way of getting home; an ATM card is useless when you haven’t any money in the bank. As I counted and re-counted the change in my hand–as I rifled through all my pockets as well as the bottom of my bag looking for an overlooked nickel or forgotten stash of pennies–I grew increasingly flustered. Outside on the sidewalk had been the usual assortment of panhandlers begging for change; inside that McDonald’s itself sat a rumpled man who looked like he himself might have been homeless. How had I come to the point where I couldn’t scrounge enough change to buy a meal at McDonald’s, a burger and fries at the cheapest place in town?
Just as I’ll always remember the humiliation of being a college graduate who couldn’t afford a meal at McDonald’s, I’ll always remember the kindness that the cashier, himself the restaurant manager, showed when he saw my obvious embarrassment. “Hey, no problem,” he reassured me. “Give me what you have, then pay the rest the next time you’re here.” And true to form, the next time I was in Boston, I stopped by that same McDonald’s and paid an extra dime: five cents plus interest on what I owed. Not only will I always remember where I come from, I couldn’t forget the embarrassment of that moment (and my relief at that manager’s generosity) even if I tried.
After surviving a year’s lease in Malden, which I’d discovered was as far removed from Boston College’s beautiful Chestnut Hill campus as you could get by subway, Chris and I cut my commute in half by moving to Beacon Hill, the upscale neighborhood in the heart of Boston. Although we’d moved up in the world financially speaking, we still couldn’t afford to live above-ground, renting instead a euphemistically named “garden flat” that turned out to be a basement studio with a doorless, closet-less back room that served as both bedroom and office. As I’ve blogged before, that tiny apartment offered little privacy and even less light: both the kitchen and shower were in the living room, and the only place you could sit behind a closed door was on the toilet.
Our days in Beacon Hill represented, as Dickens would term it, both the best of times and the worst of times. I loved living in Boston: there was always something to see or do, and I could explore one of the world’s trendiest neighborhoods by simply walking out my hobbit-hole door. By the time we moved to Beacon Hill, Chris had gotten a corporate job training lawyers how to conduct online database searches, and I was supplementing my teaching stipend with a part-time retail job. We weren’t rich by any means, but we were making it: we had enough money to sit for hours in any of a number of Beacon Hill coffeeshops while I read and Chris wrote computer code.
And yet…woman cannot live on bread alone. Although we’d moved up from our starvation diet of oatmeal, macaroni, and rice, Beacon Hill was still a hard, hungry place to live. Chris remembers our Beacon Hill days as being his happiest, and I remember them as being my darkest: surely that observation alone tells you something about the disconnect that had happened. I’m not sure what it was that caused our marriage to begin to die all those years ago in a basement apartment in Beacon Hill, but that was the scene of the crime as far as I can tell.
Even though we had money in the bank and no longer had to scrounge for pocket change to buy a sandwich, something inside dies after you’ve been hardened by hunger. I’d never told Chris about that day at McDonald’s; knowing how hard he’d been working at the time, I didn’t want to bother or discourage him. And I never told him, either, how famished I’d been the first time we drove back to Ohio to visit our families after that first starving summer in Massachusetts; I never told him how I stuffed myself full of junk food from my parents’ kitchen counter–cookies and crackers and pretzels–simply to feel the sensation of being full. Even then, perhaps, I knew that my hunger was only partly physical, that what I craved so undeniably was the sense of belonging that only family can bring, the reassurance that a hot meal and listening ear are just down the street whenever you need it.
It’s a fateful moment, perhaps, when you start shielding your loved ones from life’s little realities: the Me who had been embarrassed to take charity from a stranger couldn’t bring myself to tell my own husband how lonely I felt 700 miles from my closest kin and how the worry of scrambling to make ends meet was taking its toll. When my parents asked how we were doing in Boston, I told them a crafted version of the truth: money was tight, but things were looking up; I never mentioned hunger pangs both physical and psychological. To tell my parents that I missed them–to tell my parents that life in Ohio had been easy, life in Boston was lonely and rough, and I was starved for both food and affection–would have been admitting defeat. As I shielded both my spouse and my parents from an emptiness that food could only partly satiate, I began a gradual process of psychological self-starvation. Surely I could do without food, without money, without love. Surely to ask for help from others–surely to ask for more–would be asking too much.
