Single Grain of Rice

Duy Dinh

“People abroad would die for that grain of rice,” my father screamed as I relucted to finish my lunch.

With a spoonful of rice sitting in my mouth — at this point, probably fermenting — I giggled and mumbled to my brother, “Yea! People would fight us for our rice. We could ship it wherever we want. Do you think CanadaPost will send it?” Laughter between us siblings filled the room, but so did something else. Arms-crossed and blank-faced, our parents stood in the corner, displaying an emotion my brother and I have yet to learn: disappointment. They came from little to nothing, immigrating from South East Asia to the suburbs of a metropolis. So when they saw a contrast between their morals and their children’s, it was like a jab at their old life back home, where the rich would live to eat, and the poor would eat to live. 

But it was just a single grain of rice.

As a kid I only appreciated the things that I wanted and got, not the necessities I was provided with. I wanted a pack of crackers, cheese, and processed meat over my mother’s intensely braised pork and eggs, served alongside a bowl of steaming rice and stir-fried vegetables. However, regardless of whatever the food was, I gave no care in the world for it. There was always something left uneaten, thrown in the trash, and left to rot in a landfill. 

But it was just a single grain of rice.

That is, until I left the suburbs and into the grids of 100-story buildings and concrete parks. In between the pristine glass highrises which reflected the glaring sun, people begged and dug through other’s leftovers in the shadows. A middle-aged man asked me  — a first grader  — for a dollar. A single dollar, which I would normally toss around as if it was a plastic toy. He wanted what I simply had: food. While I could do nothing more than just follow my mother’s path and nod, I realized that poverty really does exist. That people would really beg for my dollar, my food, and my life. It was not just some imaginary problem in mysterious villages concocted by my parents. Until that point, I only ever thought about myself.

It was no longer just a single grain of rice.

It would be a lie if I said that experience turned me into a vegan who stands on a moral high ground and attempts to bring all societal injustices to an end, but it did change me. That grain of rice was never to be sent away, it was simply a sign of disrespect and selfishness — a minuscule one, but one that should matter. One grain of rice can turn into a bowl, then a meal, several meals, and possibly someone’s annual food supply. Small acts of indifference will not be the end of the world, but an accumulation of them can cause grave effects. Billions of tonnes of food go to waste each year; that is billions of meals that can go to people in need — either in the world, continent, country, city, or in the alleyway I passed by.

So eat the last grain of rice, or not. But it is not just a single grain of rice.