By Shawna Erwin

1

Choose a tray—red, orange, green, or blue. Notice the scratch­es. Grab a plastic plate, a napkin, sil­ver­ware still warm. 

2

Notice the leaves on trees outside are turning similar oranges and reds. Con­sid­er going on a walk later to find a tree, throw­ing leaves over your head. Imagine leaping into a leaf pile, letting it cover all but your face. Con­sid­er invit­ing someone. Decide against it. 

3

Hold up one finger or two at each station. Watch women in hair­nets drop canned pears and a beef patty on your plate. When you come to pota­toes lined up like silver sol­diers under a red light, watch stu­dents ahead of you peel the foil off and drop it in a black trash can. See stu­dents flinch at the heat of the potato, stab butter knives into the tough skin, pinch and squeeze. 

4

Try not to remem­ber week­ends as a child when the food that came in boxes ran out. Try not to remem­ber the burning in your stomach, the dizzi­ness, waking on the floor of your closet while getting dressed for church. Try not to remem­ber the pain in your hips, your shoul­ders, your back as you tried to sleep, the sound of cock­roach­es in empty cab­i­nets, across plates and the tile floor. 

5

Follow stu­dents to the line for top­pings. Watch them poke at the con­gealed sauce, ladle cheese over their pota­toes, sprin­kle bacon, broc­coli onto their plates. Think about how it reminds you of history videos, bombs gently released by fighter planes, then landing in smoke and rubble. 

6

When your stomach grum­bles before each meal, ignore it. You have not learned hunger’s signs yet. 

7

Veer away from stu­dents at the bev­er­age area. Grab a yellow-tinted plastic cup. Let your fingers slide over the texture. Remem­ber Sunday nights after church at break­fast restau­rants, lip­stick left on cups like this, carpet seams covered in worn duct tape. Remem­ber flick­er­ing lights, the smell of cig­a­rette smoke on the wait­ress­es, stains on their pink aprons. 

8

When someone bumps into you in the cafe­te­ria, grab your tray and plate like you are pro­tect­ing a small child. Back away. 

9

In a break between two soda lines, push forward to the white milk. Fill your cup, drink, fill it again. 

10

Don’t let your­self think the word “rav­en­ous.” 

11

Sit at a table with others from your dorm and your classes. While other stu­dents sip, and talk, mix the sauce and potato and broc­coli on your plate, eat. When the ache of hunger dis­ap­pears, eat more. When your stomach pushes against the pants you wear that are a child’s size, keep eating. Even when stu­dents at your table say your name, when they ask about an assign­ment for cal­cu­lus or German, when they com­plain about the cheese sauce, the stiff­ness of the broc­coli, keep eating. 

12

Only when your plate is empty, when the cheese sauce is sopped up with a dry potato skin, sit back and listen. When your plate is empty, finish the milk. 

13

When your feet grow, when you outgrow your clothes, add more cheese to your potato, drink more milk. 

14

Remem­ber the con­tents of the charity food boxes—tuna and Spam, a coupon for day-old ground beef, canned fruit and veg­eta­bles, a block of gov­ern­ment cheese, pack­ages of pasta and rice.

15

Stop by the fruit baskets at meals. Try an orange, a banana, a plum, a pear. Wonder how you missed these before, missed the skin break­ing under your teeth, the juice on your chin. Try aspara­gus and ham and fried chicken. Try fresh carrots and celery, ranch dress­ing, cream cheese. Let food float in your mouth. Iden­ti­fy salt, sugar, oil, fresh. 

16

Choose choco­late milk instead of white, a green apple instead of a red one. Choose rasp­ber­ries instead of blue­ber­ries, eggs instead of sausage. Slow down. Say you under­stand the math assign­ment for tomor­row, make a joke in German. Pat your soft belly, ask someone if they want to go on a walk after your next class. Try not to act sur­prised when they say yes. Turn your head when you hear your name. Feel your cheeks lift into a smile.