Kudos, I’m Yours!
photo by publisher
In fifth grade, Ms. L lined up my class by order of height and shuffled us each over to the physician’s scale in the corner. She was young, something I wouldn’t recognize until later, concealed as she was with thick foundation and a shellacked bob. She tacked me at the low end each month, smallest for both measurements, our progress charted on a sheet of paper taped to the door.
My T-shirts stayed baggy; beneath I wore white cotton undershirts—the kind with little rosettes sewn on the neckline—though my friends wore starter bras and deodorant. One of Ms. L’s classroom rules dictated that our afternoon snack food be healthy. I knew the term, took for granted that the foods I brought in fit this vague description. I wasn’t allowed Trix for breakfast, and I was too busy catching up after half a year away in Singapore because of my dad’s job—coming back with a deep tan and sun-streaked hair, not yet embarked upon the transition into womanhood that my friends had entered while I was gone—to give the concept much thought.
Until the day Ms. L noticed Brian H.’s Kudos bar.
Brian H. was one of my three desk-mates, brought in for a few hours a few days a week from “The Collaborative”—our then term for where kids with developmental disabilities spent most of their school days. Brian H. had Down syndrome, something I’d never seen up close. My dad, who’d spent years working in group homes before becoming an engineer, explained to me that Down syndrome was a chromosomal condition that resulted in cognitive delays. My mother counseled that I treat Brian H. the same way I would my other friends. Neither piece of wisdom made much sense—my friends were suddenly speaking a new language, entering into an adolescence I couldn’t figure out how to join. Santa Claus no longer existed? New Kids on the Block are no longer cool? Barbies are out, boys in? Each day’s lesson was more confusing than the last.
I’d seen Brian H. peel the wrapper and bite into the chocolate and oats often and not thought much of it. My mom bought Kudos sometimes, and therefore it couldn’t possibly be junk food. A granola bar was healthy—of this I felt fairly clear.
But when Ms. L spotted the bar, she called the whole class’s attention to our cluster: “Brian, what are you eating?”
Brian H. smiled. “Kudos.”
Ms. L knelt by his desk. “Do you remember our rule about bringing healthy snacks?”
Brian H. furrowed his brow and held out the bar to Ms. L, as if offering her a bite. He said, his words halting, “It is healthy, it’s Kudos.”
“But chocolate’s not good for you, Brian.”
Brian made the offering gesture again. “It’s Kudos.”
Ms. L stood, smoothing her hands over her skirt waist. I watched her tight, pink face as she swept her eyes over the classroom, looking for something. Her stare landed on me. “Sara? What do you think? Is this healthy?”
Ms. L stands, still, awaiting my answer.
I swallow, look at her, at Brian H., at the wall, at my desk. I wish as hard as I’ve ever wished anything that the ground might open and swallow me whole—return me to Singapore where the general population patted my head, called me Girl, and bestowed upon me peeled lychee and hacked-open durian and plastic cups of pear-flavored Tang. No one ever commented on my skinniness or whispered that I was “flat as a board” when they thought I was out of earshot.
I try to make sense of why Ms. L singled me out, why she thought I was on her side, why she might expect me to weigh in a judgment I had no intention of making. I wish I could say I answered, No, Ms. L, projecting your personal diet anxieties onto a class of preteens isn’t healthy at all.
But I cannot.
I squirm, there, here, struggling for an answer, stomach aching.