“Well my third trip to _ was awful; like on the first trip I got stranded at _ airport once again. How the fuck do you forget someone at the one of the biggest airports in the country. My grandpa is dying of cancer. The food sucked ass. I think I lost five to 10 pounds. Hell, I am shocked people here don’t eat fresh fruits and salads, after all its July. Hell, at least grill a steak or salmon…”

The journal entry is from sixteen years ago. The trip was to my birth place. It’s true that environments don’t change, you do. Going back there, it was as time had stood still. I would only visit one more time years later to see if I ever wanted to visit or see these individuals titled family again. The biggest thing that stood out to me in this entry was my tone. I sounded so privileged and entitled with my healthy eating habits. I had to roll my eyes at my younger self that I thought these individuals who lived in a food desert, many on food stamps, would splurge on such items. Hell, I was in college at the time and couldn’t afford steak. This entry also reminded me of an encounter with my nephew last summer. Granted, I am sure he was saying “There is nothing, but fresh fruit and vegetables in this house. Where the hell is the greasy and processed food?”  I reached out to him and shared this entry with him. I asked him if this is how he felt last summer. He asked me if I was trying to analyze him. I assured him I was not, but that I understood and could relate to how he must have felt…