Not of the lunchroom elite

I wrote these sketches of creative non-fiction for my creative writing course.

I liked my lunch box when I first saw it. It was a square, metal lunch box with a red plaid design. My mother told me it was the same lunch box that my oldest sister Elizabeth had brought to kindergarten sixteen years before, and I was proud of that. Looking back, I wouldn't be too surprised if it were the same one my mother herself had used. It was vintage fifties - the kind that Beaver Cleaver took to school. But this was the nineties, and I didn't have it because it was cool. I had it because it was practical. That was the lunch box we had, so that was the lunch box I would use.

All was fine until I brought it to school and discovered that I couldn't open it. The old, stiff metal clasp defied my little fingers. Frustrated and embarrassed, I timidly enlisted the help of my classmates. I still remember the shame I felt when one of them, as unsuccessful as myself, informed me that it was an old fashioned lunch box - the kind one could only buy in an antiques store. It's strange to me now the alienation that lunch box inflicted on me for the days, or weeks that I used it. It wouldn't now. Little children are cruel. And I was insecure.

My mother bought me a new lunch box. It wasn't practical to have one I couldn't open.

It's a rough draft still. I don't think I've successfully communicated the alienation I felt in kindergarten at Washington - the lunch box was to be, in a way, symbolic of that. But then again, that falls apart because getting a new lunch box didn't improve my social situation much.

I'm not very pleased with the last four or five sentences of the last paragraph, but I'll worry about working through that later.

I'm not sure the last couple sentences are entirely just. I'm sure the fact that I couldn't open the lunch box wasn't the only reason my mother bought me a new one.

I perused google for vintage 1950s tin lunch boxes and found this which made me laugh:

In the grade school lunchrooms of the fifties and sixties, a lunch box carried more than the weight of a tuna fish sandwich and a carton of milk. A box adorned with Barbie, the Beatles, or Hopalong Cassidy placed the child squarely with the lunchroom elite, while a dull red plaid revealed a child who was obviously not in control of his or her parents.

And then there's this one, even less polished:

I switched schools six months into kindergarten. I had friends then and a new lunchbox, but lunchroom elitism wasn't over.

Heather's mom almost always closed her thermos too tightly. Heather was the strongest of us girls, and when she couldn't open it she'd pass it to the boys. They usually faired little better. Heather would raise her hand, and the teachers, who tired of this far sooner than the rest of us, would come to try their hand at opening the thermos. All of us students watched in eager anticipation of what would usually follow. Almost inevitably, they'd have to excuse her to take the thermos down to our principal, Mr. Prol, to open. We all watched her leave, enviously. I'm quite sure now that Heather never told her mom the thermos was closed too tightly. The prestige she gained among her peers was worth the cost of our teachers' disapprobation.

My mother, however unaware she was of the miseries a strange lunchbox gave me, was unfailingly conscientious about not closing my thermos too tightly whenever she packed me a hot lunch. The affliction that brought me alienation and embarrassment at Washington Elementary School never blessed me with distinction or prestige at my new school. I was not of the lunchroom elite.

I was hoping this excerpt were a little funnier - bring out the absurdity of what brings social status and distinction even among children. It could use work.

I'm finding this creative writing class increasingly difficult. Affirmation or criticism is always greatly appreciated!