Abdulla vs. The Sandwich

"Eat it."

"Nooooooooooooo."

That "no" erupts on instinct from the lips of a first grader. It starts at the back of the throat and forces the tongue against the roof of the mouth before bursting forward as a full-on whine.

"Eat it. You know the deal."

"Nooooooooooooo."

The boy doesn't have the shrillness of his female peers, so the whine isn't ear piercing. Instead, it's one of those elongated protests behind which is a thinly veiled sense of defiance. With every whine, he knows that he's pushing the limits of my authority. What he doesn't understand is that if he just ate, he would be free to go play with his friends.

"Abdulla! You have to eat."

"No!"

This time the outburst is followed by a giggle. He's trying to turn this dance into a game.

"Abdulla," I say in an even tone as I squat down to eye level. "You're not leaving this classroom until you eat it."

His dark brown eyes meet mine. He knows he's stuck. He knows I'm serious.

"OK. One bite..." he replies.

"I don't bargain with six year olds. The whole thing or we sit here all day."

He looks down at what's left of his sandwich. Knowing that he'll never eat the whole thing, I've already torn off a quarter of it and placed it in front of him. The rest of it goes back in his baggage. Hopefully it will serve as evidence to alert his parents that he doesn't like their crap lunches.

Reluctantly, he pulls off the tiniest piece of bread. We sit in silence as he chews and sulks. This could take a while.

So goes lunch for Primary 1B. It starts around 10:10 when I dismiss the kids, row by row, to go wash up. Nearly all of them dash out of the room, dabble water on their hands, and race back. I've had to start feeling their palms to ensure that they at least made some attempt at washing.

Then they dig in. It actually looks like lunchtime anywhere in the West, save for them eating at their desks, as the school lacks a lunchroom. Lunch boxes with cartoon characters are pulled from backpacks, thermoses too big hands for their small hands are carefully placed against their tiny lips, and that generic lunch smell - a mixture of savory meats, white bread, and sugary juices- wafts through the classroom.

"He take my juice!"

"She eat my chip!"

My kids still have trouble with the past tense. I respond with the usual round of mediation.

"Ahmed, give the juice back."

"Fajr, don't eat Abdul Rahim's chips."

Sitting at the front of the classroom is Abdulla. By now, he's taken out his juice and sucked it down. Next, he'll pretend he doesn't have a sandwich in his backpack.

"Abdulla, get out your food."

"I no have sandwich!"

"Yes you do. Get it out."

Little Mawada comes up to me, juice in hand. She doesn't want me to open it for her. Instead, she shows me that she can do it herself. I tell her how strong she is and declare her the conqueror of juice. She flexes her tiny arms and smiles. 

Abdulla looks on, a plastic bag now sitting on his desk. I pick it up and remove a hot dog bun with cold, smelly hard boiled eggs inside. Looking down at it, I try not to gag. I tear off a quarter and quickly put the rest back in the bag. I can't blame the kid for not wanting to eat that.

"No!"

"Yes. Eat it or you don't go play."

And so it begins.

After another ten minutes, I dismiss the class to go play outside. Abdulla remains and the dance begins.

I ask him what he actually does like to eat.

"Pizza. Cake. Cheese."

"You had a cheese sandwich yesterday and you still didn't want eat it."

"Oh... but this, this I don't like," he says holding up the sandwich. I back away as not to smell it again.

"And what do you call that kind of sandwich?"

"I don't know. I don't know the English for it."

I don't know why, maybe I was feeling sorry for the kid, but I decided to break one of my bigger rules.

"Bil Arabe... bedt. Aye?"

His eyes wide, he slowly answers.

"Aye"

"In English we call it 'egg.'"

"Egg," he says, slowly turning the word over with his tongue.

All I said was "In Arabic... egg. Yes?" However, I knew this would be enough to send him into shock. The kids are awed when any white person speaks even a hint of Arabic. They suddenly think I'm fluent, which throws them off course. Now, they figure they can't get away with anything. It gives me full authority again.

Unsure what else to do, Abdulla quickly finishes the sandwich and I let him go play.

Remember all those times your mom told you that there were starving kids in Africa; kids who would love nothing more than to tuck into the dry London broil sitting before you? Well, there's kids just like us here too. Kids who just want to eat pizza and cake instead of nasty sandwiches filled with eggs.

Maybe next time his mom sends him in with some gross lunch, Abdulla will go home and tell her that there are middle class kids in Atlanta who wouldn't eat this crap either.