Grits and Inequity

On Sunday after work, I hurried home and changed my clothes because my family had decided on brunch. We traveled over fifteen miles to our nearest consistently good breakfast spot without a wait. Along the way, we passed 9 waffle houses and 4 International Houses of Pancakes, but mass-produced hot cakes and instant grits wouldn't suffice. The seven-year-old is partial to a fluffy oatmeal pancake, while her father and I both hankered for course ground grits and cubed breakfast potatoes fried in the fat of savory chicken sausage. So nonetheless we persisted— down 85 south. W arrived at The Flying Biscuit 45 minutes before they closed at 3. Even so close to closing, the suburban diner was well stocked with Sunday brunch staples; large families seated at adjoined tables with the obligatory highchairs dressed in neat church clothes, a friendly giggling pair of hostesses eager to seat their last guests, and tables and booths covering the floor of the small strip mall establishment. Yes, this gem sits in a hallmark example of 21st-century suburbia, nestled neatly between a hibachi steak house to the left and a nondescript pizzeria to its right. The parking lot is filled with the wafting smells of the nearby businesses summoning customers to come on in. We quickly place our predetermined orders and remain long after closing polishing off our plates. We were paying the tab when one of us noticed that we were one of only 2 tables still seated. I asked myself. why do diners close so early? It was the first of a series of questions I asked myself as I back out into the late afternoon traffic headed for home. Is it the inaccurate assumption that our appetite for breakfast food ends in the hottest part of the day? Or is it, a very practical hurdle, of a workforce shortage that the madness from 2020 has left us to contend with?

My belly sat heavy with what I could finish from my meal, while the coveted leftovers sat heavy in my purse. My daughter had meticulously knocked off any remaining remnants of forgotten biscuits from around the table as we prepared to leave. Nothing had been wasted. I decided to take the scenic route back home, forgoing the fast afternoon highway traffic for quiet winding roads. Somewhere near Tyrone, I glanced back to see a slumped seven-year-old succumb to her own “itis”. It was at this moment that a second question came to mind. What conditions led me to drive 3 towns away for a late Sunday breakfast? What do folks without cars do in this situation? I remember when we lived in DC and were limited to places we could get to by foot or bus. More than a casual afternoon, I realized this was a luxury. In a society where your ability to access and experience quality things for your family is limited to your ability to afford ample transportation to get there, this felt like a privilege. Why do urban planners de-prioritize access to quality-of-life staples like healthful dining services, stocked clean grocery stores, and sidewalks to access it all? In my corner of the world, economically disadvantaged black people are consistently relegated to low-quality community amenities and social services.

My grits from brunch, despite the gentrified price, are a great metaphor for societal hierarchies, and the ever-evolving taste of the dominant colonizing culture. Historically, grits were a staple food for enslaved Africans in the American South, who were given the least desirable parts of the corn crop as their primary source of sustenance. In contrast, grits were largely ignored by white Americans until the mid-twentieth century, when they began to be marketed as a symbol of Southern heritage and cuisine. Often containing bits of the bran, this first sieve (the most “gritty”) was set aside for the forced labor force. Each subsequent pass through a finer sieve separated any leftover bran or significant bits deemed unsuitable for the enslavers’ preference for a fine-milled texture, best used for baking. Following emancipation, grits remained a cheap and readily available food for Black Americans, who were often limited by segregation and discrimination in their access to other types of food. Today, grits remain a food associated with regional and racial identity in the United States. While people of all races and socioeconomic backgrounds enjoy the dish, they can serve as a reminder of how food and culture are intertwined with structures of power and inequality and have been for generations.

In this, I am reminded that the American Dream I chase, of land ownership and entrepreneurship, is certainly not granted to me by merit if my people don't deserve a convenient quality meal. As I pull into the driveway, I’m grateful that her father was there to carry the 50-pound sleeping mound into the house. I have so many privileges despite everything around me suggesting otherwise. Privilege is most evident when you find yourself standing next to a kinsmen( or woman) who by way of mere circumstance— does not.