Catharsis

You’ve been here for over a week. You’ve barely had anything to drink, and nothing to eat. I don’t know how you are still breathing. Today, Maureen Daily came in and sang hymns for you that you love. She has such a beautiful voice. I was laying in the pull-out bed and couldn’t sit up. But I was listening the whole time, while mom sang along with her and you seemed to sing along too.

Brad also came by to see you. He’s been such a good friend of yours. It’s hard for him to go to a hospice, because his wife died in one. He is still depressed about that. But you gave Brad the joy and comfort he needed after his wife passed. You were a blessing to him, and I know he appreciates that more than you can know.

Leigh brought your friend, Trudy today as well. I’m not sure how close you guys were, but she said some very kind things to you, and about you. You’ve had so many visitors and phone calls and people that don’t want to see you go.

Grandma, you’ve always been so strong. Relentless even. The doctors said you were going to die six months ago because of liver failure, even though you’re not a drinker. But you came back from that, a miraculous recovery. You were doing so well, walking around, with and without your walker. You even bought a new car! A Subaru of course. I know you’re strong, but grandma, it’s time to let go. Mom and I have been spending the night ever since you entered the hospice. I came home to sleep one night after work. And I had to come home tonight.

I feel bad for leaving mom alone. But I think tonight is the night. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay there. I had to do this for me. I said my goodbyes, and you heard them, I know. But if you go tomorrow, that’s okay too. Easter Sunday. The 31st. Just like G.G. who died on January 31st a year ago. If you’re still there tomorrow, I’ll come. But if you’re not, I know where you’ll be.

I’m so tired. Exhausted. Mom, your only child, has been there with you this whole time. I can only imagine how she’s feeling. I had to call work and let them know I couldn’t come in this morning. I thought you’d be gone by then. But you’re still breathing. We’re thinking the funeral’s going to be on Friday.

Let go Grandma, Please, let go. Go gently into that good night. Don’t rage against the dying of the light. You don’t need to suffer anymore. You don’t need to sustain these worldly problems on your shoulders anymore. Just think of the relief.

I love you, grandma. I’ll be singing for you tomorrow.

-March 31, 2013.

——

Something

What do you do when the anxiety you have for no known reason fills your stomach up to your neck up to your head with an unbearable weight which weighs you down with the sensation of sloth, an inability to move or act and all you can do is just sit there and stare? All you can think about is how anxious you are because that is all you can feel, a mad cycle attached with immense difficulty to escape. Surveillance is a substantial way to be brought out of this. But sometimes writing about it exacerbates the anxiety because of the focus focus focusing the mind on the anxiety, the problem at hand. Yet it does help the understanding of it a little more. “Know thyself.” How does one know thyself. Self. I am my. self. I am me. What am I. Feelings. What I know. How do I know. Why do you care.

 —

vul·ner·a·bil·i·ty:

noun

  1. The quality or state of being exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally.
  • Vulnerability is writing
  • Even if the world doesn’t see your words
  • I used to post things to blogs and social media
  • Vulnerable. Sensitive. Personal.
  • Now I don’t post anything unless I am positive it is worthy to be posted.
  • What happened?
  • What makes it worthy… That I think people will like it?
  • If one writes only to make an audience happy, is one really a writer?

Vulnerability scares me. I’m afraid to show people my words. I’m afraid of what they think. Have I put myself on too high of a pedestal? What if I’m not up to par? My words are my vulnerability, a complete expression of me. Maybe I don’t want people to know me. Maybe I like to keep people at a safe distance- not necessarily to keep myself safe from them, but to keep them safe from me.

“Stream-of-consciousness writing a la Jack Kerouac is a meditation tool. Writing about regrets over the past or fears of the future, no.”

Feelings hypnotize unsatisfied ruler of my brain. Please don’t come down here there is really something wrong with my brain. Today, at least. Well, most days. Unconventional, unacceptable as “normal” let me apologize now before you decide to run away. Sometimes I wish I could run away, take a vacation and escape from the pounding confusion, lifting the fog that’s in my head. I used to be afraid to showcase these things, people wouldn’t understand. But still face to face I have to pretend that I belong in this world with these socially acceptable behaviors. I really have no idea what I’m doing.

Patricia Ann Dewey, 73, of Aurora, Colorado, passed away on April 3, 2013.

