The Lunchroom

This may seem random, but today I’ve written about what I remember about lunchtime in elementary school. During my recent read of Bird by Bird (Lamott), I paused after finishing a chapter in which Ms. Lamott instructs her students to do just that and she does, too. It’s meant to be a writing exercise to wake up your imagination and creative energy. Because, surely, most of us remember a cafeteria of younger days. 

Allow me to share a glimpse of mine with you.

I attended public school from kindergarten all the way until high school graduation, and lunch was an important part of the day. Still is. I was hungry then. I’m hungry now. Well, Lamott would suggest that all school-aged children have very similar lunches, no matter the generational separation or location in America. But I disagree. 

The lunch experience she described in her book isn’t a thing like what mine was like. She had lots to say about how important the appearance of your lunch bag and its contents were, how there were specific sandwich ingredients that communicated certain things, and that dads were awful at hitting the right beats of lunchtime expectations.

When I think about my own elementary experience, I think first of Judy. No last name. Not because I want to respect her privacy but because I simply don’t know it and can’t find an old yearbook. Pretty sure I never knew it. She’s the only lunch lady I can call to mind. Her voice—raspy from cigarettes, which I would sell her, years later, when I worked part-time at the gas station—and her face—wrinkles, mascara, glasses, short hair that was a brownish-red. Judy knew your name. I don’t know how she did it, but she did. And she might have seemed scary or intimidating to kiddos, at first, but that was the gruff smoker’s voice. She was a kind lady. A no-nonsense lady, and that was fine with me.

Once you got your tray, received the first food item of the day from Judy, and moved on, you’d collect the rest of whatever was on the menu, plus a milk. Always a chocolate for me. You’d punch in your lunch code so it’d be charged to your student account, and then you went and slid onto the next available bench seat at the table Becky was directing your classmates to.

Now there was a woman who too many kids were actually afraid of. Becky, who will remain last name-less as well for similar reasons as stated above, was the wrong kind of gruff. I’d put odds on her having been a smoker, too, but she didn’t learn your name so she could greet you in the lunch line. No, Becky learned your name so she could holler it. Scold you. Give you a white slip and detention. There was no hollering in the cafeteria, but Becky was also responsible for minding us outside during recess.

As for the physical space we were in, the lunch room was centrally located in the school, right across the hallway from the gym. The tables could fold up into the walls so the room could be used for more than just eating. I can think of a few occasions we were in there for other things. That’s where the spelling bee took place. That’s where we sat on the floor and listened to some guy’s spiel about all the cool prizes you could win, if you sold a certain amount of pizzas for the annual fundraiser. Not where the Scholastic Book Fair happened, but one place can’t get everything.

When I was in the 5th grade, the very last year at elementary school, it was a pretty big deal that the cafeteria was getting a refresh. A new look. The walls—which up until then had murals on them that I only vaguely remember, that, in one spot, involved a collection of people and a donkey traversing a mountain—were being repainted. What would the new look be, you ask?

Why, it was going to be an underwater extravaganza! Every student was involved with this art project, and you were assigned your contribution according to what grade you were in. For instance, kindergarteners, who were unreliable with a paint brush, used sponges to create coral here and there. Fifth graders, like myself, were responsible for more intricate details. We got to choose a specific fish and where that specific fish would go. One of my more artistic classmates was even asked if she would take on the big task of painting a scuba diver. 

The cafeteria, in general, was meant to be that peaceful ocean, not a loud, rowdy place. Apparently, this was a high priority for the adults at my school, and they installed a piece of technology to help curb the noise. None of us kids were a fan of it—the oversized stoplight set up in the corner.

How it worked, we were told, was that, when it sensed the volume in the cafeteria was on the rise, it would turn yellow. Like a warning. If you saw it hit yellow, you ought to quiet down before it could escalate all the way to red. Bad news if it hit red. Red meant the entire cafeteria—every single kid—would have to be silent for five minutes. Didn’t matter if there were only two or three kids really making a fuss about something or goofing around. Collective punishment was the idea.

Do you know, there were some days when the light would jump from green straight to red. My gosh, no warning for us kiddos? No mercy? Isn’t that mean? Can you tell I was a “good” kid who never thought it was fair she caught strays for the children with limited self-control?

Thinking back on it now, I won’t say I hated the light, but, boy, do I harbor a lot of animosity towards that stupid thing. School lunches of my childhood may have had a menu with too much rectangular pizza on it, fluorescent lighting, a friendly lunch lady, and chocolate milk, but I tell you what: it’s that light that I see the clearest. 

There was no drama about wondering who to sit with; you sat with whoever you happened to stand next to in line. There was no swapping goodies packed by Mom in a lunchbox with Scooby-Doo on it or whatever. But there sure as heck was that light. 

Was this your lunchtime experience, too? Is Lamott right, in saying that all our school lunches were the same? I highly doubt it—but you know what? I’m not mad about it. I hope your school had its own unique way of punishing its students. I hope you have your own tiny, childhood rage to get out of your system. And I hope you write about it and get your creative gears turning. Channel your inner seven-year-old, take a walk down memory lane, and fill the pages with wherever your younger self leads you.

Happy writing, friends, and see you here next week!