I cleaned my plate because my mother insisted, citing all the little Ethiopian children who would be hurt and disappointed if I didn’t eat my beets. I cleaned my plate because my DNA predisposes me to be a plate cleaner, and American food makers create products that encourage, nay, command me to comply. I cleaned my plate because life is unpredictable and food equaled my only comfort in a house where the word used most often to address me was “Bitch.” I cleaned my plate for peace and protection, relying on the paradoxical fact that the bigger a person’s body grows, the more invisible they become. I cleaned my plate in the great game of distraction, To keep me from understanding or caring why my name in my own mouth tasted like shit. 5/14/03