Eating & Belonging: A Conversation
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You Are Having One American Nature Only, I Am Telling You
From Mark
14 July 2012
Deepa:
Effective the way Indians use “American” as a cutting epithet! The truth of it stings a bit. Even though these accidents of birth are no more our fault than the color of our eyes, we can’t help being wounded by them. It must be especially hard for you to stomach — since you are fundamentally a Canadian.
This is a bit like the way Indians in the UK take umbrage at being slurred as “Pakis”. Not that I approve of tribal nastiness in any form, but there are two aspects that are pretty interesting, one funny, the other sad. The humorous is that, of all the aspects of legitimate grievance to draw from the insult, Indians invariably seize on the one illegitimate gripe, as if saying, “No way! My parents (or grandparents) were not from the one South Asian country, they were from the other (except that they kind-of weren’t necessarily, since the two were really twins separated at birth).” Rather than being pissed-off about brainless racism, they immediately double-down with brainless nationalism or brainless religious intolerance. It’s like the old sports adage: the best defense is a good offense. The sad part is that Indians, the world’s most adroit insult-finders, pretty-much lay-down in the face of truly horrid hate-speech. I’ve seen the passivity far too often and it hurts me to my core to witness. It is a pernicious post-colonial legacy that looks to endure for at least another generation.
But, back to the point: how sucky to be called an “American”! Yuck. The only poem I’ve ever written was sort-of about that:
Homeland
the imprint of my homeland
labels me like another’s
logo emblazoned on a t-shirt
misidentifying yet
accurate as a blood type
the imprint of my homeland
stains me like a tattoo
a former girlfriend’s name indelibly
ledgered in the flesh
scar, blemish, embarrassment
the imprint of my homeland
adorns me like a flower worn
behind the ear or an epaulette
revealing more of me than
I would have you know
the imprint of my homeland
chooses me when I do not choose it
abandons me when I do
fickle about our relationship
as I am
I think as I get older, it matters far less to me that I fit seamlessly in every new culture I enter — or even within the two major cultures (North American and something-Indian) in which I live. In a way, Vancouver and Pondicherry make that easy, both being multicultural mash-ups, where no one is really quite certain of who they are anymore. The fun thing about putting a few years on oneself is that one gets to know their own likes and dislikes, and is better able to prioritize the former. Likewise, one has a bit better judgment about which idiosyncrasies to indulge and which to keep behind polite cover.
Besides, if my NRI friends can eat sabji – chawal every meal in a place as cuisine-rich as San Francisco, I have no problem wearing jeans under my kurta. (Or a denim shirt over my veshti.)
Which I guess brings me to your burgers and, more specifically, what brought you to your burgers. This meal was a deliberate, deliberative process–”a consolidation of our agency as immigrant Americans in Pondicherry.” Burgers and fries were selected as emblematic of (one of your) national identities. This meal was a semantic or semiotic choice; and Americanness was the message you chose to impart, the identity you chose to embrace in the moment.
Your story is a manifestation of your multiculturalism and therefore a repudiation of those who slandered you with the epithet of Americannes. You celebrated the symbolism of the meal; and the very act of cooking-up (quite literally) the culinary metaphor implies and demonstrates your mastery of your identity and your ability to pick-and-choose. Indeed, you could have reacted to the claim of Americanness in precisely the opposite way: by preparing rice, sambar, rice, chutney, rice, rasam, rice, and curds for dinner. And, then too, we would interpret your menu not as a manifestation of your South Indianness so much as your control over the way in which you choose to express your various cultural identities.
I get all that. Yet, at the risk of sending your household into another fit of burger-and-fries ironic remonstration, let me just add my voice to the chorus: You are so American!
No Indian-Indian on earth would have worked-through the mental exercise you did to plan your menu; and most would be perplexed by the idea that selecting a cuisine — as opposed to certain dishes from within their familiar cuisine — was the kind of thing they might ordinarily engage in. While there is great diversity among IndiaÕs cuisines, there is relatively limited variation in the menus within any particular region of India — at least relative to the array of choices North Americans make every night of the week. “Should we eat Thai or Italian tonight?” is simply not a question usually heard in Indian homes — even those in Toronto or Silicon Valley. And the selection of dinner to express an ethnographic ideal or as a means of cross-cultural participation is downright crazy-talk.
Is this reading of your North Americanness unfair? Is my portrayal of familiarity in Indian eating a caricature of what simply amounts to well-worn preferences? Is the sameness of Indian mealtimes a manifestation of the profound sense of national (or regional) identity? And is there something restless and ambivalent in the North American character — perhaps as expressed in my poem — that prevents us from exercising fidelity to our national (or regional) cuisines and truly “embracing the consolidation” of our identities? Or are Indians simply latecomers to the notion of multiculturalism?
Enquiring minds want to know (to co-opt a phrase from America’s true Newspaper of Record).
Best,
MBJ
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Previous entry: So American! (Deepa) 15 July 2012
Next entry: Cosmopolitan Comforts (Deepa) 20 July 2012
Well, this blog conversation resonates with me on several levels. I lived in a conservative small town in Tennessee for the first 22 years of my life. My schedule consisted of school, time with family, church, and tradition. Many of the family traditions revolved around food.
