The Woman & Her Packed Lunch

Memories of the childhood years here, translated…

After school in the elementary years, being so very young, I’d always, lugged along my lunch bag, stood silently by the gates of the school, waited for my father to come and pick me up on his motorcycle.

There would always be a milky white plastic bag, hung, on the handles of his motorcycle, with the supper of the day inside.  As the motorcycle parked in front of our place, I’d take the bag off, walk into the house, and, placed the meals on the tables, and, set up the places with the spoons and chopsticks, waited for my father to come in, and we’d eaten.

This, was what it looks like at supper time at our house, a man, a child, gulfing down the food, loudly, without ANY verbal exchanges, and the sound from us, chewing down the cucumbers was considered noisy.

Every time I’d bitten down on the stewed items, and met my father’s gaze, I’d often think to myself: mom’s probably not coming home for supper tonight.

After elementary school, as we’d introduced the divisions of tasks by the genders, I was shocked, to discover how WEIRD our lifestyle was, in my classmates’ eyes.  Their fathers are nine-to-fivers, who’d picked up the suppers and the kids as they’re on their ways home from work; and the moms are all working ladies, and done their overtimes, and after entering the houses, other than asking the kids what happened during their school day, all they had the mind for, was to sign the assignment books.

“Then, does your mom cook?”, in the shocks, someone asked me a question that I didn’t know how to reply to.

Mom would show cares and concerns for the goings on of my life, and would take me out on the weekends, but, I’d never seen her, work in the kitchens.  From time to time, she’d taken me to the restaurants, and smile toward me gently, “Mom’ll cook it for you the next time”.  But, those promises became like cotton candies, sweet, but unsatisfying to my hunger, every time she’d come home in her weariness, I’d never dared, asked her, for anything else.

Perhaps it’s because of this, my mom had ordered the school provided nutritious meal already, so I could escape from how the poor children in the movies, with rice and yam inside their packed lunches, but, when there were only a handful of us in a class who’d signed up for the lunch programs, disappointment started, growing inside of me.

“How come mom won’t cook for me?” as I’d chewed on my school lunch, I’d complained, the other students’ lunches came from their mother’s thoughts, it’s food with temperature, but, the paid-for meals were cooked together, at the central kitchens, without the specialized tastes, and, as they were delivered to school, they’d gotten, cold already.

The items from the nutritious lunch kept repeating, and, I’d gotten tired of eating the same things, but, it seemed, as though my classmates’ lunches always had new items, the asparagus that’s cooked to a crisp, the high-end pork, and, although they’d told me, “It’s the leftover from yesterday”, but, their eyes had that sense of comfort, of knowing that someone is going to make their lunches for them.

Finally, one day, I could no longer take it, asked one of my classmates, for his lunch.

That, was a taste that’s completely different from the school-provided meals.

That evening, my mom came home past nine as she usually had, right after she’d placed down her laptop, hugged me, asked me how my day went, I’d finally worked up the courage, “Mom, can you, pack my lunch?”

My mother hesitated a bit, and barely agreed to it.  But, all she could do was, make a few dumplings, with her disgusted look of feeling so tired, added in a couple words of complaints.

I’d forgotten what she’d complained about, just remembered, that after I’d had that tasteless meal of dumpling, I’d made up my mind, never to mention to her about packing my lunch again.  And, I’d gone through middle school AND high school in this manner, no longer remembered, that I’d needed to, head home for my meals, no longer cared about what’s inside my bowl, just felt, as the food places that I’d gotten used to shut down, “there goes, another familiar taste!”

I kept being pulled by this sort of conflicting feeling, and, the phrase, “mom’s taste” became sharp to my ears.  But, as I’d finally become adult, walked, into the interactions of male and female, I’d heard them asking me to take up the role of a woman, I’d recalled how my mother looked that night as she got off work and made those dumplings for me, that look of fatigue, and annoyance.

“Actually, I think, that it’s okay if ladies don’t work, but, they must know how to cook, must take care of the household, this, is the duty of the female gender.”

I think, I can see what my mother was thinking of, like seeing that steam, coming out of that pot of broiling water, turning before my eyes, about to, pull me, into the pot, to be cooked.

So, you do see, the hardships of a woman, don’t you?  The mother works ‘til too late, and, so, she couldn’t possibly make the homecooked meals for her child, and yet, the child wanted the mother to cook for her, and, so the mother had, it’s just, that she was way too tired, after being at work all day long, that she couldn’t have the heart, or the good mood, to cook the foods, that, was why the food didn’t taste good, and this made the writer realized the role of women in society as well.