Lunchtime

By: Lixuan Xiao

I used to dread lunchtime at school. Not because I didn’t like my food; I loved it. But because my food was different. While my classmates unwrapped their PBJ sandwiches and hummus with carrots, I opened a thermos of rice and mapo tofu, with the scent immediately filling the whole cafeteria.

“Ew, what’s that smell?” someone at the other end of the table said, wrinkling their nose. Suddenly, all eyes were turned to me. 

“Oh, it’s tofu, you know… a Chinese dish made from soybeans,” I said, trying to sound casual. I forced a laugh, but it came out thin. Instead, I shoved a bite of the silky tofu into my mouth, hoping to swallow the embarrassment along with it. A prickling heat crept up the back of my neck as I focused on finishing my food.

That night, I went home and begged my parents to pack me ‘normal’ food, a plain ham and cheese sandwich, an apple, anything that wouldn’t set me apart from the other kids.

For years, I blended in, trading the warmth of homemade meals for bland, forgettable lunches that never made me full. It wasn’t until years later when a friend came over for dinner and tried my grandma’s homemade dumplings, that she couldn’t stop raving about how good they were. “You’re so lucky to have this,” she said, eyes wide with excitement. 

And suddenly, I understood. My culture wasn’t something I should be embarrassed about or hiding from others. It was something rare and precious. It was a warmth that settled in my chest, a connection to generations before me, woven into the very flavors of my food.

Now, I bring my food to lunch with confidence. Sometimes, friends ask for a bite, curious about flavors they’ve never tried. I’ve learned that diversity isn’t just about tolerating differences; it’s about sharing them, celebrating them, and understanding that what makes us unique also connects us in unexpected ways.