There are still so many questions. I was told she died of cirrhosis of the liver. Causes of cirrhosis of the liver:

-Chronic alcohol abuse. She never drank.

-Chronic viral hepatitis (hepatitis B, C and D) I think someone told me once she had some form of hepatitis. How did she get this?

-Fat accumulating in the liver (nonalcoholic fatty liver disease) yeah, she was overweight.

-Cystic Fibrosis nope.

-Inherited disorders of sugar metabolism Is this inherited in my family?

-Genetic digestive disorder (Alagille syndrome) ?

-Liver disease caused by your body’s immune system (autoimmune hepatitis) well, duh, but maybe this was the type of hepatitis she had?

Ok, we get the point. Maybe one of these things caused it. Maybe a whole mixture of these things. Maybe something that wasn’t even on this list. I was told that it was also because she took a lot of naproxen, a non-opiate pain killer, like Aleve, after she had a couple falls. Which takes a big hit on the liver. I guess she took a shit ton of this. She didn’t want to get hooked on prescription pain pills. Which I commend her for, but would she still be here if she was a pill junky?

Elements of a lyric essay: Metaphor. Research. Bullet points. Pace. Poeticism. Odd concepts. Fragments. Surprising verb and/or noun-turned-verb (i.e, a noun verbed). (You can totally Chelsey a sentence). Surprising structure. Surprising imagery. Unconventional associations. Juxtoposition. A declarative and/or witty and/or telling title. Subtle humor via wordplay. Quirky way of looking at and addressing the theme(s). At least one paragraph so elusive that even the author isn’t quite sure of what she’s trying to say.

-Chelsey Clammer

Obituary

Patricia Ann Dewey, 73, of Aurora, Colorado, passed away on April 3, 2013. The funeral service will be held at Fairmount Mortuary at 430 South Quebec Street on Wednesday, April 10 at 11:00. Pastor Ray Cook of Colorado Community Church will be officiating. Viewing will be held at Fairmount Mortuary on Tuesday, April 9 from 12:00 to 4:00 pm. Burial will follow the funeral at Fairmount Mortuary.
Patricia was born in Tucson, Arizona on February 26, 1940 to Joseph and Edith Wilson. She graduated from Whittier High School, and continued on to receive an Accounting degree from Metro State in Colorado. Patricia had one brother, Richard, who proceeded her in death in 2006. Karen, Patricia’s daughter, was born in La Mirada, California on March 3, 1966.
In 1972, Patricia and her family moved to Colorado. She worked as a Controller for Fairmount Mortuary for 18 years. She enjoyed playing golf, camping, and painting. Patricia was also actively involved in Eastern Star.  Patricia is survived by her daughter and son in law, Karen and John Faust, as well as two grandchildren, Jordan and Ryan Faust. She is also survived by two nieces, Jamie and Jodi Wilson. Patricia was very active in her church no matter where she lived. Patricia’s kindness, generosity, joy, love, and humor touched everyone she knew, and will be greatly missed by her family and friends.

Is it weird that I wrote this official obituary for her in my time of grieving? Such a complex, deep, wise, strong, and mysterious woman summed up into three paragraphs of un-emotional, formal, dry prose.

About four months after my grandma died, I met Chelsey Clammer in the oddest of circumstances. Not that it was odd that I would meet her at this place, but it was the place that I somehow found myself. Those months after she died were all kind of a blur.

Rewind to the hospice: me sitting at the foot of her bed, while she was going in and out of coherency. All she could really say were slight grumblings and moans; I could tell she wanted to speak so badly, but her body prevented her from forming words. It was just me and her in this moment. And I made her a promise. I told her I would stop drinking. At the utterance of these words, a catharsis of deep sadness and regret spilled out of my eyes as if they would have burst if I kept the moisture in any longer, a sinking ship filling and filling with water until finally it can’t hold on any longer and gravity (is it gravity that makes it sink?) forces the boat down and down to the ocean floor, no longer touching breathable oxygen. I allowed this overhaul of emotions the space it needed, but probably not enough time. I gathered myself back into its normalcy of social acceptance- dry eyes and a quaint little smile. Though my face was still beet red an hour afterwards. Thank you, grandma, for passing down your rosacea.

