Personal Narrative

A Family Dinner

Tabitha Johnson

“Ma, I’m hungry!” my sister whined. “I need some food.”

My sister had just gotten off from work at Western Sizzlin’. She worked there to pay for her car and her classes at the closest community college. She also helped my parents out with the bills when she could since she was still living at home.

I was in kindergarten. I didn’t know how to read or spell a lot of words yet, but I liked trying. At this moment, I was writing strings of letters and then asking my mom if they were words. She responded the first two times with a short, “no” and continued doing laundry. After that, she tuned me out. She was watching a Dallas re-run.

As the television flashed to a new show, momma looked up at my sister and told her to eat a few slices of cucumber my dad had picked from his garden. She told us she would cook after she finished the laundry. “My arthritis is kicking in. That damn warehouse is so hot!” she told my sister. My mom was a line operator at a plastics factory.

“Oohh! You said a bad word in front of me!” I accused her.

“Stop actin’ a fool,” was her reply. I always got that. No matter what I was doing. Singing at the dinner table, dancing in the house, playing at church. Always something.

I was distracted from her comment when my stomach started growling. It had been a long time since my after school snack with my dad. We always shared some saltine crackers and Vienna sausages before he left for work. I asked my mom if it was time for dinner. She walked into the kitchen stretching her fingers, trying to keep them from tightening. Please, no pot roast or unidentifiable microwaved mystery meat today, I prayed. God, I don’t want a spanking. Don’t let her make me sit under the table again! Please! Oh, and Lord…Thank you for not letting my mama figure out why I went into the bathroom every five minutes last night. Lord, you know why I had to spit the hamburger meat in the toilet. Thank you!

Mama leaned against the refrigerator smoking a cigarette while looking at the stove. “I’m too tired to clean the kitchen tonight,” she mumbled to herself. She decided to splurge on fast food. Usually, the only day we got fast food was on Saturday after both momma and daddy had gotten paid. This was like striking it rich! She reached up into the money jar, hesitated, and took out ten dollars.

“Mama, mama, can I have a footlong hotdog?” I begged. I had seen one last time we went to Kelly’s. “I can eat the whole thing all by myself! I promise!”

“That’s a waste of my money, Tabu. You don’t need no footlong hotdog. You’re gonna just throw it away,” she told me.

I begged with my huge bottom lip extended, my eyes almost overflowing with tears until I wore her down. However, there was a catch. “You will sit here at this table until you eat every bite of that hotdog. You ain’t gonna leave that chair,” she looked me square in the eyes. I nodded.

Twenty minutes later Mama walked in with a white paper bag with black letters. I tore the bag to reach its contents. Pushing my mom’s and sister’s food aside, I grabbed for my hotdog. As I pealed back the foil, I inhaled the scent of ketchup, mustard, and meat. I shoved the hotdog in my mouth and took a bite. Ketchup and mustard flavors overwhelmed the hotdog.

“Tammy, look at my hotdog!” I showed my sister while taking my first glance at the 11.5 inches of delicious food. As I looked at my hotdog with admiration, sirens rang through my brain. I alerted my sister to my suspicions. She nodded, looking down her wrinkled nose at my hotdog. “Mama!” we cried in unison.

Mama walked in, looked at us, then at the hotdog. We saw a flash in her eyes. “Why are you agreeing with her?” my mom asked Tammy. “She’s just afraid she won’t finish and get to go outside.” Then my momma turned to me, “I can’t believe I got that thing for you. I should’ve known better. There is nothing wrong with that hotdog. Eat it!”

I sat at the table as she forced me to take bite after bite of the hotdog. Maybe each bite was worth a dime I thought. I could just pay her to let me stop eating. My sister told her the hotdog was rancid. Out of date. Old. Should be thrown away. My mom dusted as she watched me eat. She didn’t look angry. Just tired.

Each bite I took piled up in my tummy. Little chunks of lead, one on top of another. “Mommy, I can’t eat anymore! I feel sick!” I took a deep breath. My shoulders wobbled as I began sobbing, “Look at it! It’s green! I’m not lying! Don’t make me eat anymore, Mommy! I would eat it if it was good. I promise!” I put my head down on the table.

She grabbed the hotdog and chucked it into the garbage little flecks of ketchup displaying her force. I moved out of her way. I sat in the dark on the couch as my tummy twisted and rolled. I stretched out hoping that lying on my belly would help the pain subside.

I must of drifted off to sleep because the next thing I remember is running through the house vomiting. I could hear my sister tell my mom, “We told you it was green,” as my mom held a damp washcloth to cool my face. I retched through the night, laying on the cool linoleum of my parents' bathroom. I was still awake at 5:30 when I heard her call in to work to say she wouldn’t be in, her daughter was sick.