Reflections There are the obvious humiliations, of course. The lunchbox shame. The slow death of opening whatever your parents had packed for you — something fragrant, half-alive, garlicky, dried-fishy, braised whatever — in a classroom full of kids eating sterile ham and cheese sandwiches on bread as white as their skin, tucked away in zip-lock bags, so inoffensive. I remember envying those lunches, convincing myself they held some bland promise of fitting in. How foolish I was. Then came...