Fast forward, back to Chelsey. She sat at the desk with her long, mousey brown dreadlocks all pulled to her left side, so they were drooping down the left side of her dark blue Hollister hoody. She always had a college-ruled spiral bound notebook in front of her. Today she was writing down Lil’ Wayne lyrics. She was so amused by the cleverness of the poeticism in his raps and lyrics. I found this ironic and hilarious. Chelsey helped me get my voice back. On paper, she was a night monitor at STAR, a sober living apartment building to help 18-25 year-olds in recovery, where I somehow found myself a resident.

I mean, it wasn’t that bad of a gig: I had my own 1-bedroom apartment rent-free. I didn’t have to work for the first 6-9 months I was there. All I had to do was cruise down to counseling sessions and group classes three times a week and take a bunch of UA’s (urinary analysis) to determine that I was still nice and sober in order to keep living there. So yeah, I guess I was just saying that it was odd because I was a white 23-year old from a suburban family with parents still together with 3 years’ worth of a college education- now a resident of a treatment program that was designed for homeless youth. With no hope. No family. No formal education. I mean, I don’t like to compare myself to others, but I did feel a little out of place at times, and I was constantly wondering if I was somehow taking advantage of this program. But then I would remind myself of the facts: I was under 25. I was homeless (living with my parents was a deadly option at this point). And I needed accountability to stay sober. And therapy was definitely a plus.

ca·thar·sis

noun

  1. The process of releasing, and thereby providing relief from, strong or repressed emotions.

synonyms:

emotional release, relief, release, venting

Obituary (Revised)

Patricia Ann Dewey, 73, of Aurora, Colorado, passed away on April 3, 2013 of cirrhosis of the liver. She died way too early. Yet, she died almost exactly one year after her mother- her roommate, confidant, and best friend. The funeral service will be held at Fairmount Mortuary at 430 South Quebec Street on Wednesday, April 10 at 11:00. Pastor Ray Cook of Colorado Community Church will be officiating. Viewing will be held at Fairmount Mortuary on Tuesday, April 9 from 12:00 to 4:00 pm. Burial will follow the funeral at Fairmount Mortuary.

Patricia was born in Tucson, Arizona on February 26, 1940 to Joseph and Edith Wilson. Her parents loved her and her brother unconditionally with astounding grace and kindness. She graduated from Whittier High School. Years later, after she moved to Denver with her family, she worked her butt off to obtain an Accounting degree from Metro State. Patricia had one younger brother, Richard, who proceeded her in death in 2006. He decided to take his life by hanging himself at his residence in Las Vegas. Was it because he was addicted to gambling? Maybe. Was it because he saw horrific things as a police officer in Aurora, Colorado? Who knows. We will never know why, but we come up with these things to make sense of it. Karen, Patricia’s only daughter, was born in La Mirada, California on March 3, 1966. The father of Karen and Patricia’s husband left them when Karen was about one year old. She moved back in with her tight-knit family to help raise her daughter.

In 1972, Patricia and her family moved to Colorado. She worked as a Controller for Fairmount Mortuary for 18 years (and the first female controller at that!). She enjoyed playing golf (and taught women how to golf because our anatomy is different than men’s), camping (she bought a motorhome to take her daughter’s family camping), and painting (oil painting, china painting, watercolor painting, you name it). Patricia was also actively involved in Eastern Star, a Christian community for women. Patricia is survived by her daughter and son in law, Karen and John Faust, as well as two grandchildren, Jordan and Ryan Faust. She is also survived by her brother’s children, Jamie and Jodi Wilson. Patricia was very active in her church no matter where she lived. Patricia’s kindness, generosity, joy, love, and humor touched everyone she knew, and will be greatly missed by her family and friends.

Her kindness, generosity, joy, love, and humor especially affected her granddaughter, Jordan. Patricia decided to retire early so she could spend more time with her grandchildren. She took them to the Aquarium downtown. She took them to Dairy Queen as often as they wanted to go. And then they started to grow older. After Jordan graduated high school, Patricia took her on a cruise to Hawaii as a celebration. When Jordan went off to college, Patricia helped her find appropriate student loans and bought her very first laptop to take to school. Patricia would talk about Aliens, God, and all kinds of mysteries with Jordan. Jordan got swooped up by the worldly, unfulfilling yet addictive pleasures and stopped visiting her grandma and great grandma. All of a sudden, Patricia’s mother passed away and Patricia started becoming weaker, taking heavy falls which caused her body to stop fighting. But nobody knew she was going to die from this so suddenly. Yet it wasn’t sudden- all of a sudden she was supposed to die- and they sent her to the hospice- and she laid in there for over two weeks- waiting for death. No, waiting for God to come swoop her up and take her to heaven. And finally, he did. Now she is standing in heaven, with her mother, father, and brother, standing over us and beaming with joy. Even after her death, she showered Jordan with limitless gratitude- paying off portions of her student loans, even though she dropped out after three years. She had faith in Jordan, that she was strong and there was something special about her, even if Jordan didn’t believe so herself. But now, Jordan has faith that her grandma is looking down at her, pleased as ever, patient in love, and perfect in kindness.