As much as I love walking its streets, Boston for me is a haunted city. While others see a city steeped in American history–the cradle of liberty–I see a place where I first learned that the world can be a hard and hungry place. Whenever I return to walk the streets of Boston, I stride with unanswered questions in mind. “What happened: what went wrong? Where did that young and hopeful Ohio girl go, and what happened to her idealistic thoughts and dreams?” In the past, I thought perhaps I returned to Boston to seek the heart that had been broken there, expecting to find it lying on some forgotten street, red and crushed like velvet. But now I know I roam the streets of Boston looking not for a what but for a who, the naive and hopeful young thing I was when I first landed on this shore.
If I were to find her–that Me I was over a decade ago–I certainly would have nothing to say to her: although I’m older now, I’m not sure I’m any wiser. Instead, I’d like to look her in the eye, that Me that I was, and show with a silent glance that I remember and understand what it means to be hungry. Like a bronze woman looking back on her homeland, I refuse to forget from whence I came. If I could find the tattered and prone ghost of who I was when I fled from abundance, I’d stretch my arms across the years to hug and hold her, reassuring her that one day in the future, she’ll learn how to stand strong as a statue without even a husband or child to support her, looking into her own future full and self-sufficiently sated.
Apr 17, 2005 at 1:13 pm
I’m speechless.
What a wonderful piece of writing:)
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Apr 17, 2005 at 3:05 pm
Thanks for the kind words. Boston is an emotionally evocative place for me, so visiting always feels akin to some sort of therapy where I dredge up the ghosts of the past, etc. I guess most folks keep these thoughts to themselves; as for me, I blog ’em! π
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Apr 17, 2005 at 11:07 pm
You have the best combination of photos and text in my experience.
Wonderful.
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Apr 17, 2005 at 11:55 pm
I, too, am speechless. Such an evocative piece of writing; I feel like I relived a part of my own life in reading it.
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Apr 18, 2005 at 3:20 am
My god Lorianne, that’s an amazing piece of writing.
Have you ever considered submitting to “This American Life?”
If I can ever in my life write anything with half as much beauty, sadness, and truth in it all at once, I’ll feel like I’ve achieved something special. Wow.
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Apr 18, 2005 at 6:10 am
I’m sitting here with tears in my eyes – and rain running down the windows. This is *so* moving. Also, it’s taking me back to times in my life when something full of hope has started to wither and die. Moving back to this city where I lived until I was 17 has put me face to face with that girl. The mistakes I have made and the disappointments – and betrayals – that slapped some of that innocence away. The hunger, the loneliness, the death of communication – yes, I recognise those too….
And here you are – a wonderful being – in spite of and, partly, because of, that story. Many hugs to you.
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Apr 18, 2005 at 8:25 am
I am so glad I found your site. I enjoy the writing and I also find it inspirational mentally and for my own writing. As someone wrote on our site, you fill my senses.
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Apr 18, 2005 at 10:09 am
I can’t add anything more than what everybody else has said, but I still want to chime in. This is a beautiful piece of writing, very poignant, and it speaks to that hungry place we all have experienced at one time or another (at least, I assume we all have been there. I know I have).
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Apr 18, 2005 at 10:54 am
The same goes for me. I can’t add anything that hasn’t already been said. That was a beautiful piece of writing, and so heart wrenchingly honest. Thank you for sharing those moments in your life with us. It’s wonderful to be able to look back and see what life used to be like, and how it is now, whether for better or worse. Moments like those you wrote about, really make us cherish what is special in life, like families. Thank you again Lorianne.
Take care
Rach
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Apr 18, 2005 at 10:59 am
Wow. Great writing, maybe one of your best pieces that I’ve read here, which is saying a lot. Vivid and poignant, and gripping to read. Thank you for sharing it.
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Apr 18, 2005 at 10:59 am
Wow. My favorite piece since I’ve been reading your blog. Which I am so so so happy to have found. π
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Apr 18, 2005 at 1:27 pm
What can I add? Just my thanks and appreciation too. So talented, so open. Yes, I hope you are thinking about where else you might publish pieces like this.
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Apr 18, 2005 at 2:00 pm
That was such an incredibly crafted, evocative piece of writing. I can relate to the feelings you have conjured on so many levels and I am truly touched. I feel like you have given a piece of myself back to me without even knowing who I am. Thank you for writing.
