Lessons in Futility

Hi.

I’m eating Triscuits right now, and I’m not really sure why. I’m not hungry. But I just had one of those moments where you get up, get food, and start eating before you realize what you’re doing. And I think it’s because of the AIDS pandemic.

Yes, AIDS is bringing out the compulsive eater in me.

I’m taking this global health course (as a requirement for the global health minor that I am steadily working towards) and the first 3 weeks of the course cover HIV/AIDS. So tonight, I get to read 20 pages about how racism and sexism and poverty and drugs and desperate acts of sex contribute to the spread of the virus. And let me tell you, there is a whole hell of a lot of contribution. Oh my goodness…

So I’m supplementing my depressing reading assignments with the strategic implementation of a salty-sweet-salty snacking regimen (with sporadic gulps of water interspersed). It’s working rather well, I think.

The professors in charge of this class tell us not to be depressed or feel guilty about what we see. They say we should be grateful for what we have and learn not to take it for granted. And then they show us a picture of a man in Zambia who hauls thirty pound sacks of rice back and forth all day for some ridiculously small amount of pay. Meanwhile, I sit typing at my laptop, eat eat eating away at my arsenal of consumer-whore snacks and not being hungry. Ever.

I could stop eating. And I could start cleaning my plate more efficiently every time I eat. I could scrape every last bit of remaining condiment off my plate and lick all my utensils and marvel at the fact that no one in Africa will ever starve again because I’ve done my part to reduce waste (and consumed an extra 300 calories in the process). But there will still be problems in infrastructure and transportation and distribution. And powerful men will still hold high school grudges against one another and choose silly miscommunications over reason.

“Cleaning your plate” is just a cure for post-industrial guilt.

Boo.