Crumb Eaters

Many traumatized artists continually crawl back to the master's table for a pittance. Mashing the mismatched crumbs together from other ppl's overflowing plates and pretending it's a feast. But when you're surrounded by crumb eaters, you never know that you are the slippage that fell under the donor's table.  

When I was at Northwestern I took Mary Zimmerman's wonderful performance of poetry class. In it, students analyzed and staged poetry like it was dramatic works of art. One of the assignments was to express ourselves: what was it like being an artist? An artist of color? An artist of color in Chicago? Chicago's legendary poet Gwendolyn Brooks would often speak on campus, so I performed Brooks' "Bean Eaters" by using a series of suitcases within suitcases, like a series of Russian nesting dolls. Zen nihilism. In the last and smallest suitcase was a tattered abstract picture from inside the suitcase (Hey, it was an experiment.) I was trying to express those late night conversations I had with other artists. That feeling of being a 'crumb eater' who is told to be grateful for just having the slippage.

Now there is nothing wrong with working hard for a greater good. There is nothing wrong with making a sacrifice...if everyone is making the same sacrifice, OR if we're all in agreement. If you're eating pizza, then I'll eat pizza. But if I'm eating pizza and you're telling me that I should be grateful for doing work for you and I find you sneaking off for caviar and champagne, that's another thing entirely. When I was at Northwestern, the dorm meals were catered by Marriott. The food was C- to D grade, students would get sick off the abundance of mid-ish food swimming in grease and congealed fat. We would gorge ourselves on this food, feel ill, purge, and then continue. 

One day I was invited to a lunch conference at Kellogg School of Business in the middle of campus. The meal was -in short- incredible. You could tell the food was made from high-quality ingredients. Nothing fancy, but just well sourced and well prepared. I don't even like coffee that much but I had 2 cups at lunch because the brand we were drink was so smooth. After this amazing meal I asked 'who catered this event.' The cook said 'Marriott.' I paused...'wait is this a gourmet subsidiary of Marriott or French Marriott?' No it was the exact same Marriott as the regular cafeteria. 

I walked back across campus in a daze. Going into my usual cafeteria I looked around at the students, jostling each other for bad pizza and oily coffee and greasy vegetables...and I couldn't believe that we had been eating shitty food this whole time from a Marriott that actually knew how to make food, but decided we were not worth it. They also figured they could get away with us never knowing that we were being served subpar food and it was making us sick, and bloated and tired. They saved their care and concern for MBA student cafeteria.

 It took me years to realize that I didn't have to be a crumb eater. Then it took me even more years to realize that I wasn't being stuck up or rude or angry for not eating the crumbs under the master's table. Then it took me more years to have empathy for the crumb eaters who think 'they got lucky' by finding the right table to eat under... where legs barely kick you while you're trying to eat.

When I have a feast, the artists sit AT the table. But when you're dealing with habitual crumb eaters, they often feel more comfortable looking at the master's feet than a brother's face. 

BEAN EATERS 

By Gwendolyn Brooks

They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair.

Dinner is a casual affair.

Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood,

Tin flatware.

Two who are Mostly Good.

Two who have lived their day,

But keep on putting on their clothes

And putting things away.

And remembering . . .

Remembering, with twinklings and twinges,

As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that

          is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths,

          tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.