On Monday nights, we went to my maternal grandparent’s house where we ate homegrown (my grandparents raised all of their vegetables without pesticides…..this was before the term “organic” was in fashion) green beans cooked in an iron skillet, fried green tomatoes, Mexican cornbread, and fried okra. Cooking was my grandmother’s passion, and she was always trying new “Southern” dishes. I remember canning (putting all the goodness that they grew in their gardne into jars to enjoy later) with grandmother during the summers. We put the tomatoes in the hot water so that the skin could be removed easily and then we added peppers and vinegar turning it into a relish to be enjoyed on black eyed peas. Unfortunately, my grandmother died last year, and I miss these dishes and the love that she put into them.
On Sundays, we went to my paternal grandparent’s house for more good home cooking. My grandmother prided herself on cooking the “old fashioned” way which for her meant cooking with lard. We had dishes such as fried chicken, greasy buttermilk biscuits, mashed potatoes with gravy, and Mississippi mudcake (her favorite) which is a chocolate cake with marshmallows and icing on top. My grandmother has always loved to eat and always says, “There is nothing that I enjoy more than watching others eat the foods that I have created.” My family sat around the table and told stories and laughed. These stories shaped my life and my identity and these stories were all told over sweet tea with lemon or fresh coffee.
When I was 22 years old, I moved to Rio de Janeiro, a city of 8-12 million, and Lincoln, my husband, and I lived in a studio apartment (an euphemism for a 1 room apartment). We ate mostly out and about in the city. Self-service or buffet style salad bars, coffee with milk and crunchy cheese bread became our daily routine. Life was fast-paced, noisy, and the movement of the city intoxicating.
At this point, I became “the other.” People called me the gringo or said, “Your Portuguese is so cute.” I didn’t want my Portuguese to be “cute”. I just wanted to communicate. After living in Rio for 2 years, I went back home to visit my family. When I got off the plane, my mother said, “Stop talking that way.” Apparently I had picked up an accent while teaching ESL to Brazilians. I had also picked up the open way in which Brazilians speak about sex and other subjects considered “taboo” in my town. My mother used to say, “Don’t talk about those topics in mixed company.”
All of a sudden, I became “the other” in my hometown.” Old friends would say, ” I guess you are just so happy to be in the United States.” I used to answer, “Well, yes and no.” My stories at the table had changed and my family could no longer identify. I lived in Brazil for 5 years and my worldview and identity changed.
My husband and I moved to Houston, a city where very few people are originally from here (as Deepa touched on in her post). We have lived here for 6 years and again my identity has changed. Many people ask, “Where are you from?” I can’t quite place your accent (which seems to be a clear marker of identity for many). Sometimes you sound “southern” and other times you sound “foreign”. My Brazilian friend states, “You seem more Brazilian than American.” What does that mean exactly? Well, I guess where you have been and lived also (like your homeland)becomes “imprinted” (the term that Mark uses) on your body. The traces are always there…
Learning to negotiate these “identities” has been a wonderful growing experience and as Mark states, “I think as I get older, it matters far less to me that I fit seamlessly in every new culture I enter — or even within the two major cultures (North American and something-Indian) in which I live…The fun thing about putting a few years on oneself is that one gets to know their own likes and dislikes, and is better able to prioritize the former. Likewise, one has a bit better judgment about which idiosyncrasies to indulge and which to keep behind polite cover.”
Yes, when I first went to Brazil being called “gringo” bothered me and the first time I went home after moving away, the fact that my “differentness” was the subject of much conversation irritated me but now in my 30s, I have raised my consciousness about what this “differentness” means and can identify the ways that these experiences have shaped my identity. I no longer become offended or irritated but rather appreciate the many different experiences that I have had both in the United States and abroad that have shaped who I am. Therefore, “differentness” becomes a point of pride rather than irritation or maybe it is just becoming “more comfortable” in your own skin (whatever that skin may be or preceived to be).
My paternal grandmother is still living and every time I make it home, she makes her famous Mississippi Mud Cake, and we still drink fresh coffee (she always makes what she calls a “fresh pot”) and tell stories. Although the stories may have changed and I am negotiating several identities at once, the Mississippi Mud Cake tastes the same and brings me back to my home where my journey and the stories began.
Here is a recipe for a version of my grandmother’s Mississippii Mud Cake. I found this at: http://www.food.com/recipe/mississippi-mud-cake-67117. It was the closest recipe that I could find on the web.
Cake
1 cup butter
1/2 cup cocoa
2 cups sugar
4 large eggs, slightly beaten
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 dash salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups pecans (optional)
4 cups mini marshmallows
Chocolate frosting
1 (16 ounce) package powdered sugar, sifted
1/2 cup milk
1/3 cup cocoa
1/4 cup softened butter
Directions:
1
Preheat oven to 350°F.
2
Lightly grease a 9×13 inch pan.
3
Melt the butter in a medium saucepan.
4
Add the cocoa and stir.
5
Remove from the heat.
