Letter From the Desert: Burning Birds VII

This is Part Seven of a special essay series for paying subscribers to Letters from the Desert.

Parts 1 through 5 are linked below:

Letter From the Desert: Burning Birds (Part One)

Letter From the Desert: Burning Birds 2

Letter from the Desert: Burning Birds III

Letter From the Desert: Burning Birds IV

Letter From the Desert: Burning Birds V

Letter From the Desert: Burning Birds VI

I was fifteen when my mother stopped feeding us. Or was it sixteen? It depends on your definition of “stopped.” The pickings were never more than slim in our house at the best of times. Pilfering of food — which in other homes might have been considered merely “eating” — was met with loud parental complaints. Parents struggling to keep up with the gaping metabolisms of four hormonally turbo-charged teenagers might reasonably gripe about food disappearing before it leaves the grocery bags. This was different. We were made to feel shame for eating at all.