Part 1The Orphan Who Refused to Starve

I have always possessed an absurdly high sense of self-worth.

Which is ironic, considering I grew up in the foster system.

In kindergarten, I demanded three massive slices of sheet-cake cornbread for every meal.

The director of the group home said, "You eat more than a grown man. Who’s going to want to adopt a girl who eats like a horse?"

I didn't stop chewing. "If poor people are adopting kids, aren’t they just dragging us down with them? Why should they adopt at all?"

In class, our teacher read us The Giving Tree, trying to teach us the beauty of selfless sacrifice.

When she finished, she held up a single apple. "Now, if we only have one apple, who should we give it to?"

The other children, perfectly conditioned, chimed in unison, "Give it to the teacher!"

I was the only dissenting voice.

Startled, the teacher asked me why.

I looked up at her. "The boy in the story gave away everything and got a reputation for being a good person. If I give away my apple, what exactly do I get?"

* * *

Ms. Helen, our director, didn't just let my defiance slide. She tried to teach me a lesson.

She instructed the cafeteria staff to limit me to one slice of cornbread.

The very next day, I snuck into the staff room, stole a teacher’s cell phone, and dialed 911. I told the dispatcher there was systemic child abuse happening at St. Jude’s Home for Children.

When Child Protective Services and the police arrived, Ms. Helen was frantic.

"I’m not starving her!" she pleaded. "The portions we give the children strictly follow the USDA dietary guidelines! It’s the healthiest option! Besides, no child can stomach three huge slabs of that cornbread. Even an adult couldn't finish it. What if her stomach bursts?"

The reality was that my stomach had never burst. In fact, I was the tallest, sturdiest kid in my grade. Meanwhile, the obedient kids—the ones who quietly ate their single slice—were sallow and dangerously thin.

A seasoned cop sensed something was off. He launched an immediate investigation into our food supply.

It didn't take long to uncover the truth. The catering contractor was cutting the cornmeal with cheap fillers and pumping the batter full of air. The slices looked huge and golden on the outside, but if you squeezed them, they collapsed into nothing.

"You think a kid eating three of these is too much?" The cop crushed a piece of cornbread in his fist, his jaw tight. "I could eat ten of these and still be starving."

Ms. Helen’s face went completely bloodless. She didn't say another word.

That single slice of cornbread unraveled a massive embezzlement ring involving the state food contractor.

The cops jokingly gave me a plastic "Junior Detective" badge. But more importantly, I learned a fundamental truth about the world:

Never listen to what other people tell you.

Listen to your own body.

Hunger is hunger.

If you aren't full, you aren't full.

And if you find yourself suffering, you can bet someone else, somewhere in the shadows, is profiting off your pain.