This is the paper I submitted as the final paper for the Winter Quarter Comparative Eurasian Foodways program. It will be included with major edits in the culminating paper I submit at the end of the academic year, serving as a jumping-off point/introduction.

It is becoming widely understood that a slow but steady shift in how we think about food has been occurring. With roots in social activism in the 1960s, building in such loci as Alice Waters’ organic, locavore-minded Chez Panisse, opened in 1971, and with a burgeoning body of scholarship in the twenty-first century, modern progressive food movements (an umbrella term which includes various efforts such as an emphasis on locally-sourced ingredients, sustainability, farmworker justice, etc.) have been quietly gaining steam for decades. Recently, writers like Michael Pollan, Marion Nestle, and Eric Schlosser have furthered popular awareness of the necessity of these movements, along with the efforts of celebrity chefs and the explosion of food as entertainment in popular culture. Despite all of this attention and awareness, there has been much criticism—scholarly and otherwise—of the inaccessibility of some of these movements, entwined with their overwhelming “white-ness.” As John Burdick puts it in an article on race politics in food pedagogy:

              “…by frequently utilizing discourses of pastoralism, localism, purity, a premium placed on agricultural labor, and an idealized image of a lush agricultural past, many of the advocates of the Food Movement have conjured a romanticized and whitewashed vision of American agriculture.” (Burdick, 2014)

              Though speaking specifically here about the agricultural aspect of food networks, Burdick’s point remains true across the board. There are many branches of the “Food Movement,” with emphases on food justice, food security, food sovereignty, but the ones that garner the most public attention are sustainability, organic certification, and locality. These three are at the forefront of popular discussion, but arguably lend themselves most to whitewashing and inaccessibility. As many of us know from our visits to grocery stores and/or farmers’ markets, the increase in perceived quality that comes from these labels comes with a directly correlated uptick in price. As a result, communities with little wealth and social mobility—disproportionally those of color and immigrants—become excluded from the start.

              With immigrants in particular, the picture becomes even more muddled. For many families transplanted to U.S. shores, a desire to assimilate and become “American” is balanced with the need to maintain the tradition of their homeland. It is a struggle that differs from community to community, household to household, individual to individual. But this, like the rest of human experience, is inextricably tied to food culture. Performance of identity, whether in regards to “American-ness” or to the identity of the motherland, is most prominent and pressing in the choices made in terms of food preparation. Are we having empanadas for dinner, or macaroni and cheese? Are the dumplings stuffed with red bean paste or are they Pizza Pockets out of the freezer? Do we go to Safeway or to the H-Mart across town? These questions and more are at the fore of many immigrants’ minds as they navigate the potentially treacherous avenues of a new home.

              These communities often do not share the idealistic priorities of the advocates of progressive food movements. Partially because of this, and partially because of deep-seated perceptions and realities of racial boundaries, immigrant communities assume a certain level of exclusion from alternative food networks. Rachel Slocum points out that “while the ideals of healthy food, people, and land are not intrinsically white, the objectives, tendencies, strategies, the emphases and absences and the things overlooked in [alternative] food make them so.” (Slocum, 2007) A student of Alison Hope Alkon, professor of sociology at University of the Pacific, reflects a common mode of thinking as she reflects in a paper for Alkon’s class:

              “I have always thought of farmers’ markets being expensive and full of white people. Therefore, I have never really gone to them…I do however go to flea markets and the Asian farmers’ market…but to be honest I never even thought of it as being a farmers’ market. I thought of it as more like an open-air market…because it is open way too early in the morning, there are not that many white customers or vendors, and the food is cheap.” (Alkon and Vang, 390)

              As we can see, immigrants and communities of color will often exclude their own alternative food work from the larger movement, because they do not identify with the framework that has been created in that narrative. While the food priorities for immigrants often include affordability and the ability to find ingredients from the homeland, the larger food movement zeroes in on buzzwords like “organic” and “local.” In many ways, these are at odds. For the food we purchase at the store to be labeled organic requires an expensive certification process that not only makes the final product less affordable—and therefore inaccessible or undesirable to those with less means—but also can be prohibitive for small-scale farmers entering the market.

