At department parties, I eat cheeses
my parents never heard of—gooey
pale cheeses speaking garbled tongues.
I have acquired a taste, yes, and that's
okay, I tell myself. I grew up in a house
shaded by the factory's clank and clamor.
A house built like a square of sixty-four
American Singles, the ones my mother made lunches
With—for the hungry man who disappeared
into that factory, and five hungry kids.
American Singles. Yellow mustard. Day-old
Wonder Bread. Not even Swiss, with its mysterious
holes. We were sparrows and starlings
still learning how the blue jay stole our eggs,
our nest eggs. Sixty-four Singles wrapped in wax--
dig your nails in to separate them.
When I come home, I crave—more than any home
cooking—those thin slices in the fridge. I fold
one in half, drop it in my mouth. My mother
can't understand. Doesn't remember me
being a cheese eater, plain like that.
Reflection:
Growing up in the United States, eating and enjoying american cheese is just a part of life. It is all around, in every grocery store and restaurant- so much that people who do not like american cheese may feel as though they are different or weird because they think that they are "supposed" to like american cheese. Jim Daniels says, in stanza one, line eight, "American shingles, the ones my mother made lunches with- for the hungry man who disappeared into the factory and five hungry kids. American shingles." Daniels is portraying an idea of a family of seven all lined up in a classic American suburban home, getting their brown paper bag lunches, because, as Jack Kerouac says, "This is the story of America, everybody's doing what they think they're supposed to do." Families who are "normal" and "a classic American family" have their mom make them lunch and put those lunches in their lunch bags, while dad is at the factory, working all day. These are just normal activities that every American family is "supposed to do".