That Which the Locust Has Eaten

~A Memory~

In my parents' house, we’ve used the same set of Tupperware water glasses for as long as I can recall. Six tall plastic cups—each a different pastel color. None of us ever used the yellow cup or the peach cup; they resided in the cabinet, waiting for company. But the remaining four Tupperware glasses were permanently assigned: Dad used blue; Mom had pink; my younger sister Becky chose green; and I took white.

When I was twelve, I stopped drinking from the white glass.

~ ~ ~

I’ve always loved experimenting with food. (My poor Mom! She suffered through some very interesting concoctions in the early years. I understand there was even a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich on garlic bread. Mom says that’s the only one of my bizarre creations she just couldn’t bring herself to eat.) One morning when I was twelve, I decided to make breakfast for everyone: Cream of Wheat, the breakfast of champions. I chose to use a saucepan rather than the microwave because Dad and Becky both liked their Cream of Wheat to be lumpy. (Lumps are more easily created in the slow cooking method.) But before dividing the hot cereal into four servings, I put a few drops of food coloring in the bottom of each empty bowl. Dad received blue; Mom got pink; Becky had green; and I used the remaining color, yellow, for myself. Then I gently spooned Cream of Wheat into each bowl, all the while being careful not to expose the color buried underneath. When each person stirred sugar into his or her breakfast, it changed colors!

I was delighted by the success of my “magic trick.” Becky giggled: her cereal now resembled Nickelodeon slime. Mom remarked that her pink Cream of Wheat looked as though it should taste like strawberry as she smiled and ate.

Dad exploded.

As soon as blue streaks appeared in his bowl, Dad’s bulky shoulders stiffened. “What is this!” he demanded. By the time all of his cereal acquired a tranquil blue tint, Dad’s mouth and brow were contorted in fury. His blue eyes darkened as they bored into me. “This is disgusting! Why would you do this to my food!” Heavy anger clenched his hands. After one final glare of outrage, Dad shoved back from the table, rose, roughly grabbed his bowl, and stalked across the room. Metal spoon scraped against ceramic: I watched my father force his bowl to regurgitate its pretty blue contents, lumps and all, into the trash can.

Turning to glare at me again, Dad sneered, “I’ll make my own breakfast.” He made a great display of finding a clean pan. He then cooked a single serving of untainted Cream of Wheat and returned to the table, pointedly ignoring me.

Reader, I had been so excited, so proud of my special breakfast idea. I sat there watching Dad devour his white, unsullied Cream-of-Wheat...and a small piece of my twelve-year-old heart quietly died. A larger piece screamed in defiance.

“Would you refill my glass?” Dad handed me his blue cup without raising his eyes from his breakfast.

I walked to the kitchen counter and poured my father a fresh glass of water without any complaint. But defiance still screamed within me. The nearby salt shaker seemed to offer a quiet invitation in response to my heart’s war cry. Without pausing to consider the possible consequences, I accepted the offer. Even as I grasped the glass shaker and watched the first battery of hard white crystals whfft! into the blue cup, I knew my actions were wrong. But I didn’t care. Two, three, four dashes of salt into the cold, thirsty water.

I returned Dad’s blue glass calmly to his waiting hand. Collecting empty bowls, I was back at the counter studiously organizing dirty pots and dishes by the time I heard the first spluttering gulp behind me. Dad’s cup slammed down on the table; the delayed sounds of water splashing out were lost in his roar.

“You put salt in my water?!” I turned to see his fleshy cheeks shaking and his mouth contorted. One large hand still clenched the pale blue cup, knuckles whitening at though they grasped my neck. His shortage of words was my clearest indicator of the depth of his rage. White overtook his face; blue eyes devoured me.

I said nothing. The fear in my mind narrowly outweighed the vengeance in my heart.

With a snarl on his lips, Dad jerked to his feet, snatched my white glass from its place on the table, and stalked out of the room.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, I watched him return a few minutes later, striding directly toward me. He held out my white glass. Brassy-yellow liquid filled it to the brim. And then the warm tang of urine reached my nose.

My father moved in close. Using his bulky frame to force me back against the kitchen counter, he brandished my white glass—shoved a full glass of his own urine—in my face. His blue eyes hard as crystal, Dad stared at me and ordered, “Drink this. All of it. This is what it’s like when you mess with my food!”

~ ~ ~

I remember the hard edge of the countertop cutting into my lower back during the long minutes I tearfully refused the cup he sought to force on me. The rage in his eyes was almost gleeful. Malice filled his loud threats. “Drink it!” he continued to shout. “You like trying new things. Try this!”

I remember Mom rushing to my side. She tried to reason with him; he only grew more belligerent. I remember grasping the counter behind me and arching far away from the yellow warmth of his urine, as my white drinking glass continued to be pressed toward my lips. Mom’s repeated attempts to reason with him; his repeated insistence that I needed a lesson. I remember my hands shaking. I remember sobbing. I remember knowing with absolute certainty: “He is really going to make me drink it.”

After several minutes, Mom finally managed to placate him—talk him down. By then, Dad knew he’d won. That was enough to satisfy him.

Mom bleached my white glass. Multiple times. But I never could bring myself to drink from it again. I chose to use the yellow cup instead. The white drinking glass joined the peach glass in the cabinet. But any time company came over, it didn’t matter whether Mom, Becky, or I was the one pouring drinks: each of us used the white cup only as a last resort. And if we did have to give someone that glass, we were always secretly embarrassed about it. I myself never have touched the white cup to my lips since that memorable day. But the few times that incident subsequently came up in family conversation, Dad didn’t even remember it happening.

~ ~ ~

Now, we only have five Tupperware drinking glasses. The peach cup still sits in the cabinet, waiting for company. The blue one waits with it. As for the rest, Mom has pink; Becky chooses green; and I take the yellow.

Last August, I finally burned the white glass.

~ ~ ~

I'm going to enable the comment function on this post. Please keep in mind that sharing this event is not a cry for sympathy. There will be a related follow-up post coming soon. If you have questions or comments--if this causes you to think and you'd like to think "out loud" among friends--you are more than welcome to do so.

I am continuing to pray for you, dear reader. And thank you for your prayers as well!