Sixth Grade - Access to Food

Our elementary school was "progressive" - four classrooms in one space, with kids being sorted by ability for each class. It was built to accommodate all the new housing developments in our area and was a short bike ride away. There was no cafeteria - you went through the line and returned to your desk to eat lunch.

For some reason (I don't remember why now), I became a member of the school patrol. I arrived at school early, put on my patrolman belt thingie, and attended the crossing area in front of the school. I also was let out of class at around 10 am to "guard" the dirst and second graders who had shorter hours than us bigger kids. The kids loved me and called me Patrolman Steve, if you can dig that! I also got out of class around 2:30 for the little kids' departure. I was on my honor, of course, to do all my homework and not let all that time out of class effect my work.

My mom packed my lunch for me every day that year. I asked her to. They were delicious - big meaty, cheesy sandwiches on good bread, lots of mayo, a piece of fruit, and a dime for milk.

I loved the lunch ladies and they loved me. When I stopped buying lunches, one of the dear little ladies said she missed me, and would I be interested in rinsing trays for a free lunch every day? I leapt at this. I was delighted to spend the "recess" part of lunch period working the steaming hot hose and rinsing the aqua melamine trays. When I was finished, my hands were beet red from the hot water, but I enjoyed doing it and the ladies loved me for it.

Since I was a member of the patrol, I stowed my bag lunch in the patrol's closet each morning, and started wolfing my lunch down while standing in the dark closet during the 10 am "shift." When I finished washing trays for the lunch ladies a couple of hours later, I'd grab a tray and get my free lunch.

But it didn't end there.

I learned that if I asked for extra green beans, the ladies, who were so delighted to have a student actually WANT their canned veggies, would heap the beans on my tray, then give me a double portion of whatever the main course was. Two pieces of pizza, or two scoops of mashed potatoes and hamburger gravy, or two squares of mac and cheese.

Wait! There's more!

As I walked back into the classroom with my tray, between the aisles of desks, at least two or three of the other students would give me their milk, glad to get rid of the detestable cow juice. Usually I'd get two extra plain milks and at least one chocolate milk. There was one kid, a tiny, super skinny guy, whose mother was attempting to fatten him up a little. She baked the most incredible white bread and cut two huge slabs of it, at least an inch thick each, then slathered peanut butter and jelly on it. Her son didn't care for grape jelly, so on those occasions when his mom used grape, he'd give me the sandwich. Every once in awhile, some other kid would give me some of their food.

It probably won't surprise you to learn that I went from 110 pounds at the beginning of the school year to 160 by the end.

My pants were so tight that I was constantly pulling them at the crotch to prevent my balls from being strangulated. My parents would say, "Don't touch yourself!" every time I did it, which was frequently. Nobody thought about getting me bigger pants. I didn't think to ask.

I was promoted to Captain of the Patrols about halfway through the year and got to wear the safety orange vest instead of just the white sash-belt. I remember standing in the dark little closet, wolfing down the lunches my mom packed for me, choking from eating so fast, tears streaming down my face because I knew that I was out of control. By the end of the year the orange vest (a Man's large) was tight on me, so I started wearing it unzipped.

I've jokingly said that sixth grade was the height of my popularity, and it's been downhill ever since, but in many ways it's true. I was well-known and liked by lots of other students and got a big round of applause at the graduation party, which shocked the hell out of my parents and me. I was a big fat kid, but I never got called "fatty" or "lardo" or any other derogatory fat words. I was respected.

I had spent an entire year lying to my Mom, engaging in sneaky, skulky behavior, and getting fatter by the minute. I was completely miserable. I knew that something was terribly, terribly wrong with me, and it wasn't just that I was fat. I had a secret - I was one of "them" - the most reviled and detested of creatures, and I was stuffing my face in a panicky fury to try to block out the hell that was just down the road for me.