Earlier this month, I watched A Place at The Table, a recent documentary about the food crisis in America. As a writer and an eater and an avid home cook, this is a topic I care very much about—I read everything I can get my hands on related to the topic of food.

I'm familiar with America's food deserts, areas where there is little to no fresh produce available. I've read about the frustrating rise in the cost of produce and the simultaneous drop in the cost of processed food, both related directly to food subsidies. I've heard about how food stamps make it all but impossible to choose nutritious options, and how doctors are treating more and more illnesses related to malnutrition. I knew that millions of American kids consume too many calories or not enough nutrients, and I knew that 50 million Americans and one in four American children don't know where their next meal will come from. I've been reading about these numbers and figures and policies for years. I knew this stuff.

What I didn't know: I didn't know that this movie would move me. I didn't know that weeks later I'd still be thinking about it, picturing the faces of the children, very much like my own. I didn't anticipate that as I sliced fruit for my boys one morning, my mind would snap to the stories and faces and voices in the film, and that the fruit in my hand would seem to be accusing me, almost—Why do your children have all the fruit they want while other children in our country starve? I didn't anticipate my anger, and I didn't expect my tears.

My friend Eve told me many years ago that our tears are guides, if we let them be. Our tears can tell us things about ourselves—about ...

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