Riding Shotgun

In the middle of junior high school, my folks struck it rich and moved us to the suburbs of Orange County.  It was tough for me.  But there’s no crying in baseball.

I’d wake up every morning to this table and go to school thinking I smelled, but couldn’t help myself because this is how we ate.

Every kid around me was white and everything in their lunches or what they were snacking on for breakfast seemed brown to me.  Granola bars, pop tarts, sandwiches, pizzas, hot pockets, chips.

Then there was my ghetto rainbow.

I was confused but played it cool.

I never could get others to really understand foods filled with garlic and fermentation. Flavors so indigenous to my life in Los Angeles.

So I ate lunch at home.  Hopped walls.  Wheelies on my bike.  Hot rice in the warmer.  No one home.  Hit the pipe.  Brush my teeth a couple times.  Cruise back.

Most people didn’t even know where Korea was but knew there was a Korean War.

Now I see that these flavors are embraced. And it’s kinda fucking dope.  Food is connecting us and turning red and blue into purple.  Maybe a double life wasn’t needed.  Because now if I step to you, girl, your breath might smell like garlic too.

Table rainbows.  Holla if you feel me.