Survival February 16, 2016October 9, 2017 A plate filled with rice and beans satiated my hunger almost every day without fail. I depended on those rice and beans. Thick gravy drowns the rice, spoonfuls by the minute. Even on our brokest years, we could always rely on a pot of arroz y habichuelas. Sometimes accompanied with a fried egg or plantains during the weeks where we didn’t have enough for meat. I didn’t appreciate plates of rice and beans until I realized white people paid thirteen dollars for a plate. My food was valuable. My culture wasn’t savage. My people didn’t need your help. They pay for our food and ask questions about our delicacies. I come home eagerly waiting to quench my hunger after a long day. I eat these rice and beans alone because the table is no longer as full as this plate. I think of the rice and beans that propagated my survival and I think of my family. Scattered around the states and the island each pursuing different aspects of the American dream. But, I sit at this empty table envisioning the past, and I smile because I know these rice and beans will always taste the same. Share this:TwitterFacebookLike this:Like Loading...