Lunchtime is chaotic in Mount Friendship’s all-age Catholic school. When the bell rings at noon, the children close their books, clasp their hands, and say a brief prayer in unison. Then, all hell breaks loose as they race across the dusty schoolyard to the window of a small outbuilding that serves as the canteen. They grab plates of white rice, stewed chicken, shredded cabbage, and a ladleful of juice. The meals are devoured back in the classrooms, and then the children dump their plates and utensils into a basin filled with water to soak. It is loud, it is messy, and it is overwhelming.
During my first few months at work in Mount Friendship, I stayed far away from the canteen, choosing instead to eat a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich on the church steps. I was intimidated by the bedlam, afraid of falling sick from the food, and I longed for the salads and spinach wraps of Raymond Cafeteria at Providence College.
However, as the days passed, I developed a friendship with the school’s cook and I learned Jamaica’s school lunch culture. Slowly, I found myself digging into the lunch routine and then, tentatively, into the lunch itself.
The lunch culture is complicated: if a child has seventy Jamaican dollars (a little less than one U.S. dollar), he gives it to the Grade 3 teacher, Miss Rufus, who then gives Marie, the school’s cook, a head count. There are some children who receive a free lunch through Jamaica’s PATH program: Program of Advancement Through Health. PATH came about through a partnership with the Inter-American Development Bank, and it has strict rules, one of them being that PATH students must attend school at least 85 percent of the month.
In Mount Friendship, however, the school lunch is a source of pride and shame. Often, children would rather skip school than admit that their families can’t afford their lunch that day—it is the main reason for the poor attendance rates at school. But thanks to Miss Rufus and Marie, the school is a place where children’s minds and bellies are filled. These women are fully aware of who hungers; it is Marie who slips the neediest children a plate of rice and it is Miss Rufus who utters the magic words: “Mek Marie give yuh a someting.”
For many children, school lunch is the only real meal they eat in a day—and, as I realized this fact, I began to understand the mad dash to the canteen.
As my confidence grew, I began excusing myself from whatever classroom I was in or leaving the library around 11:30 to help Marie organize the plates or mix the juice. She, like Aggie of the food bags, is strict about the portions (“Too much vegetable, too likkle rice!”) but she is patient with me. The canteen has a frenzied atmosphere when the children are getting their lunches, but handing out the meal and watching the children’s eyes light up does make for a truly pleasant experience.
Not too long ago, Marie and I were eating our own portions of rice and chicken after the children had been fed. “In Jamaica we have a saying,” she said, her eyes dancing, “put dung de fork an’ nyam wit yuh hand.” Eight months ago, the patois proverb would have been nothing more than gibberish, but on that day, her meaning was not lost on me: “Put down the fork and eat with your hand.”
Essentially, Marie’s words mean to roll up your sleeves and dig in. The distance I put between myself and the canteen in the beginning of the year is one I now regret, but it takes time to grow accustomed to another country and another culture. It wasn’t possible for me to “nyam wit mi hand” eight months ago, but it is now. I nyam it all now: the rice, the chicken, and the noontime feeding frenzy.
During my first few months at work in Mount Friendship, I stayed far away from the canteen, choosing instead to eat a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich on the church steps. I was intimidated by the bedlam, afraid of falling sick from the food, and I longed for the salads and spinach wraps of Raymond Cafeteria at Providence College.
However, as the days passed, I developed a friendship with the school’s cook and I learned Jamaica’s school lunch culture. Slowly, I found myself digging into the lunch routine and then, tentatively, into the lunch itself.
The lunch culture is complicated: if a child has seventy Jamaican dollars (a little less than one U.S. dollar), he gives it to the Grade 3 teacher, Miss Rufus, who then gives Marie, the school’s cook, a head count. There are some children who receive a free lunch through Jamaica’s PATH program: Program of Advancement Through Health. PATH came about through a partnership with the Inter-American Development Bank, and it has strict rules, one of them being that PATH students must attend school at least 85 percent of the month.
In Mount Friendship, however, the school lunch is a source of pride and shame. Often, children would rather skip school than admit that their families can’t afford their lunch that day—it is the main reason for the poor attendance rates at school. But thanks to Miss Rufus and Marie, the school is a place where children’s minds and bellies are filled. These women are fully aware of who hungers; it is Marie who slips the neediest children a plate of rice and it is Miss Rufus who utters the magic words: “Mek Marie give yuh a someting.”
For many children, school lunch is the only real meal they eat in a day—and, as I realized this fact, I began to understand the mad dash to the canteen.
As my confidence grew, I began excusing myself from whatever classroom I was in or leaving the library around 11:30 to help Marie organize the plates or mix the juice. She, like Aggie of the food bags, is strict about the portions (“Too much vegetable, too likkle rice!”) but she is patient with me. The canteen has a frenzied atmosphere when the children are getting their lunches, but handing out the meal and watching the children’s eyes light up does make for a truly pleasant experience.
Not too long ago, Marie and I were eating our own portions of rice and chicken after the children had been fed. “In Jamaica we have a saying,” she said, her eyes dancing, “put dung de fork an’ nyam wit yuh hand.” Eight months ago, the patois proverb would have been nothing more than gibberish, but on that day, her meaning was not lost on me: “Put down the fork and eat with your hand.”
Essentially, Marie’s words mean to roll up your sleeves and dig in. The distance I put between myself and the canteen in the beginning of the year is one I now regret, but it takes time to grow accustomed to another country and another culture. It wasn’t possible for me to “nyam wit mi hand” eight months ago, but it is now. I nyam it all now: the rice, the chicken, and the noontime feeding frenzy.
1 comment:
The Spirit must be moving that I would read your reflection tonight. One of the sisters I live with is away on retreat. She is somewhat more proper and especially particular regarding food. The other sister and I can drink from the same glass, share a plate, etc, I made taco salad for supper this evening. At one point I mentioned to Jane that without Cathy home we could use our hands instead of having to use utensils in all the fixings. I recalled how many eat with their hands in Jamaica and she shared about eatting with people in India. There is a freedom when you can allow yourself to enter into solidarity with the simplicity of others. Pax jeannessj
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