I didn’t drink water at dinner as a poor, Black kid.

It is really freakin’ hard remembering to drink water every day. But in my defense, it wasn’t really a muscle I trained in my youth. I grew up in a Black ass household that prepared bomb ass kool-aid for dinner every other day. My three siblings and our mom lived on food stamps and a waitress’s salary, and the only supplemental income came from my mom’s odd boyfriends here and there. You’d think that meant we drank lots of water — it’s the cheapest beverage right? Nope.

Being poor creates a lot of weird paradoxes. We had no materials of value so we learned to value other comforts — sugar, sweetness, flavor, that after-dinner fullness in an otherwise empty home. Unless you count love. There was always lots of love. And laughter. And fun. But not water. White, wealthy families drank water at dinner. Who else but rich people would forgo the decadence of a sugary soft drink unless the best parts of their lives came into the picture after they left the dinner table?

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I’d have eaten blander foods, too, if I was in a rush to get back to my bedroom (mine and not my younger brother’s as well) and watch my own tv, play my own Playstation 2, talk on my own cellphone, and prep my nice clothes for school the next day. But that wasn’t my life. That wasn’t my happiness…