The 67th Hunger Games

Chapter 1 - Life in District 7, part 3

Chapter 1 – Life in District 7

Part 3:

When I'm done with school I want to be a furniture constructer like the rest of my family. It's actually only Joseph who chose another profession. Eva was also supposed to make furniture when she finishes school, but then she started her jewelery business instead. Now Eva talks about becoming a teacher, since her days then will look pretty much as they do now; school in the day, jewelery in the evening. Mom once asked me if I wanted to become a teacher. I told her no, I wanted to construct furniture. Mon said I should think about it. I know she didn't want to be mean, but when I was younger I was the skinniest child in the family; I almost looked like a child from District 12. I wasn't because I wasn't well fed; I received the same food as the rest of the family. I just had a tiny body. Narrow shoulders, thin wrists, no hips. But it changed. I mean, it changed as much as it could do in a couple of years, but I've started to look more like a District 7-kid now and mom no longer tells me, that I should consider becoming a teacher.

As I said earlier: I don't think life in District 7 is that bad. We have a beautiful district that is lush with trees. We have deep forests of pine, of oak, of beech and of birch. We even have an area with maple trees from where we get syrup when the Peacekeepers aren't watching. We tap the trees high in the tree tops, even though it isn't the ideal place to do it. But otherwise we could be caught doing it, and if we could avoid getting into trouble with the Peacekeepers, we most definitely will.

I sometimes talk with Tira about life in the other districts. It's hard for us to imagine how it most be like. We've seen all the district squares every year on the Victory Tour and when Capitol shows footage from the reapings. We can see how District 8 is much more urban than our district; they have factories and big, industrial buildings. But how's life there like? I mean, we have some factories too. Where we make paper and stuff. But we also have the big, green areas that seems to be missing in some districts, like 8.

Tira and I sometimes talk about if we would have preferred to live in one of the rich districts. Let's just say District 2. Would we? I think not. It would be easier at times. Not having to worry about food or money, but I don't think the kids there are happier than we are. They get trained in academies to win the Hunger Games so they can bring pride to their districts. Luke once said, that he suspects people in District 2 for getting angry when their tributes dies, because they are expected to win. Here in 7 we mourn whenever one of our tributes dies (which they do almost every year). I can't imagine a mother watching her child die on national television and just think “well, you could have done better”. That's horrible.

Also: if I had lived in District 2, I would probably have been an even more bitter person than I am now. The Hunger Games is the punishment of the rebellion. In the rebellion District 2 was on the side of the Capitol. True, they were awarded with a higher living standard than the rest of the districts, but even though they weren't at war with the Capitol, even though they provided the Capitol with Peacekeepers and weapons, they still have to send to children to the Hunger Games every year. I would be bitter, if that was me living there. Just thinking “we helped you, but you are still punishing us”. That's not really fair, is it? But then again: nothing is really fair in Panem.

I'm really sorry if it seems like I have a lot of repressed anger inside me. Even though people probably wouldn't describe me as overly cheerful, I'm not actually such an angry person either. It's just... the reaping for the 67th Hunger Games is tomorrow.

 I actually like the day before the reaping. My family gather at our house: my grandparents from both sides comes and we spend a little more on food than we would on any other occasion. This year mom is making chicken, roasted over the fire for hours. It's expensive, not something we've gotten very often, but it's worth it. Because tomorrow, who knows? Maybe one of us is getting reaped. Maybe two of us are, it could happen. We are three people who are up for reaping; me, Eva and Joe. Luke is over 18 so he's safe now, and Eliza still have 5 years before she needs to worry about the Games. Thoma has 10.

I know some other families here in 7 have the big dinner tomorrow, after the reaping, to celebrate that they have yet another safe year, but we just can't do that. Because what if one of us is getting reaped? Then we would have chickens lying ready to get roasted, we would have fresh carrots and raisins lying on the table, waiting for getting made into a salad. We would even have beer ready, so we could have that one glass along with the meal. And there we would be sitting, in silence, eating our delicious food that our mother cooked with tears in her eyes. We would eat in a trance-like condition with grief and anger in our eyes because we would miss one of our dear, beloved family members. We just can't do that. We simply can't. We can't wait and hope. Therefore we have the dinner the day before the reaping, when we are sure that all of us will be there. Maybe for the last time? Hopefully not, but you can never be to sure.

Instead we have another tradition of the evening of the reaping. We gather at the Inn along with other families who don't have dinner at home either. It's quite nice since a lot of the people from the other end of the district come there too. They have to get to this part of the district because of the reaping and then they could might as well stay. We watch the reaping and whatever else the Capitol air as the beginning of the new Hunger Games – footage from previous games, and often a comparison of the tributes. They compare the newly reaped tributes, start talking about who they think have the best shot of winning, and they even compare some of the tributes to previous tributes and victors. And when the program is over, the owner of the Inn turns off the television, raises his glass and say “Let's pray for our tributes,” and there is complete silence in the Inn for the longest 30 seconds you will ever experience, before the owner continues, “and let's celebrate in their name and for the pride of District 7!” At this point everybody who has a glass raises it, yells “TO THE TRIBUTES!”, takes a big gulp and then the party starts. My brother plays the violin, someone named Patrick has a harmonica, the owner sponsors some boxes that can be used for drums and then they play the tunes of District 7 the entire night, and people are dancing the old lumberjack dances. We laugh, we talk. A lot of people say 'remember when?' and a lot of beers are handed over the counter. It's a really fine tradition. In that way I really like those two days. They almost overshadow the cruelty of the Hunger Games. One thing is that we pray for our tributes and our districts, but the truth is: we are also celebrating the fact that we didn't get reaped. Is it a nice thing to say? No. Is it the truth? Yes. Everybody knows it, it's not that we try and hide it. And tomorrow, when the reaping is done and our tributes will be on the train on the way to the Capitol they will know that we are having a party in the Inn, and deep inside I know they are happy for us, since it wouldn't really help them if we just cried about things we cannot change anyway.