1 Corinthians 13:4-7 New International Version (NIV)

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

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On Living in a Small Apartment with my Brother

When you’re a single woman at twenty-eight years old, the fact that you live in a small apartment with your younger brother adds to the general imposing curiosity of those around you. “Oh, I thought you were going to tell me you had a boyfriend,” one of my closest friends tells me after I expressed to her that I had a life update, which happened to be a raise and promotion. “How’s your love life?” even my boss at work questions me every now and again, craving for me to indulge her so she wouldn’t have to feel sorry for me, as if being single at this age were an unfortunate crisis, something she would try to help me “fix” by giving me relationship advice.

I’ve already strayed off topic, though. Late at night I lie in my bed, awakened by the sound of a high-pitched voice coming from the living room, which happened to be one door and a hallway away from my bedroom. The soothing rain sounds have turned themselves off by now on the Amazon Echo which is set to play for exactly one hour while I doze to sleep. I reach to my bedside table, hand grasping for a phone in the darkness. I pick it up, the back light illuminating the space around me, screaming into my brain that it is 1:12am and I have been woken by my brother’s girlfriend’s obnoxious voice. I listened closer, realizing they were playing some sort of video game, and she was just having a blast. The more her entertainment and joy rose, the more my bitterness and frustration leaped, a space shuttle erupting in flames and smoke as it ascended higher into the sky. How dare she wake me in the middle of the night from my precious rest.

One more screechy laugh set me off. I was being personally, deeply, directly disrespected, and I had to do something about it. I flopped out of my bed, still interwoven between the intricacies of my sheets. I stumbled to my door without the wonderful idea of turning on a light, feet crashing into various articles of furniture and shoes left on the floor. I was drunk with anger and disoriented with sleep.

 

I left my brother, Ryan, at home with my parents when I moved off to college after I graduated high school. He was fifteen. I didn’t realize at the time that maintaining closeness in relationships requires work and effort. I was used to the naturalness of being around Ryan every day, and our friendship was something glorious we shared but hadn’t really acknowledged because it was just there. I didn’t realize what it was until I didn’t have it anymore. And I was supposed to be the mature one, the leading example.

Ryan is what Inner Child therapists would label the “Lost Child” dynamic of the family system. His head was filled with Marvel superheroes, Star Wars quotes, and videogame characters. He was downstairs, lost in his own world, while the rest of us were upstairs, me usually attempting to solve the petty arguments my parents were getting in. I was the “Family Hero”- the one who got good grades at school, planning my future collegiate aspirations, making the family look good to outsiders. I couldn’t tell you when or how our roles switched temporarily, or how they switched back, but here I was, ten years later, fumbling for my doorknob, seeking vengeance for an interrupted sleep cycle.

I stormed across the ten-foot hallway, prepared for retribution and sturdy boundary-setting. “Would you please keep it down?” the bitter statement formed as a question burst out of my barely-awake lips. Two sets of eyes gazed back at me, one horrified and the other confused, a lost puppy stopped dead in the blinding headlights of a rampant vehicle. I was taken aback by the meek reaction and compliant nods of approval, but this didn’t stop me from dramatically stomping back to my dim bedroom for extra theatrics. I don’t know what I expected, but it was like I craved a rebuttal, an argument to allow me to release my critical anger, or at least to put me back in my place.

My heart raced into a puddle of tears as I lied back down, trying to cover myself up into a cocoon of blankets despite the heat beaming throughout my body, wanting to shed the parts of me that harbored the guilt of abandoning my brother during his most malleable years, and the parts of me that blamed him for not trying to stay connected with me either. But here we were, living together, trying together, learning together. Outsiders may not understand the intrinsic rationalities of why some people do the things they do, just like I didn’t realize my own purpose of living with my brother until I wrote this essay.

