Filipino Food Truck
- Meggy Grosfeld
- Sep 22, 2022
- 3 min read
By Meggy Grosfeld
Food is the backbone of my culture.
I love Filipino food. It is the way that my family shows love and it is a detrimental part of my culture. It’s probably what I feel the most proud of when it comes to my identity. From savory adobo, to crispy chicken inasal, to sweet halo-halo, I will not hesitate to make all my white friends try it, despite their apprehensive winces at the table. Every bite takes me home and the sound of my mother saying nabusog ka? (are you full?) lingers in the air after every meal. If there’s one thing I am sure of, it’s that a singular bite of Filipino food will change my crappy mood into a happy mood.
So when my one Filipina friend from college invited me to a pop up food truck called Kuya’s Cooking, I was excited. Funny enough, her mom and my mom went to school together in the Philippines, but we didn’t know that till we met at college. Finding Filipino cuisine in Boston is like digging up buried treasure, so I was grateful for the invite. The excitement to eat all my favorite foods overcame me, but my nerves started settling in. I had never hung out with Filipinos my age that weren’t my cousins and I barely hang out with them. Being biracial, some part of me wanted them to like me; I wanted to fit in. I feared that my Pinoy flavor inherited from my mother would get swallowed whole by the whiteness from my father. The thought of me wanting to fit in somewhere was unheard of, being that I do my own thing, but this was different. I was nervous I wouldn’t be accepted, I was nervous that I wouldn’t be Filipino enough.
The struggle of identity sometimes hits you, like, well, a food truck.
I forced myself to go, thinking “okay, you already skipped the ASIA meeting last week because of the jitters, don’t miss out on another opportunity to connect.” I made sure to wear a tank top to show off my tattoo of the Filipino sun and stars, just incase anyone was confused of my being there. When I arrived, I immediately rushed over to my friend; she felt like home. She introduced me to her friends and I quickly realized that I was the odd man out. Some of them were warm, but some of them were colder than expected. I tried breaking the ice by making small talk, but it felt like I was the only one talking. I tried so hard to convince myself that nothing was wrong, but I felt alone in my desperate attempt of belonging. I felt like an imposter.
My friend kept me company as we perused the menu, but the owner of the truck stopped us with the famous Filipino words “sorry ma’am, we’re out of stock.” This meant they were all sold out of food and didn’t have anything left for us. To say that I was disappointed would be an understatement. Although no one was connecting with me the way I would’ve hoped, we all shared the gut-wrenching feeling of missing out on a delicious Filipino meal together. I felt like an outsider for the most part, not understanding where I belonged in all of this, plus I didn’t get to shovel spoonfuls of pancit into my mouth.
"It all comes down to acceptance and being able to nurture and appreciate both parts of my heritage."
The craving to just be me.
I wish I could say that I returned home with a smile and a belly full of food, but neither of those things happened. After the Filipino food truck, I went home and called my older brother, trying to hold back tears. I consider myself a strong girl, but this experience was disheartening. I hate feeling like I don’t belong to a culture I am so proud of, but I hate feeling like I have to conform to a singular identity. I found that pushing myself to do these things might make me uncomfortable or sad at the end of the day, but it allows me to explore these feelings that are part of the bigger picture in discovering personal identity. It wasn't the fault of any of those people, nor my own. It all comes down to acceptance and being able to nurture and appreciate both parts of my heritage, but a part of me is still working on that.
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