Upon reading “Meatless Days,” I not only felt a sincere understanding with what the author, Sara Suleri, was attempting to illustrate, but also a deep connection with events that have happened in my own life. Suleri uses the images of food to retell stories that have shaped her life. Though I would not, personally, use food as a way to recount my own tale, food definitely plays a major role in the background of any individual. As we discussed in class, food is a way that every culture can further define themselves as a unique and separate entity. Food is a way we can identify with our “motherland,” or original home county. In class I told the story of how I had unknowingly eaten food covered in pig’s blood because I had been told it was another kind of chocolate. I also expressed how that was one of the last times my younger sister even thought about eating Filipino food. Our family is from Filipino descent, but on any given day, it would be hard to tell when examining our kitchen. Normally, there would not be any Filipino food in sight. This is partially because my parents no longer have time to cook. But it is mostly due to the fact that my little sister flat out refuses to eat Filipino food. You have to understand my sister. She is 14, much too stylish and mature for her age, and completely spoiled by my parents. She is the baby, after all. She is a vegetarian, and she has been one since she was around five or so – to be honest, I can’t remember the last time she ate meat. However, this does not mean she eats vegetables… because she doesn’t. People who meet her always get a kick out of how she’s a vegetarian who doesn’t eat vegetables. “So what does she eat!?” people ask, half-horrified and half-intrigued. Well. Dairy. And carbs. I kid you not. Dairy and carbs is all she digests. For example, pasta, without the tomato sauce, naturally, and covered in freshly grated cheese. Grilled cheese sandwiches. Eggs and cheese. Bagels. I think you get the picture. She’s an odd eater but a great kid. So adding Filipino food to her ‘banned list’ did not really come as a surprise to us.
Sometimes I demand that my parents make me Filipino food. Usually I tell them that I won’t go home unless they have at least one dish waiting for me that you can’t get at a TGIF or Applebee’s. That usually gets them going, as parents of college students go. I remember for Christmas, my mother wanted to have our clan’s party catered by a nice Italian restaurant a few miles away. But true to her word, there were some Filipino entrees on the side for me too. The surprising thing was that our relatives finished eating those dishes first, even before the delicious fettuccine and the rich chicken parmesan. They had been missing the food as much as I was, and I complained for quite awhile at my loss of what would have been excellent leftovers. I have a Filipino friend – one of my best friends actually – whose mother only cooks Filipino food at home. He’d bring it in for lunch and everyone would crowd around him and ask questions and want to know ingredients and what its American equivalent would be. “Well…. I suppose this dessert would kind of be like… jello?” he would say, trying to explain. We’d laugh because we knew. Kutsinta is nothing like jello. Oh, and he’d brag. He’d brag all the time to me about how his mom would be cooking lumpia (think spring rolls) for dinner and cassava (think flan) for dessert. Yes, I would be jealous. But usually I was satisfied when he’d bring me aluminum-covered plates of his family’s leftovers so I could eat it for lunch that day. Yes, I had gotten that desperate. The best part about having that food with me as my meal was that I loved answering everyone’s questions about it. “Oh! That smells so good!” People would rush over and beg for a bite. Usually, they liked what they tasted too. For some reason, it made me love my friends, my lunch table, and anyone in the room because they weren’t just respecting my culture, but they were trying to learn some of it too.
In the excerpt of “Gifts of Passage,” Santha Rama Rau retold her memory of her Anglo-Indian day school in Zorinabad. Rau’s older sister felt as if they should bring sandwiches to lunch instead of the Pakistani meals they had originally packed. This horrified me. I thought back on my own experiences and the way I had to beg my friends not to eat all of my food. I could not imagine having to live that way. I have grown up in relatively diverse communities. I have lived in New York, New Jersey, Florida, and now in Washington, D.C. And in every place I’ve ever called “home,” I have never once felt persecuted or discriminated against. At least, never in my own home town. School, especially, is supposed to be a place where you feel safe. It is supposed to be a place where you feel secure and comfortable enough to let your defenses down and just focus on your education. It’s supposed to be a place to learn. Reading about how Rau’s older sister was made to sit at the back of the classroom because “Indian children were cheaters” made me angry right down to my core. I fumed, thinking about how upset I would be if it were my own sister who had to endure something like that. I assure you that I would not have been so polite as to just walking out of the classroom. I have a fiery temper and a tongue of steel when I am upset. I’ve been told many times that people don’t think I have a “witch” in me, but I plan on becoming an attorney so trust me, it’s in me. Discrimination and prejudice and hate are three things that I cannot stand for. I do not associate with people who are involved with any or all of the three. Since I would not want any of them affecting me or my family, I, in turn, do not practice them. Our world is still far from becoming a place of equality. It still has quite a ways to go in the journey to respect. There are still many people who have yet to realize the importance of human appreciation – of every single person, life, and soul. Suleri did an excellent job of portraying these problems in her tale. She told them through her own eyes but through wide, young, innocent ones. Eyes that still had hope for the future. I have hope for the future, and I really enjoyed this excerpt.
