School Lunch

I remember some kind of repugnant reddish-orange soup, circa third grade. I think it was “tomato” soup, served with grilled cheese sandwiches (Velveeta on white bread). Every time, the same routine: the lunch lady would present me with the tray, already complete with sandwich and soup.

“I don’t want the soup,” I would tell her.

“You don’t have a choice,” she would say.

“I’m going to throw it away right now,” I would say.

She would shrug. I would take the tray. Instead of walking to my seat at the table, I would march directly to the gigantic trash can that would soon contain the remnants of all the school’s meals. Next to it was a white plastic pail, for liquids. I dumped my soup into the pail, already filling up with orange goop. It was understood by the kids that this pail was separate so that its contents could be re-used in future lunches.

I still think about how strange the whole thing was. Was the school required by law to give me the soup? Were the lunch ladies required to do so, by order of the principal? Or was there some sort of weird Kansas morality at play? I used to believe that there had been some sort of genuine bureaucratic mandate, but the more I think about it, the more ridiculous it all seems.

Nah, scratch that. It was, at the time, as ridiculous as it would ever be. Walking over to that pail and defiantly dumping a fresh bowl of soup into it was a character-defining experience for me. Grown-ups would tell you to do things, but they were wrong. They would tell you that *they* had to do things, but they were wrong about that too. There were a great many wrong-headed rules in place, I came to realize. And asking why or arguing was very often a waste of time. In such cases, the thing to do was to break the rules.

As I ate my lunch, I’d often see another example of administrative foolhardiness: the fourth hour kids. If you got in trouble during lunch, you would miss the recess that followed. In order to make sure that the entire student body knew you were going to miss that recess, you had to eat the remainder of your lunch while sitting on the stage (we ate in the multi-purpose room, which, of course, had a stage).

I only got a fourth hour one time that I can remember. I don’t remember why. But it was awesome. Finally, a break from the routine. More personal space, up there on the stage. And so much attention. Everybody wondering what I did. I probably wasn’t too choked up about missing recess, but then, I was a pretty nonviolent little criminal. Generally speaking, as far as recess goes, the bad kids are the ones who need it more than anyone else.

Sometimes, on grilled cheese days, I would get to the counter before the lunch ladies had loaded up the latest trays with soup. On these occasions, I would grab a tray containing only the sandwich, and walk quickly to my seat, pretending not to hear the shrieking behind me. I’d get in a few minutes of gloating to my classmates, who were all suitably impressed. They would stare at the place on my tray where the disgusting liquid ought to be, but was not. (Most of them had dumped their soup already too. The smell made it hard to enjoy the sandwiches.) But then, without fail, a lunch lady would find me. Looking weirdly out of place by virtue of not being behind the counter, she would plop the bowl onto my tray without comment.

I would immediately get up, pick up the soup, and walk with her down the aisle between the tables. At the end of the room, she would turn right, to go back behind the counter. And I would turn left, to dump my bowl of soup into the white plastic pail.

Inspired by the brilliant blog, Fed Up With School Lunch.

Image by serenejournal.