Food Memory
Nov. 29th, 2011 01:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sorchawenchMy earliest memory of food came with screams and slaps.
I remember being dropped off at that day care, a huge forbidding stone building on the grounds of Ft. Sam Houston. I can only remember snippets of experiences there, but I remember how much I hated going. I was 4. My brother was in that transitory period from baby food to solids. I remember that afternoon, just before nap time. It was lunchtime and there was peanut butter and jelly. It was always peanut butter and jelly. Only this time, instead of the aides feeding my brother his baby food, I was handed an extra sandwich and told to feed him myself.
When I close my eyes I can still see fuzzy images of a baby crying and screaming. A small blonde girl, who I know is me but am somehow removed from, crying and begging her baby brother to eat.
A faceless, tall shadowy figure screaming at her, a demanding hand in her face.
A slap for not doing it right.
And I remember the closet-where we went when we were bad. I spent nap time and the rest of the afternoon in the closet, laying on a rough woolen blanket, afraid to cry anymore for fear of another slap.
Shortly after that day we were no longer dropped at that daycare. My Mother became a stay at home mom. I've had the occasional PB&J since that incident, but every time I have one, it reminds me of that day.
I remember being dropped off at that day care, a huge forbidding stone building on the grounds of Ft. Sam Houston. I can only remember snippets of experiences there, but I remember how much I hated going. I was 4. My brother was in that transitory period from baby food to solids. I remember that afternoon, just before nap time. It was lunchtime and there was peanut butter and jelly. It was always peanut butter and jelly. Only this time, instead of the aides feeding my brother his baby food, I was handed an extra sandwich and told to feed him myself.
When I close my eyes I can still see fuzzy images of a baby crying and screaming. A small blonde girl, who I know is me but am somehow removed from, crying and begging her baby brother to eat.
A faceless, tall shadowy figure screaming at her, a demanding hand in her face.
A slap for not doing it right.
And I remember the closet-where we went when we were bad. I spent nap time and the rest of the afternoon in the closet, laying on a rough woolen blanket, afraid to cry anymore for fear of another slap.
Shortly after that day we were no longer dropped at that daycare. My Mother became a stay at home mom. I've had the occasional PB&J since that incident, but every time I have one, it reminds me of that day.
