Lunchbox Moment

I am different. This realization first came to me on my first day of elementary school. As an Indian child of two immigrant parents, my culture has always been a big part of my life. I was used to going to the temple often to pray with my parents. I was used to flipping between English and Hindi when conversing with my family. Although I lived in a predominantly white neighborhood, I never felt like I was treated differently because I was Indian. Up to this point in my life, I hadn’t noticed anything unusual about myself when it came to my skin color and heritage. 

Entering the 1st grade, I always felt comfortable in the classroom as there was a clear sense of order and fairness. Everyone looked up to the teacher and followed whatever directions he/she gave out. As students, we were all treated equally and only judged based on grades received in the class. I always felt that this was fair as I believed that higher grades showed more effort put into the assignments. In the classroom, I could focus on my academics and not worry about what others thought about me. 

In contrast, when it came to the cafeteria, every student was judged by others solely based on the food they brought to school. The “cool kids” would always buy lunch and would always buy chips or ice cream along with their lunch. Everyone else would bring whatever lunch their mom packed for them that day. These would typically range from sandwiches to chicken nuggets to even pizza. What I brought on that first day, however, was met with strange looks all across. 

At home, I was used to regularly eating Indian food that my mom cooked for me. Up to that point, I would eat Indian food more often than anything else. This included typical Indian meals such as roti with paneer, rajma chawal, and stuffed parathas. I didn’t realize that these meals weren’t the typical “American” meals for children. These were the meals my parents grew up eating and the meals that they passed along to me to eat. 

“Did someone poop on your food?” one of my classmates asked teasingly. News of my lunch spread across the lunch table like wildfire until I could see looks of disgust from all of my classmates. I quickly closed my lunchbox and slammed it under the table. I could feel the butterflies fluttering around in my stomach. Sweat quickly trickled down my face. I tried desperately to explain to my classmates that my food was a dish called rajma chawal, which is rice covered in a brown curry consisting of red kidney beans. When I realized it was hopeless, I looked down in shame, feeling my face turn red. After lunch, that shame soon became anger. How could my mom pack such a hideous-looking lunch?

“Why can’t you make American food like everyone else?” I questioned my mom angrily after coming back from school. I could see the hurt in my mom’s eyes as I reprimanded her for always making Indian food. After lots of arguing, my mom eventually gave in. From that day forward, my mom started packing more “American” meals that wouldn’t look unusual to others in the cafeteria. Even at home, I started eating less and less Indian meals. 

Looking back on that moment, I realize how wrong I was for rejecting the distinctive flavors of my cuisine in order to try and fit into what everyone else’s expectations of what food should look like. This moment made me feel like an outsider and made me afraid to embrace my culture in front of others. Although I may look different from others and may have different traditions and beliefs, it’s okay for me to be proud of my culture and heritage.  Sometimes, being different can be a good thing.