Sleep with the Angels

I slumber at the wakening,

tasting the luscious licks of the unwrapped

lollipops, sparks of sun settle

through frost-wintered windows,

white toes chilled against red circulation.

Morning cat meows plead of attention,

circling the unchanged litterbox- recognizing

her own beloved stench. Upstairs

the flowers sing like honeydew- “Me

and Bobby McGee” as we drove

to the scorched heat of Pheonix.

Sitting under moonlit tents, sanctuaries

of bodies held together by blazing fires,

conversation blends as easily as baryonic

matter in the cosmos, sparking brilliant neurons.

The night cold wore us like a blanket

of damped packed sand, the piercing

coals of envy and beauty embered

asymmetrically into the stars like soft

epiphanies. I swallowed the wood-burnt

smoke and ingested the amber flames.

Duerme con los angeles, mi amor,

feathered pillows spoke softly in accord

until the honeydew flowers chanted

the confined lullaby.

 

j.f.

When I am Weary

I heard imaginary ailments-
whirling dervishes dancing
with one hand pointed at the sky
and the other at the ground.
Such dismal feelings however
do not often persist in the clear
light of morning, when
you are young.
Many are the thoughts that come
in lonely musing;
leaving no trace of existence.
I walk home to tranquility-
the trees are still bare, the buds
still hard, cocooned.
Appear- an impressionist scene
of a rainy night.
It accretes in layers under
my skin and knits my pores tight.
A hideous sense of pursuit
sometimes comes chillingly
when I am weary.

Upon the Boutique Sidewalk

Upon the boutique sidewalk, I

stumble upon a man- or

is it a woman? The dark and

defined makeup surrounds the black

pupils set in stone marble eyes.

The perfectly defined Adams apple sits tucked

under the creamy white face adorned

with chiseled cheekbones, contoured

and glowing. I wonder

what he sees sitting on his perch,

unable to move. We bustle and groan,

rush around like spawning salmon-

but you, your plastic skin still reeks

of chemicals produced in assembly

lines, people machines. Your

cheekbones deceive me, your slim,

lean legs lack the delicate fibers that

give legs meaning. You represent facades

and images endorsed, societal projections.

Who gets to decide

what ideal looks like?

 

j.f.

204

Upon opening the door
Lies dirt ridden shovels
amongst red-spined journals
in apartment two-oh-four.

Black lines appear
on white walls forming
mountains and valleys- a timeline
beginning to end, up and down, up and down.

Steam, the tea kettle screeches
an aroma of green tea and coffee,
familiarize the surroundings,
memories of bodies move through the rooms.

Upon the bedside table
lies the book of love, of fictitious
trickery, words written and uttered
left by the sink, forgotten
as the reflection in turn.

What is love? I ask
you point to the book, left
frivolously scratching your mark, locking
the key taken, I cannot enter.

 

j.f.

Spiderwebs

She sits

solemnly at the dining room

table, trying to find a metaphor

for her creative process, is

it the revealing of one’s

eyes, after removing

sunglasses? The dark

shades, black as dilated

pupils, outstretched when accustomed

to night, revealing the

hidden webs

forming dust-

a forgotten bond.

 

j.f.

Carving Stories from Trees- Our Home

The Highline Canal is a long trail sided next to a creek throughout Denver’s southside suburbs, 71 miles to be exact. It connects different cities together through the paved and unpaved walking trail, lining itself with cottonwood trees and bushes as tall as we were. Although the purpose of the highline canal was to provide irrigation through the man-made waterway, it was dry most of the time. For us, it didn’t provide irrigation; it provided recreation.

My brother and I walked through the winding roads of our quaint neighborhood, a brand-new development built on the borders of the sacred greenery of the Highline Canal. Scratch that- the yellowry of the Highline Canal. We walked up the dirt hill to reach the yellow sticks and the leafless trees that grew along the trail until we found a denseness that suited us.

Rewind one year. Mom and dad would drive my brother and I to the spot where our new house was being built. We got out of the car, onto the future street on which we would live, and looked at the giant, square hole in the ground. Dirt. Everywhere.

They told us, “This is where our house will be. It will be painted blue, and have a red door.” I tried to imagine what my new house would look like. I thought it was strange that our house would have a red door, this color yelled anger at me, which is how I felt about moving from the home I’d known my whole short life. My life, as I knew it, was being displaced. Into a neighborhood I didn’t know. Into a school I didn’t know. With the people that were forcing my displacement.

