My second-grade teacher took her fiduciary responsibilities to the cafeteria seriously. We were socioeconomically called to line up from our desks and assembled against the brick wall with efficiency and order. We paraded to spaghetti, house baked rolls and peanut butter delight by familial lot. Leading the pack with their bright and shiny Donnie & Marie lunch pails were the town kids, followed by the full paying lunchroom patrons, trailed by the reduced lunchers. The free diners caboosed us to the rear. 

My seventh year on earth was the year I offered my birthday money to outlay the food overhead and bump me up to Carthage Elementary regular status. I didn’t want to be reduced. There was a price to the discount.

I am a middle aged, grown ass woman and I can still see that capital R by my name. I can still feel the intention of the teacher to place us in our slots. This is the year I stopped coloring in the lines, the year I got a whipping at home for getting all As and a C in conduct, the year that I had a childhood awakening in my subconscious that people in power can place you wherever they want and justify it however they want. This is the year I started fighting the internal battle of being simultaneously not enough and too much. It’s the year my light switch got a dimmer.

I could blame my parents who were working day jobs and coming home to work afternoons, evenings and Saturdays on our farm, doing their best to buckle the money belt across the extended belly of a five-kid family. But, I won’t.

I could blame the teacher who could have kept our Nielson lunch ratings private. She could have mixed up the line, could have made us all feel the same. But, I won’t.

Eventually, the R would have appeared by my name, in the form of knock-off sneakers or my brother’s hand-me-down jacket. I was lower middle class and the R tattoo was destined to seep to the surface.

I could blame the school and the system and the state and the government and the world and being misunderstood and misdiagnosed and under medicated. I could blame my congressional representative and the school board and all seven of Snow White’s dwarves. But, I won’t.

I could blame the other students who wanted to copy off my paper during the spelling test but didn’t want to save me a seat at chow. I could blame the children who willingly participated in the hierarchy. If I did this, I would also have to blame myself because the only thing that kept me from hitting bottom involved those free kids. At least my family paid something. I had that over them and by God, that weapon gave me something to wheel around on the playground. Over time, the free kids became my allies. If there had been a lunch gang, I would have joined it.

Or, I could blame no one. I am not seeking revenge for the second-grade lunch line. Along with reading, ‘riting and ‘rithmetic, that fourth R taught me humanity. Without that experience, I might be flying a different flag or enjoying my lucky life without a reflective lens. I won’t do that either.

I am speaking my truth, extending forgiveness. I am taking this memory and using it as an ignitor. I am brandishing the torch for elevating others. I am not going to participate in the human temptation to segment, cross-section and divide based on skin, religion, gender, culture, politics, bank balance, weight, height, intellect, status, dress, fitness level, or any other way that we might be the same or different. 

I saw a quote recently that read, “I would rather include and be excluded than exclude and be included.” I am writing to everyone here, there’s a multi-sided, complicated, deep seeded revolution brewing. One emotionally dyslexic moment scrambles united into untied and if you smith apart separate, there’s a rat in the middle. Band against the brick wall united and together, because the only way out is through.