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Apr 18, 2005 at 2:45 pm
I was struck by your comment about how you protected both your parents and your then-husband yet you yourself were suffering so much. I recognize that martyrdom tendency in myself but I’m much better about being honest about my needs and taking care of myself now. Thank goodness we learn that our grown up parents and spouses actually do know how to take care of themselves so we don’t need to suffer for them. It seems silly that I ever did such a thing similar to what you described in providing an edited version of the truth as I’m not sure why or how I thought I was protecting capable adults. I guess I didn’t want someone else to help me change my mind because it would’ve been too easy and felt like giving up. And I would’ve had to argue why it was important to stay in the miserable situation. Who wants to justify misery even if it might be important? Yet would you give any of that back? I’m sure I wouldn’t be the same person today if I hadn’t learned from those kinds of experiences. Besides writing my master’s thesis I’m pretty happy about where I’m at as a person these days!
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Apr 18, 2005 at 8:20 pm
The other commenters are right, I think – this was very moving, one of your best blog essays so far.
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Apr 19, 2005 at 1:01 pm
Wow…frankly I’m stunned by people’s response to this. I’ve been wanting to write about hunger for some time now…that Memorial stirs so many emotions whenever I see it. But I didn’t expect people to like this essay as much as many of you apparently did: I guess I’m a rotten judge of my own work, ’cause I was sitting here thinking the post was way too *long* for people to sit through!
This summer while I’m “underemployed,” I’ll be looking for ways to revise/recycle some of my posts for paid publication, so this is a piece I’ll be revisiting. We’ll see where/if anyone wants to publish it! (Shane, I’m incredibly intimidated by *This American Life*: not only is that the “big time,” you have to READ your own stuff. Yikes!)
Corrina, what I said about “protecting” my parents & my ex is partly true…I was also hiding from what I thought would be judgment. Although my parents supported my decision to move away for grad school, I always felt they were waiting for me to fail & then come creeping home, where they’d then say “We told you so.” Whether that assumption was *true*, I never wanted to look like my big dreams were ending in failure: then as now, I had a problem admitting defeat even in the face of impossible odds!
Thanks again, everyone, for the supportive comments: sometimes y’all amaze me with your kindness. π
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Apr 19, 2005 at 4:24 pm
I echo the accolades on this entry, and appreciate it personally as I have been missing Boston lately.
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Apr 21, 2005 at 11:52 am
Well, you know how the saying goes, “You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.” I never truly appreciated food ’til I was hungry, and I never truly loved Boston/Cambridge ’til I left.
Now, if only we could cultivate this “already left” mind in our day-to-day lives! π
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Apr 22, 2005 at 1:17 pm
I too was deeply touched by your writing, Lorriane. I experienced periods of starvation during childhood (owing to an oesophageal stricture, surgically cured in my 20s, thank God)…. hellish times for me. So I could relate to everything you said.
I’m doing some family history now (one of my retirement activities). One of my maternal grandfathers had a bad time … he was kicked out of the family home when he was 14 (c.1860) by his stepfather,who gave him money for a one-way ticket from Ireland to Liverpool. He spent a miserable first few years there, almost penniless and missing his family. No doubt countless Irish immigrants to the US faced similar hardships, but escaped Ireland for a better life.
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Apr 22, 2005 at 1:30 pm
Whoops…my Irish ancestor was one of my great grandfathers (not grandfathers). Sorry.
I had a “senior moment”, or as one of my friends put it, a “craft moment” (can’t remember a f…ing thing).
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Apr 22, 2005 at 2:00 pm
Sorry, Lorianne, for the typo as regards your name… it’s not my day today!
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Apr 23, 2005 at 2:06 am
I second the motion to submit to “This American Life”…1. it’s hauntingly beautiful and so emotionally naked and real, and 2. so what if you have to read it? Life is SHORT!!
(this from a woman who has been *working on* a piece to submit for over a year! I’m not afraid to read it…I’m just afraid to be rejected!)
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Apr 24, 2005 at 7:41 pm
Justin, I think hunger is something we all can relate to in one way or another, either literal or metaphorical. The sensation of being denied something we *need* triggers something very profound. I’m glad that surgery was able to ameliorate your difficulties.
You know, Zenchick, your comment about life being short really hit my mind: yeah! I checked the submission guidelines for TAL, and a spoken recording isn’t necessary for submissions, so I guess I have nothing to lose. (On the off chance they’d want it, I’d be so ecstatic, I’d probably WANT to read my piece!) So I’ve decided that after the school year’s done, I’ll revise this piece for submission: what do I have to lose? If nothing else, it would be cool to have a rejection letter from TAL: a souvenir of sorts! π
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