unchtinie
111 eS
The Jewish.com
When the most important
issue is fitting in.
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AMY LEDERMAN
Special to the Jewish News
T
he day my daughter start-
ed school was a milestone
for us both. She looked so
grown up in her new jeans
and Barbie T-shirt. I was bursting
with pride as I snapped my Polaroid,
the final shot of her waving goodbye
at the classroom door etched in my
mind.
As I drove to work, my pride slow-
ly turned to concern and then to
outright angst. A serious game of
second-guessing began.
Did we choose the right school?
Would she make friends? Would she
like the teacher? Did I remind her to
ask to use the bathroom?
But the question that really
plagued me was: Did she bring the
right food for lunch?
It may seen odd, even absurd, that
my primary concern about my
daughter's initiation into the world
of learning was gastronomic. But, as
with most of parenting, my fear had
its roots deep in the soil of my own
childhood.
Back when I was in elementary
school, the popularity of any child
was dependent upon the contents of
the waxy brown bag she dumped
Amy Lederman is an attorney, Jewish
educator and freelance writer in Tucson,
Ariz, Her husband is former Detroiter
Dr. Ray Lederman.
onto the lunch
table each day.
School lunches
spoke volumes
about a kid's social status and family
background. Lunches were our
social currency, they determined if
and how we bought, sold and traded
friends and positions in line and
life.
No one spoke directly about it but
we all knew the Code. White bread
sandwiches cur on the diagonal were
in; whole wheat and rye were out.
Yes to Mayo, a big no to mustard
and relish. Bologna, Kraft American
cheese and peanut butter and jelly
(not jam) were accepted.
In the Caste System of Lunches,
anything different like egg salad or
knockwurst turned you into an
Untouchable.
The piece de resistance was pre-
dictably dessert. Vienna Fingers and
Fig Newtons were a safe bet but
brownies and Oreos gave you clout.
Show up with dried fruit and you
were branded a Loser For Life.
Bringing a Code lunch was tanta-
mount to saying: "Hey look. I fit in.
Even though my hair is a mess, my
lunch is in order."
Bringing a Code lunch meant
someone at home was paying atten-
tion; they knew the rules. Someone
at home cared.
I know all this because I suffered
tremendously as a result of not being
up to Code.
Growing up in a small New . Jersey
town as one of five Jewish kids in
my grade, I was the only one to
bring ethnic food for lunch. My
parents were not observant Jews and
never contemplated keeping kosher.
But a cursory look inside our refrig-
erator would leave no doubt about
our heritage. We were not a white
bread family; we were definitely a
pumpernickel and seltzer clan.
Spiced salami on rye oozing deli
mustard with a garlic dill pickle
tumbled out of my lunch bag.
Coleslaw juice with caraway seeds
dripped from the plastic container
onto my lap as I tried to hide a roll
of apricot shoe-leather inside my
math book.
My lunch was different; it was
smelly and wrong. In less time than
it took me to unwrap my sandwich,
I was indicted, tried and convicted
by my peers. Lunch did more to sep-
arate me from them than a bad case
of leprosy. I was Jewish. I didn't
meet Code. I didn't fit in.
I picked up my daughter after
school and listened to her enthusiastic
description of the events of the day
which ranged from stringing macaroni
bead necklaces to learning to say her
name in Spanish. I listened attentively,
fending off with a psychic stick - the
question I was dying to ask. Finally, I
broke down.
"So, how was lunch today?"
"Uum, fine I guess. But Mom, I
hate bologna sandwiches! Can I
bring tortillas or sushi tomorrow like
the other kids?"
I let out an audible sigh. Maybe
her world would be different than
mine; more accepting and open and
diverse.
Maybe her Code will include dill
pickles. ❑
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N.,: ' •
800.875.6621
9/27
2002
• 4 '71,44
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