You sit at the lunch table and wear secondhand cargo shorts. The color doesn't matter. Musty is musty, no matter how many times your mom's old laundry machine works to scrub away the backstory of those shorts.

"Hahaha. No way!" some short, shaggy-haired boy shouts. The other kids join him in a chorus of deafening laughter.

From your table, it can be difficult to tell whether the laughter you hear is about you or the latest TV show your parents won't let you watch. And, though you stand a head taller than the other kids, you hunch forward and cross your arms to hide the goosebumps creeping up your arm. Before you is yet another socially isolating lunch. Though the tinfoil-wrapped cucumbers from your grandmother's garden are as fresh as you can get, they aren't Lunchables®. There are some waxy cold cuts from the Russian deli. And, of course, Riga Gold Sardines on fresh rye bread.

At home, this meal is a salty, savory dance that makes your mouth water. It would leave you full, yet as spry as a young chicken flapping away from a beefy Latvian butcher. Yet, for some reason, you find yourself swallowing this nutritious meal in painful lumps. You glance at the other kids who have already exiled you with their de-facto seating chart. They don't see you eat.

A glossy poster of Oprah Winfrey reads "Be a force for good. Encouragement. Pass it on". You look up at the poster, wishing that your classmates would heed the words of the renowned media magnate. Alas, you must somehow become a force of kindness in an education system that packs and presses your individuality into sardine cans. In what could be considered an act of rebellion, you resolve to swim against a tide of negative expectations. It will take years, but you find yourself determined to eat your lunch without looking over your shoulder.

So you preserve and endure. You do your best to preserve your humanity and flavor through years of hardship. However, you experience some setbacks along the way. There was the morning you let yourself go hungry rather than share sardines with your Grandfather. Little did you know, he had been diagnosed with cancer that very day.  Or there was that time where you got into an argument with your mother on her stubborn insistence that Lunchables® were overrated gimmicks. Your mother ended up crying and giving you the silent treatment. The next day, you find yourself begging your friend to loan you a normal school lunch. 

The years go on. You find yourself in an assortment of relationships, visit several therapists, unseal and unpack years of trauma, and move Denver to LA to start fresh. Now, you live by the ocean and nobody boxes you in. 

"You do you", we Angelenos like to say.

Tonight, as crickets chirp and Harley Davidson's rumble by your apartment, you find yourself eating alone, once more. Except for this time, you no longer look over your shoulder. While you certainly would not eat sardines in front of your American friends, you cannot deny how much you love those little fishes. Sure, you'll joke with your friends that your love of sardines and sleeping patterns make you a cat. But nobody can come between you and your love.

You sit at your dining table and smile, carefully peeling back the lid of your Riga Gold sardines. With surgical precision, you lay the fish on a slice of toasted, homemade bread. The silvery morsels glisten under the golden glow cast by the lamp your mother gifted you. Lifting the bread to your mouth, you bite in the meal that defines your childhood. You chew with no shame. Your girlfriend isn't visiting until tomorrow, anyway. 

By god, you love sardines.