papi made me tuna sandwiches every wednesday to eat for school because i liked tuna sandwiches. the girls in my class didn’t. for that reason, the trash in the cafeteria would smell like tuna every wednesday. poor and petrified of feeling less than made me want to not be wasteful of space. i would starve myself to find space to fit in. the girls felt it was better spent laughing at the food i failed to eat.
something was suffocating and it wasn’t the dead fish. sometimes i wondered the way ‘dead girl’ would ring around their mouth and if it would be as tasteful as the trashed tuna sandwiches.
my father spent 14 hours under the sun, slapping concrete to the floor for these people to walk. later to be made it into sidewalks to walk all over me.
the cost for them to stop the classism within the schoolyard walls and the cost of being the waste bin to failures labeled as my own when they weren’t. i wanted more than that. i still want more than that. they can’t call it gluttony when the person didn’t have much to their name in the first place.
more tuna please.