Sushi. Actually it was a fruit roll up, but to my American eyes, I decided that I could pretend that it was sushi. Rolled up, colorful, everything that my little nine-year-old self would imagine sushi to look like. Of course I never tasted sushi before. No strong Asian blood in me. But I loved to pretend like my unhealthy cancer-causing American food was fancier and more expensive than it really was.

The truth is, as everyone in the sixth-grade lunchroom could tell, I was a poor kid. The girl that was raised by her grandma and ate Shells and Cheese for dinner with a side of microwaved peas… which I dumped into the plants, to get away from eating.

My family on one side, including my grandma, were trailer park Irish folk. My Daddy, on the other hand, was a Hispanic. It wasn’t until I visited my Auntie in California when I was older, that I discovered the true Colombian roots I had. I discovered what pandebono tasted like, tamales, and “those orange ball things from my 3rd-year-old Christmas dinner party memory” was… bonuellos.

My father never taught me Spanish, and ironically my white mother would call out, "Sarita, vamanos," and "sientate". While my father would say, “Sara, Come here”. I was a confused child. I had my father - an unsuccessful, chasing his bruised tail in circles, businessman father - was just one of the “unlucky” ones. He was always in debt, promising things with imaginary money and when I moved in full time with my father at the age of 11, the poverty not only continued, but increased.

My mother was a hot-headed and feisty Irish woman. She was never around when i was a kid. Always working and would never seem to make any money. My grandma, I called her Mimi, was the one who fed me shells and cheese and toasted my Eggo waffles in the morning. I always felt like an oxymoron, a contradiction, while I sat in the classrooms of my new school - a Public school called Forest Hills Eastern. This is where the sushi returns.

The only thing was, that they ate real sushi, and I was still trying to figure out why everyone dressed the same in a school that had no uniform. I just got back from a charter school where our uniform was strict. Here, at my new school, they all dressed the same, but voluntarily!!! It made no sense. And I did not want to look like them, or talk like them, in fact, conforming, gave me weird tastes in my mouth. But I did become shy and introverted - to an extreme.

I remember walking up to a lunch table with my food, I stood for a bit, looking for an opening at a table where I thought the girls would be my friends, they all looked at me, and none of them moved. They sat in their seats. Some glared at me, some guiltily looked away, while others whispered giggly. I didn’t belong there, and yet, I wasn’t about to beg for a seat, or find one of less “status”. I would rather eat alone, where I could be free and accompanied with my own thoughts, rather than alone in a crowded room.

Tune in next week for the next part of my book!