Every morning before school, my mom would gently ask,
“Want me to pack you some Chinese food today?”
She wasn’t just offering food. She was offering care. Leftover fried rice or freshly tossed noodles in a thermos. Garlic, scallion, sesame oil. My favorite smells. My favorite flavors.
But I always said no.
Not because I didn’t love it—I did. Still do.
But because I was scared.
So instead, I packed my own lunch. Peanut butter or ham sandwich. An apple. Maybe a granola bar. Something quiet. Something “normal.” Something that wouldn’t make me stand out in the cafeteria.
What I didn’t realize back then is that I wasn’t just packing a sandwich. I was packing shame. Wrapped tightly in plastic wrap.
Why I Packed Peanut Butter, Not Love
I didn’t get teased often. No one threw my lunch on the floor or called it “dog food.” But I watched it happen to other kids. One weird look. A “what’s that smell?” was all it took.
You learned quickly what foods were allowed, and what foods were “gross.” Even if no one said it out loud, you felt it.
Reading stories from other Asian and immigrant kids now, I see how common this was. Anika, a South Indian girl, shared how one boy asked about her lunch—fried bananas with onions and rice—and looked at her like she was disgusting. That day, she never brought her favorite food again.
I didn’t either.
My mom would keep offering. I’d keep declining. “I just like sandwiches better,” I’d say. She probably knew I was lying. But she let me choose.
That’s the saddest part—how easy it became to reject love out of fear of being looked at funny.
Lunchroom Lessons in Silence
So many of us traded identity for invisibility.
In a recent piece, Grace M. Cho explains that food isn’t just food—it’s power, culture, and politics. While the cuisine might get celebrated now, the people who carry that culture still face shame.
I feel that deeply. The same dumplings I was scared to bring to school? They’re on restaurant menus now for $14 a plate. The stir fry I once hid in favor of a soggy sandwich? I pay good money for it as an adult.
But back then, all I wanted was to not be noticed. All I wanted was to sit at the lunch table and not feel like I had to explain what I was eating. Not feel like my food—or my family—was something to be tolerated.
Not Just Me—Everyone Was Hiding
The stories are endless.
Lisa from Illinois had her Japanese rice balls pulled out of her bag and shown around the lunchroom like a joke. One Vietnamese student wrote about kids calling her food “dog meat.” Others like Sandra in Colorado were sent to the principal’s office for bringing kidney stew.
Even the kids who loved their food started hiding it. Sometimes, they just didn’t eat.
One student shared how he brought dumplings with vinegar to school, and after being teased once, began throwing out his lunch every day and starving until he got home. Another said she still eats alone because she’s afraid of people noticing her food.
This isn’t about lunch. This is about shame. About learning, too early, that being yourself might get you laughed at.
From Rejection to Reclamation
Now, years later, our “weird” lunches are suddenly cool.
Korean BBQ. Vietnamese bánh mì. Japanese ramen. Indian curry. Every food we were once mocked for is now being photographed and posted on Instagram. There are white moms on Facebook asking how to make dumplings because their kids don’t want sandwiches anymore.
That’s progress, I guess. But it still stings.
Because we didn’t just hide our food. We hid parts of ourselves. And now that food is trendy, we’re expected to smile and join in like we weren’t once made to feel dirty for it.
Still, something has changed. We’re speaking up. We’re teaching our kids to be proud. We’re bringing the food back into the classroom—this time with our heads held high.
What I’ll Tell My Future Kids
My mom doesn’t ask if I want stir fry anymore. I live on my own now. But sometimes when I visit, she quietly packs a container of it for me to take back. She doesn’t say anything. She just tucks it in, warm and familiar.
And now? I eat it proudly.
I’ve spent years unlearning the idea that my food needed to be small, quiet, or “safe.” Stir fry smells like home. Dumplings taste like comfort. And rice, with its simple beauty, holds generations of memory.
If I ever have kids, I’ll tell them:
Bring the noodles. Bring the rice. Bring the smell.
Never hide the love your family packs into your lunchbox.
Because there’s nothing shameful about food that tastes like home.
There never was.
