I used to come home with the lunch menu for the month. It was always bright orange or green or blue. My mother would take it from my hands and circle the days that the school was serving something with pork in it. She’d tell me, “Amjad, I’ll make you sandwiches to take to school these days.” And I’d get really excited because bringing lunch from
Home was considered cool in the 2nd grade.
On days they served pork or a meat my mother wasn’t too sure about, she’s wake up early and rush to the kitchen. She’d smear a generous helping of hummus in khubiz. Fry up some falafel. Cut up some veggies and throw in some olives into a plastic container. She’d put all these in my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lunch box with some juice. I’d carry it with pride knowing I’d be eating my favorite foods and everyone else would be eating the gross lunch.
Lunch would come and I’d sit down with my friends and open my lunch box, all the kids eyeing me with jealously and admiration. I’d lay out all my food in front of me and start to dig in, smilingly, because everyone’s food looked like it was already digested.
Then someone would lean over and yell “ew what’s that?? Are you eating a poops sandwich.” All the kids would laugh and snicker and point. “What are those balls? Ew that looks gross!” More laughter. More giggles. More pointing.
I would eat anything. I’d stuff everything back into the box, humiliated.
I’d come home, crying. Telling my mother how could she embarrass me like that. “Why can’t I have regular American food?”
She’d be confused. She didn’t understand. At home, I’d devour her food like it was my last meal. But now, standing in front of her, my 7-8 year old self knew what humiliation felt like.
The next time pork was served at school, she put Bologna and cheese on white bread. Packed chips into my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lunch box. No one laughed at me when I pulled out my American lunch. No one pointed at my American sandwich.
But I lost the taste of my mother’s lunches.
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