Illustration by Cate Andrews
When my brother and I were growing up, my mom usually packed our lunches for school. Each morning, paper sacks in the fridge would be labeled “Leenie,” my family nickname that was also my grandmother’s when she was alive, or “Lucas” for my younger brother, both names scribbled in black Sharpie, which is perhaps where my adoration and strict loyalty to the markers originate.
We weren’t poor, and we weren’t well off. We toed the line — things weren’t easy, but we never went without. Lunchtime felt like a true test, as if my Yoplait yogurt or my slightly bruised banana revealed the dynamics and social status of my family or how much my parents loved me.
I struggled in school to feel like I fit in, and those moments of awkward adolescence were amplified at the lunch table. This gathering of peers offered a microscopic look at the inner workings of everyone’s home life, and judgments were made about what sorts of treats were in the sack. Revealing them felt like an intimate moment.
I had a friend, Laura, whose mom would pack elaborate lunches for her — or they seemed elaborate — from towering subs on sesame-studded hoagie rolls to chicken Caesar salad wraps or pitas stuffed with a bounty of veggies and hummus. It all seemed foreign to me, and I often felt foreign at the lunch table. I can remember the moment in middle school when I first heard the Bright Eyes lyric “I’m completely alone at a table of friends” and feeling like my internal voice had been put into a melodic song.
That’s not to say I didn’t have friends, because I did, but those 30 minutes were an awkward time. I never had a fancy lunch pail or a cute, compartmentalized bento box with spaces for all sorts of snacks. There was nothing exciting about my lunches, nothing that caused other kids to look over in envy or want to trade.
Other than Fridays, pizza day, my brother and I typically brought lunch to school. On those occasions, I usually paid with change, which, looking back, was probably only five quarters or a couple quarters and an assortment of dimes. But that jangle of coins, compared to a crisp dollar, felt like another opportunity for classmates to size me up.
My bag lunch was straightforward and simple. I knew what to expect. I was a faithful peanut butter and jelly sandwich gal. I preferred crunchy, and I preferred Jif. And by preferred, I mean I ate what my mom purchased. She would cut the classic sandwich in half, right down the middle, as I liked it. Yogurt. Banana. Cheese sticks. Fruit snacks. There was a rotation of accoutrements we stuck to. They felt familiar; it felt safe.
One thing I could count on, between the wrapped sandwich and Capri Suns, were little notes from my mom. Folded sheets of ripped paper with handwritten messages ...
While most days my lunches followed a regular pattern, sometimes there would be a surprise inside — a fun addition, whether it was a Cosmic Brownie or a pack of Airheads or the latest candy fad at the time. I can recall how my brother and I thought that a Nestle Wonder Ball, a chocolate sphere that revealed a miniature toy or more candy inside when it was cracked open, was one of the coolest things ever.
One thing I could count on, between the wrapped sandwich and Capri Suns, were little notes from my mom. Folded sheets of ripped paper with handwritten messages in a wide, loopy cursive that usually read, “I love you with all my heart and soul.” These were words my mom used often. Sometimes there would be words of encouragement, such as “Good luck on that test,” or “You’re my shining star.”
I remember at times being embarrassed to pull out the crinkled sheets, worried that those who caught me reading could tell how much I needed them. Those notes meant everything to me. It was a pick-me-up, an affirmation that I was indeed loved and held and heard by someone. That when I left this place that often made me feel anxious and insecure, I was going home to someone who wouldn’t judge me, who loved me unconditionally and who thought I was pretty freakin’ stellar.
For me and my brother, our mom has been the one constant in our lives. Looking back, I can’t imagine her having to make lunches after a long day of hauling us to practices and Scout meetings or whipping up dinner.
The motivation to do one more thing for someone other than herself, not only putting together meals for each of us, but also pulling out a pen and reaffirming — in case all the other things weren’t enough — her love for us. Those notes meant more than a cool lunch box or fancy munchies ever could. They were my most cherished items in the paper bag — they made me feel rich with love, and they instilled in me the power of the written word.
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