During lunch, I often stayed in the classroom, asking the teacher if there was anything I could do –erase the blackboard, organize books- anything was better than having to go outside and be with the other kids. Teachers were safe. They didn’t look at me because I wore ruffled dresses and hand-knit sweaters, or stare at me with a funny look when I unpacked my lunch –usually filled with some type of homemade food the other children had never seen before.
"What is that?" I remember one of the boys saying to me one day, as I unpacked my potato parantha from its plastic wrapping. It was long before sushi and other "ethnic" foods became trendy, a far cry from today's first-grader trying to trade her Lunchables for someone's spicy tuna.
"It's Indian food. My mom made it,” I replied indignantly.
"Well, it looks gross," he said. I was embarrassed. Hot tears sprung to my eyes as I noticed other kids now looking at my lunch questioningly. Now I was angry.
"It's not gross. You’re gross. You always bring the same squishy sandwich to school.”
I was six. It was the best retort I could come up with. And it was true, that Kevin brought a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich to school every single day, and he always seemed to get the jelly all over the lower half of his face. The truth was, though, that I wished for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich every time I opened up my brown paper bag. Why did we have to be so different from everyone else? There were a few other ethnic kids in my school, but they all seemed to have “normal” lunches. Why did my parents insist on me taking something different every day? I knew the only way I could stop the teasing was if I somehow convinced my mother to let me take the kinds of lunches all the other kids were packing.
"But, beta, a slice of cheese or jelly between two pieces of white bread isn't healthy for you. The food I cook for you will make you smarter, will make you stronger."
"I don't want to be stronger. I don't want to be smarter," I cried. "Why can't I just take a sandwich like everyone else?"
For the next few weeks, I got everything from lentils to cooked spinach and potatoes, but she wouldn’t budge. The complaining wasn’t working. I finally realized I had to take matters into my own hands. I came up with a plan; I would just toss my lunch out. I'd keep the fruit if I had any, but that was it. That was easy. I should have come up with the idea sooner. Sure, I was starving by the time I got home after school, but my mother didn't question my now voracious appetite for a snack before dinner. And I almost got away with it.
Unfortunately, by day four of my plan, my teacher called home- apparently concerned that I had forgotten my lunch three times this week. From what I could hear from my end of the conversation, I had been found out. She nodded into the phone, a concerned look on her face. "I see...no, thank you for calling...of course, I understand. Thank you again." My mother was smart. She would go through the trashcans and find out what I had done. Now I was in big trouble. I contemplated my punishment. No cartoons probably. Or maybe I would have to write, "I will not waste food," a hundred times. I braced myself and waited for the yelling to begin. Instead, she said nothing. She gathered her purse and her keys. “Let's go to the store."
I still remember that next day clearly. I sat on the same bench that I sat at everyday, with the same classmates I sat with everyday. Yet the feeling I had was something new, a nervous excitement in the pit of my stomach. I reached into the bag and found exactly what I was looking for –next to a pack of Lay's potato chips was the shiny foil-wrapped square. I opened it slowly, unveiling a cheese sandwich. I lifted the bread. No mayo. No mustard. Just two slices of plain white Wonder Bread, and a single slice of American cheese. I looked around at the other kids. I smiled at Kevin's purple-smeared face. No one commented or asked what I brought to school. No one seemed to notice what I was eating -not a single person- and it was the best feeling in the world.
