There’s Always Food At Home

June 2nd, 2020

Fluffy warm mantou, silky translucent pork rice rolls and fried egg with spam between two slices of white crustless bread. Those are just some of the staple Chinese breakfast dishes I grew up on. But as a kid, I yearned for something more…“American.”

As a 90s baby, I was bombarded with commercials promoting fast-food restaurants, cereals, snacks and soft drinks. Not surprisingly, these flashy cartoons and catchy jingles had me convinced that “They’re Grreat!” So much that going to the grocery store became one of my favorite activities because every aisle was an opportunity for me to nag my mom to buy something I had seen on TV. Most of the time my mom would tell me to put the item back saying: “We have food at home.” Sometimes she would allow me to put one item in the shopping cart—suggesting it’s a reward for accompanying her and carrying the grocery bags. Secretly I knew it was because our Food Stamps was replenished.

We weren’t poor, but living in New York City was expensive so budgeting was not an option for my Chinese immigrant family. My mom was resourceful in stretching out our SNAP funds, formerly known as Food Stamps, for a household of four by mainly buying produce to nourish our bodies. We rarely ever ate out or ordered delivery because it was expensive and considered unhealthy. Black pepper short ribs, garlicky bok choy and soy ginger steamed fish were some of my favorite repeats. As delicious as my mom’s cooking was, I still occasionally craved pizza and the infamous KFC chicken bucket. In a way, I felt deprived of American food.

At my first real job working for an advertising agency, I was spoiled with a stocked pantry filled with Welch’s fruit snacks, Cheez-Its, Lay’s chips and my favorite—Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal. Sugary cereal for breakfast was my childhood dream come true and I was not shy about my enthusiasm. My coworkers were amused by my excitement towards something so trivial.

“Look!” I said to my coworker while outstretching a new box of Lucky Charms. “I haven’t had these in so long!”

She asked me why I love cereal so much and I gave her the same spiel: “Growing up I’ve always wanted to have cereal for breakfast but my mom would never buy it. We would always have buns or noodles instead.”

To my surprise, she sarcastically replied, “Wow, it must be nice to have a culture.” At that moment I realized I had taken for granted a big part of my Chinese identity.

Growing up as a first-generation Chinese-American, it was difficult for me to fully embrace my Chinese roots while still feeling like I belonged in America. Ironically, my parents frequently called me a “jook-sing” (竹升). The rough translation of this Cantonese term means “bamboo upward,” and it symbolizes how a bamboo stick is hollow and compartmentalized so when water is poured into one end, it doesn’t flow out of the other end. The metaphor is that jook-sings are not part of either culture — American or Chinese — and the water within the bamboo does not flow to either end. Separated by cultural differences, my parents dismissively used this term whenever I wanted to learn more about Chinese traditions. I asked questions like why can’t we eat meat for breakfast on Chinese New Year? Or why is it bad luck to sleep in front of a mirror? Over time, I’ve come to find it offensive, even when it wasn’t used in a degrading manner. The truth is, being boxed in as a jook-sing discouraged me from wanting to learn more about my Chinese culture, and instead pushed me to further adapt my American upbringing.

Throughout most of my childhood, I was green-eyed and envious of people who grew up the “American way.” That’s because as much as I tried to assimilate, I never truly felt like I was accepted in America. In fourth grade, we read the book “Sadako and the Thousand Paper Crane” as a class. It was about a Japanese girl with Leukemia who attempted to fold a thousand paper cranes in exchange for a wish. Since I knew how to do origami and am Asian, everyone in my class started to call me Sadako—even though I’m not Japanese. Transitioning into middle school, my classmates would make fun of my “slanty eyes” and “piggy nose”. Consequently, I relied on makeup to mask these features.

These stereotypically-charged micro-aggressive moments made me retreat into my nationless shell as I began to feel isolated and self-conscious about seeming both too Asian or too American—or not enough of either. It wasn’t until recently that I realized, the grass is greener on my side. When I watched the 2019 film, “The Farewell,” I realized how lucky I am to be bilingual and understand the dialogue without subtitles. Being able to pick up on the slightest nuances between the translations made me feel proud to be Chinese. Most of all, it was the Chinese-American representation I didn’t know I needed until I saw it.

For me, the most memorable scene in the film was when the family gathered around the dinner table. The family-style setup, pockets of silent eating and abrupt clatters of chopsticks shoveling rice against ceramic bowls made me nostalgic. I particularly resonated with the protagonist who struggled to be heard during dinner. As an ABC, slang for “American Born Chinese,” I know first-hand how frustrating it is to convey my jook-sing point-of-view while still being taken seriously at the adult’s table. More importantly, I realized it’s crucial to carve space for my story, both verbally and in writing, no matter how insignificant it may seem to others.

As my appetite for both Chinese and American food heightens during isolation, I’m learning that with food it’s possible to embrace the best of both countries. People still chuckle at my desire to try all the American fast-food chain restaurants—like Olive Garden, Red Lobster and Chilli’s. But lately, during the quarantine I find myself gravitating towards home-cooking for comfort. I’m revisiting recipes my mom used to whip up to feel a little more connected with her and rekindle with my Chinese roots. All the while occasionally caving-into spontaneous chicken nuggets and chalupa supreme deliveries.

I also view grocery shopping as a way to explore and redefine what it means for me to be a Chinese-American. Being able to put the items I want in my grocery cart may seem mundane, but to me, it’s a micro-representation of my overall identity. After all, food is a fundamental part of every culture and I choose to represent that on my dinner table. My local grocery store does not carry nearly as many items that reflect my childhood. Like frozen pork and chive dumplings, Pocky sticks and ho fun, so I’ll have to wait till the shelter in place is lifted and take a trip to Chinatown. For now, my Shin ramen, Doritos and Spam stocked pantry makes me feel grateful that there’s always food at home.