“Better not talk back to her, her grandma might spit in your soup,” people would murmur as they passed me in the hallway. It was amusing to some to refer to me as the “Lunch Girl” or the “PB&J Princess.”
Some would approach the counter and mimic my grandma’s habit of calling everyone “sugar” or “honey” or make fun of her lovely Southern accent.
It began during the first year of college.
A few of them were children I had attended elementary school with; they used to visit us for popsicles and play in our backyard.
“So, does your grandma still pack your panties with your lunch?” Brittany, who had previously sobbed at my eighth birthday celebration after losing in musical chairs, inquired in front of a crowd one day.
Everyone chuckled. I didn’t.
She was made fun of by students at school, who made fun of her apron, imitated her lovely “How are you doing, honey?” and referred to her as the “stupid lunch lady.” Just enough to sting, but not loud enough to punish.
Everyone chuckled. I didn’t.
Teachers heard it, too. However, nobody spoke.
It wasn’t that serious, or perhaps they assumed I would get more tough. However, it seemed to me that each remark was eroding the one person who made me want to get out of bed in the morning.
I made an effort to protect her. She frequently returned home with back pain and already had arthritis in her hands. I didn’t want to burden her with the cruelty of adolescence.
However, she was aware. In any case, she remained kind.
However, she was aware.
My grandmother adored the children as if they were her own, knew their names, gave extra fruit to the hungry children, and inquired about their pastimes.
Books, scholarships, and anything else that might help me leave that school and get into college were the things I submerged myself in.
I went to the library more often than I went to parties. I missed game nights and homecomings.
The finish line was all I could see, and the only sound I could hear was her voice saying, “One day you’re gonna make something beautiful out of all this.”
Everything changed in the spring of senior year.
I missed returning home.
Her chest felt constricted at first. Initially, she dismissed it.She patted her collarbone and laughed, “Probably the chili.” “That jalapeño was mad at me.”
But it continued. When she thought I wasn’t watching, she would press her palm to her ribcage or wince while stirring a saucepan.
I pleaded with her to see a doctor. Our insurance wasn’t very good. Urgent care and hope for the best were the norm most of the time. “Let’s get you across that stage first,” she insisted. That is the top priority.
But it continued.
It wasn’t until that morning that I realized how serious it was.
Leave a Comment