Sometimes I demand that my parents make me Filipino food. Usually I tell them that I won’t go home unless they have at least one dish waiting for me that you can’t get at a TGIF or Applebee’s. That usually gets them going, as parents of college students go. I remember for Christmas, my mother wanted to have our clan’s party catered by a nice Italian restaurant a few miles away. But true to her word, there were some Filipino entrees on the side for me too. The surprising thing was that our relatives finished eating those dishes first, even before the delicious fettuccine and the rich chicken parmesan. They had been missing the food as much as I was, and I complained for quite awhile at my loss of what would have been excellent leftovers. I have a Filipino friend – one of my best friends actually – whose mother only cooks Filipino food at home. He’d bring it in for lunch and everyone would crowd around him and ask questions and want to know ingredients and what its American equivalent would be. “Well…. I suppose this dessert would kind of be like… jello?” he would say, trying to explain. We’d laugh because we knew. Kutsinta is nothing like jello. Oh, and he’d brag. He’d brag all the time to me about how his mom would be cooking lumpia (think spring rolls) for dinner and cassava (think flan) for dessert. Yes, I would be jealous. But usually I was satisfied when he’d bring me aluminum-covered plates of his family’s leftovers so I could eat it for lunch that day. Yes, I had gotten that desperate. The best part about having that food with me as my meal was that I loved answering everyone’s questions about it. “Oh! That smells so good!” People would rush over and beg for a bite. Usually, they liked what they tasted too. For some reason, it made me love my friends, my lunch table, and anyone in the room because they weren’t just respecting my culture, but they were trying to learn some of it too.
In the excerpt of “Gifts of Passage,” Santha Rama Rau retold her memory of her Anglo-Indian day school in Zorinabad. Rau’s older sister felt as if they should bring sandwiches to lunch instead of the Pakistani meals they had originally packed. This horrified me. I thought back on my own experiences and the way I had to beg my friends not to eat all of my food. I could not imagine having to live that way. I have grown up in relatively diverse communities. I have lived in New York, New Jersey, Florida, and now in Washington, D.C. And in every place I’ve ever called “home,” I have never once felt persecuted or discriminated against. At least, never in my own home town. School, especially, is supposed to be a place where you feel safe. It is supposed to be a place where you feel secure and comfortable enough to let your defenses down and just focus on your education. It’s supposed to be a place to learn. Reading about how Rau’s older sister was made to sit at the back of the classroom because “Indian children were cheaters” made me angry right down to my core. I fumed, thinking about how upset I would be if it were my own sister who had to endure something like that. I assure you that I would not have been so polite as to just walking out of the classroom. I have a fiery temper and a tongue of steel when I am upset. I’ve been told many times that people don’t think I have a “witch” in me, but I plan on becoming an attorney so trust me, it’s in me. Discrimination and prejudice and hate are three things that I cannot stand for. I do not associate with people who are involved with any or all of the three. Since I would not want any of them affecting me or my family, I, in turn, do not practice them. Our world is still far from becoming a place of equality. It still has quite a ways to go in the journey to respect. There are still many people who have yet to realize the importance of human appreciation – of every single person, life, and soul. Suleri did an excellent job of portraying these problems in her tale. She told them through her own eyes but through wide, young, innocent ones. Eyes that still had hope for the future. I have hope for the future, and I really enjoyed this excerpt.