Fast forward. To the denseness. To the foliage. To the nature, which belonged to my brother and I, alone. Once we found the perfect spot, a little opening within the branches, within the sticks and the grass, we built our home. Our home was here, not in the blue house with the red door. Here, we could imagine our own spaces and create our own niches. Here, we made the rules and decided who we wanted to be. It might have been different day to day. I was usually a mother, cooking dinner for the family in the patch of small twigs near the center of our home. I had on my pretend oven and pretend oven mitts. Other days I was a teacher, ordering my brother to sit at his desk, a little spot in the corner amongst the grass. I put on my pretend glasses and taught out of my little blue notebook, telling my brother to take notes.

When we got bored of our home, we would go on an exploration journey on the trail to find another one. Sometimes we’d get distracted by the creatures we’d see. Once we came upon a turtle, which my brother named Speedy. He was our comrade for a day or two, until we lost him and found a new comrade to replace him, like our pretend pet that would follow us around. We found walking sticks one day and became original Settlers of the land. The Highline Canal was ours, and ours alone. Anyone we saw walking or running on the trail simply didn’t exist to us, for it was our world, and we made it fit what we needed it to be. Our home.

Random Thoughts

Do you ever wonder…

what you would

become

if you

did

not blog

did not ‘gram

did not facebook?

What if…

thoughts,

your stream

of conscious,

could be made

visible, online, for

all to see? Would you

be embarrassed? Or

embrace it? Do

our thoughts

really,

truly,

belong

to ourselves

anymore? What

is writing becoming?

What is writing?

What are

your

thoughts?

 

I originally wrote this in 2013, and it is just as prevalent as ever.

Food, Inc

For my Sociology class, we had to watch the documentary, Food Inc. This documentary discusses the many ways that food operates in our society- how it’s grown, produced, sold, and eaten. This movie goes deeper than surface level, though, focusing not just on food and eating, but on what we’re allowed to say and know about the food we eat. Through this film, we are able to use the Social Imagination to understand the relationship of food between the larger social forces and the individuals that purchase and eat it. Throughout the years, our relationship with food has changed drastically- the way we eat has changed more in the last 50 years than the last 10,000 years (Kenner). The way we eat now has become a norm that we accept, because we don’t know anything different.

From this film, we can see how food can be related to on a Social Conflict Paradigm, which sees social life as a competition and focuses on the distribution of resources, power, and inequality. During “The Dollar Menu” section of the film, we see a poor family with a mother, father, and two young girls. They don’t have time to cook because they leave at 6am to go to work and don’t get home until 9 or 10. So, they use the small amount of money they have to buy hamburgers from the dollar menu. The mom says, “When you only have a dollar to spend, and two kids to feed, what would you do?” They can buy a hamburger for $1.00 or they can go to the grocery store and wouldn’t even be able to buy a head of lettuce for $1.00. The husband, who is almost forced to eat these horrible foods packed with sugar, salt, and fat now has diabetes due to his diet, and needs to spend hundreds of dollars on his medication. It is obvious that the large, rich, powerful food institutions are benefiting from how food works in our society, while those who don’t have a lot of money lose, big time. The way these hamburgers are made in the factories is a whole different story. Apparently when we eat a hamburger, we are eating the meat from a thousand different cows (Kenner). What?!?

I’m just going to go right out and ask the question- are we poisoning the lower class? The movie states that 1 in 3 Americans born after 2000 will contract early onset diabetes- and in minorities the rate is 1 in 2 (Kenner). The biggest predictor of obesity is income level as well- those who are in the lower economic class are more prone to obesity- and as we can see from this movie, it is because the foods that are affordable are unhealthy, and even poisonous. Of course, the industry blames obesity on a crisis of “personal responsibility” (Kenner). As I sit at Whole Foods to do my homework, I think about how privileged I am to have the ability to choose to eat foods that are organic, range free, grass fed, and healthy. Even still, I have a hard time purchasing a seven dollar salad due to my bank account. After watching this film I feel like I have a moral obligation to help change the way we think about food, and advocate for more honesty in our society’s food practices.

What are your thoughts? Have you seen this documentary? How can we change the way society in America interacts with how food is grown, made, and eaten?

Kenner, Robert, et al. Food, Inc. [Los Angeles, CA] Magnolia Home Entertainment, 2009.