6
Pour butter mixture into a mixing bowl and add sugar and eggs.
7
Mix until blended.
8
Add the vanilla.
9
Mix in the flour and salt.
10
Stir in the pecans.
11
Put batter into prepared pan and cook for 35 minutes or until done.
12
Remove from oven and sprinkle with marshmallows.
13
Cool in the pan on a wire rack.
14
For the frosting: Combine all of the ingredients and mix until smooth. Spread frosting on cooled cake.
15
If your frosting is too thick, add more milk.
Bridget, how fabulous is this addition to the conversation; thank you. I love the detours through different sorts of identifications, and the insider-outsider ambivalence that unfailingly manages to find expression. But I want to know, though I sort-of do already: was “gringo” American? Only? More than? Or, even more complicatedly, was “Southern” American? There’re class issuesas well that could be brought into play, if they apply. (I suppose this conversation thus far has been driven by the American epithet, as Mark has called it (though that might change in subsequent posts), and I’m curious to know how far that’s true of the experiences you recount. Most of all, I love that you end with Mississippi mud. Mississippi mud cake, that is. I’ve never made one (though you can rest assured that now I shall, and post photos to boot), but I love the earthiness of the idea, especially as that relates to this conversation about roots, belonging, and being of the soil, if I may extend the mud metaphor you introduce.
In Brazil, “gringo,” as in other contexts, has complex meanings. The term “gringo” (for most Brazilians) means “a white tourist (can be European or American) who can’t walk in the city (usually lost, looking up with a sun-burned face, and has a map in his or her hand) or communicate very well. The “gringo” usually uses rudimentary Portuguese and speaks with a heavy accent. It is not usually a derogatory term or signify only being “American.”
Actually, in most spaces in Brazil, the people have what I call a “love affair” with Americans. I often felt that positive value was placed on that part of my identity. For example, for my ESL students, I had “American night,”(so by doing this was I implying that being American meas eating McDonalds and getting fat?) and we watched the movie “Super Size Me” and had McDonalds delivered. They loved it. This love affair in the bigger cities is now changing because as Brazil has become more visible (Olympic Games, World Cup, and the recent oil discoveries off the cost of Rio de Janeiro), more tourists and business people have descended on the big cities so these “gringos” and “other foreingers” (as they are called) have become the social norm.
In smaller states, “gringos” and Americans still create fascination. The last time I was in Brazil, I visited a sister-in-law, who lives in a small city. I visited her high school sociology class and they all wanted to know how to say their names in English. They also had questions about shopping, Disney world, and various ideas of “Americanness” put forth by films. I was visiting the social movement “People without Land” and a woman asked “So as an American, do you think Osama Bin Laden is dead?” In this space, I got more socially conscious questions and more questions about the excess of American capitalism. So, what it means to be and the value placed on being American changes depending on the space that you are visiting (which can sometimes be linked to class). So, being called “American” or “So American” is not necessarily an eptithet but just a pointing out of “differentness” or the idea that you embody their idea of what it means to be American (whatever that may be).
To be honest, when people say that I have a twinge of Southern in my accent, I think that it is because they know that I am from Tennessee and Lincoln is from Brazil so they project that onto my accent.
Trust me, it’s not just projection. Go back onto Pâticheri’s Facebook page. Find the image of the Aunt Sassy Cake, and the text that accompanies it. Read it out loud to yourself. Whether you hear it yourself or no, there it will be, right there : ) There’s a story told of the Mughal Emperor Akbar and his famously witty minister, Birbal. A linguist comes to court with a challenge: guess his mother tongue, so many languages does the man speak with fluent ease. All the courtiers try but fail to find any sign of imperfection in his mastery of language. Birbal, ever patient, waits for the night. He has a boy splash a bit of cold water on the man’s face as he sleeps. The man wakes, startled and exclaiming. And so does Birbal, waiting and listening outside the man’s room, identify the man’s mother tongue. See? : )
Another beautifully written post, and the pictures are wonderful. I feel very honored that you made the Mississippi mud cake and featured it on the blog.
This comment is in reference to my previous comment about my journey from Tennessee to Brazil to Houston. My paternal grandfather used to love (before his health problems) to drive a wagon and raise tomatoes. He often speaks of how “the land” saved his family during the depression and if young people can’t go to the grocery store (because of a new depression) then they will not know how to work the land in order to survive. My maternal grandparents always had a garden and, like I said, I spent summers canning. What great things were learned those summers. I spent many days when I was a child making “mud pies” and “mud cakes” under the hot Tennessee sun. So, the metaphor of earth, land, and mud run deep within my family! My maiden name is Diggs (think of a shovel and the earth) and when I got married I kept my name and became Diggs-Fernandes (although I often only go by Fernandes).
My brother, who is a photojournalist, made a photo story/ documentary about my grandfather.
My grandfather’s voice is narrating: http://www.matthewdiggs.com/Content.php?section=Video&file=114. The video last about 7 minutes. Copy and Paste the link in your browser. In addition, you should take a look around at his blog. He has photos and other stories from Tennessee.
It is well worth watching!