welcome (back)
welcome to phuuds 2.0 — a place for my taste buds to wander and stumble upon some fun food ideas that may possibly turn into a “product.” or not. subscribe to find out (what a cliffhanger!).
also if you want to contact me, my business email is now lara@🥚.kz, thanks to gordon.
am i banana?
i was eight-years-old when my cousin asked me if i was a banana. being a banana means you’re filipino or [insert non-white immigrant ethnicity or race] on the outside... but white on the inside. other similar food metaphors include: coconut, twinkie, oreo, potato, bounty bar, apple, etc.
these seem like harmless and playful terms until you realize they label cultural betrayal. the implication is that if you’re white on the inside, you’re not truly filipino anymore. whitening oneself is the cost of assimilation, but somehow when someone calls you a banana, it makes both your inside and outside seem fake.
when my cousin asked me if i thought i was a banana, i told him i didn’t know. but it’s something i ask myself often. like many asian americans, i was encouraged to assimilate to american (read: white) culture to be successful. erase yourself to survive. sound dramatic? it is.
and it happened automatically. i remember going to the philippines when i was sixteen and attempting to speak tagalog. i was told that my tagalog was cool because it was “so slang.” little did they know that it was totally unintentional. tagalog had been my first language, but i overwrote it with english after spending only a few weeks in the US. to this day, my ear remains fluent but my tongue is stuck at three-years-old. so slang? very imposter.
in middle school, i was bullied for hanging out with a predominantly east and southeast asian friend group. so i made white friends. in high school, i knew that my prestigious prep school’s reputation was inextricably (causally?) linked with its majority white student body. in college, i balked at the invitation to join the filipino american club — why would i go out of my way to differentiate myself when i’d been trained my entire childhood to do the opposite? i wasn’t even trying to be a banana, i was trying to be an egg — hide the culture deep inside and present as white. [let’s not even get started on the fact that many years later i’ve somehow chosen a nihilistic egg yolk as my alter ego.]
but college also helped me grow. my freshman year, i landed in a friend group made up of many different perspectives: white, straight, gay, singaporean, korean, nigerian, european, australian. i wouldn’t realize it until years later, but they saved me from the worst of my attempted cultural inversion. we talked about race and culture a lot. in both the abstract and personal. slowly, i figured out how to identify and articulate the ways in which i had fragmented my filipino-ness so it wouldn’t ever be too much or too little. i began to see the ways in which I subtly performed my own version of code-switching.
and you know the most horrifying thing? all that identity subterfuge almost worked. this year a friend jokingly (and actually) divided people into teams for a game and put me in the group of white women. i remember yelling, “wait, i’m not white!” and no one hearing me.
what an absurd thing to realize at 31: i need to come out as filipino.
but it’s not that simple. i still don’t know if i’m a banana. i mean, maybe i am today. but identity shouldn’t be a noun. it’s not static and it’s not fixed. it is fluid and ever changing. it is both something that you do and something that is done to you. the rind and the flesh of this fruit are constantly growing and regrowing into different iterations of themselves. is my skin thicker today? is my flesh tender enough?
it’s an identity mindfuck. in one conversation, i am seen as white and in the next i am othered for being non-white. exotic when exciting, homogenous when convenient. i am lucky that i’m not angry every day. in general, my friends don’t other me for being non-white, and they celebrate my culture when i cook them chicken adobo.
but all is not as it seems. when i cook adobo, it’s “so cool how in touch you are with your culture”. when i talk about dinuguan, it’s “gross” and that’s it. when a white friend parades their asian condiments to other white friends to show how worldly they are, it is just another exploitation of culture. even worse, it’s virtue signaling. when i talk about the conflict i have about being bicultural, white friends tend to leave the room. when i told white friends that i was legitimately afraid of being targeted after the storming of the capitol, they said, “me too” but didn’t understand that i was talking about my peel.
why does it take high-profile attacks on asian americans to make me realize i’m not actually white? then when i yell it into the room why does no one acknowledge it? not a single one of my white friends proactively talked about these events. the one friend who did happens to be black. she also asked others to educate themselves and accompanied me to a chinese grocery store in oakland.
i’ve been so angry this year about being a banana. i’m so angry no one told me i wasn’t white. i’m so angry that i spent so long trying to be.
being a banana has many costs, but the worst is the disconnection it caused from my cultural heritage. the only filipino dish i cook now is chicken adobo. i claim that my connection to my culture is through food, but what does it mean that i don’t know how to make kare kare, that i’ve never even tried to make sisig, or that i’m a little grossed out by dinuguan?. i tokenize my own filipino-ness to parade like jewelry. then i pretend i can take it off when i’m done.
not anymore. i’m going to connect with my heritage. i’m going to tell you i’m not white, and it’s gonna be uncomfortable. i’m going to suggest films with asian protagonists and filmmakers when we’re picking movies. i’m going to order the tripe. i’m going to cook something other than chicken adobo. i’m going to turn this removable jewelry into a tattoo.
phuuds is about food and culture. thank you for reading my thoughts on culture. here’s your reward: my latest thoughts on food. the menu for a birthday dinner i’m throwing myself. i’m not going to overthink this one — it’s just filipino-themed and fun.
p.s. if you’re reading this and you’re triggered/angry/offended— i’m not asking you to turn back time and listen to me worry about the capitol riots or accompany me to a grocery store when the news churns with beaten and murdered asian people. i’m not asking you to know my culture (in fact, if you think you do, pls unsubscribe). i’m certainly not asking you to have the answers for my bicultural puzzle (impossible), i’m not asking you to treat me like i’m white or like i’m filipino. and i don’t want you to stop being excited about XO sauce (pls do, it’s dank!).
i am asking you to listen. to check yourself when you make mistakes and own them. to do some homework. go beyond chicken adobo and be curious with me about what more there is to discover about being filipino — both the delicious and the disgusting.
can you do that?
a yummy, messy feast in honor of my birthday and this rant
as your reward for sitting through that little rant, here’s a window into my self-indulgent birthday feast. though i can’t invite all of you, you can at least imagine the fun flavors and the cultural [con]fusions:
what’s next
we’ve picked an initial direction for a phuuds product! tinned seaweed salad. stay tuned for some research and iterations.
shout outs
@karrah for accompanying me to the asian grocery store
@gort for getting me a sweet new email address (lara@🥚.kz ICYMI)
@mia @wy for reading rough rough drafts of this post
asks
listen
make mistakes and own them
do some homework
be on the journey with me
meme time
I CAN 😍