Personal Narrative: My Lunches In High School

When I was growing up, my mom had the habit of packing me leftovers from dinner the night before, usually vegetables simmered in a masala sauce with some rice. While delicious, the aroma had the tendency to drift across our small lunchroom and pierce the noses of anyone who dared sit next to me. It stank of something foreign and unfamiliar, something to be avoided. My lunches transformed me into a pariah; no one wanted to sit next to the girl with the smelly food and the funny-sounding name. Because I was the only brown girl in the whole class, ignoring my peers was about as much of an option as was standing up to them.
When I was teased for my lunches or my foreignness, I used the only defense mechanism that I knew of at the time: self-loathing. I started to hate myself for being someone no one could truly understand. I hated my name and my language, but most of all I hated the food that I was forced to bring every single day

I had been accustomed to being one of the only Indian students in class, but now things had dramatically changed. And so did the school lunches, for in my new high school lunchroom there were entire tables, teeming with rice and daal. The smell wafted everywhere, but no one seemed to mind. I was horrified. I knew from my past experiences that drawing attention to anything ‘exotic’ could only lead to trouble. What were the years of harassment I had endured, if not justified? I didn't know how to feel at first, but I purposed to challenge myself every day that year, bringing in daily heaps of rice and vegetables seasoned with the most aromatic masala my mother could mix up. As if by habit, I would glance around the room furtively every time I opened the box, waiting for someone to say something. But, amidst the dozens of other students heralding idlis and dosas, no one seemed to care. No one made a face as she walked by or pretended to