The topic of locality, in the context of the immigrant population discussion, calls for even more scrutiny. In response to the ever more apparent damaging consequences of the modern, global industrial food system, food movement advocates have embraced and supported efforts to bring food sourcing more close to home. Slow Food International, with chapters all over the world, is just one example of an organization born of the growing focus on “buying local.” As the foundational Slow Food Manifesto states, “To escape the tediousness of ‘fast-food,’ let us rediscover the rich varieties and aromas of local cuisines.” (“Slow Food Manifesto”). Though apparently a worthwhile pursuit, this angle tends to gloss over the realities of transnational life, in which millions of people whether by choice or coercion find themselves in far-reaching locales, distant from their places of origin. Valiente-Neighbours points out that “the local food literature’s focus on the effects of globalization and industrialization on the food system lacks a critical transnational perspective because it overlooks the movement of people necessitated by those processes.” (531) The “local” rhetoric also generally ignores the fact that “a call to eat locally invokes spaces that have been settled, colonized, ruptured, and remade through complex processes of human movement and environmental history making.” (Mares and Peña, 198)

For an example of a transnational community, I have focused my research efforts on Filipinos in the United States. “Transnationalism” can be defined as a term which “describes how immigrants who live in one place still nurture ‘home ties’ in their country of origin alongside efforts at integration into their country of residence.” (Valiente-Neighbours, 533) I know from personal experience that the Filipinx community is a prime example of this. For more objective proof, one only needs to turn to the significance of foreign remittances in the Philippine GDP—just over 10% in 2018, which amounts to over 33 billion dollars. (The Global Economy) This is a testament to the strong connections between OFW’s (Overseas Filipino Workers) and the small island nation from whence they came.

If we as a global society are to move forward in terms of creating more sustainable and just food systems, it seems necessary that we strive to include all people in those efforts. In the scratching of the surface I have done in this research, it appears that there are no clear answers to the question of reconciling these differences. Most people can agree that it is important to uphold cultural tradition and identity, but this is also an act that inherently draws boundaries, which can serve to impede—or at least make more difficult—a unified movement to improve our food systems. To “improve” in this context can mean many different things, some of which erode the achievements of others. It is my argument that although there are numerous difficulties in establishing cultural identity as a fundamental pillar of progressive food movements, it may be that Filipinx-American cuisine is more well-suited to the effort than others. 

Culinary tradition is rooted in place. Cuisine is born of the climate and the set of raw ingredients naturally available, which eventually evolves into a codified repertoire of preparations and, finally, into a tradition that can theoretically be transplanted from its place of origin. With such movements come complications. How can one prepare a Ghanian fufu, Egyptian fattah, or a Japanese yosenabe without plantains, mastic, or bonito flakes, respectively? In the modern era, one can find “exotic” ingredients with far more ease than in the past, especially in urban areas. But what of the issue of “food miles?” It would seem that a Ghanian mother preparing her traditional recipes for her family here in the United States necessitates going against the fundamental principles of the locavore movement. A simple and oft-turned-to answer to this is to find local ingredients to substitute with. This is a significant choice to make. The primary reasons for preparing traditional dishes often include enacting memories of childhood, evoking memories of distant or lost family members, and introducing cultural history to foreign-born children—what happens to the effect and affect of these actions as ingredients and methods are shifted out? The next generation begins to think of a particular recipe with those new ingredients, and the tradition—the cultural narrative—begins to become lost.

Bearing all of this in mind, I turn to Filipinx cuisine, which may prove to be unique with regards to translocal adaptation. It begins with the Philippines’ particular history of ethnic mixing, its colonial/imperial relations with Western powers, and its modern status as a nation with a pan-global diaspora of OFW’s. When Ferdinand Magellan first laid eyes on the Philippine archipelago in 1521, the collection of over seven thousand islands were already home to a wide variety of peoples. “Dissimilarity also characterizes the Philippine people. They speak eight different languages and some seventy dialects, and the linguistic jumble is only one clue to their variety.” (Karnow, 38) Malay people had been residents of the islands for thousands of years, while Chinese traders, Muslim missionaries, and other Southeast Asian cultures had had a presence there for centuries. The influences of these various traditions still have their marks in Philippine language and culinary tradition. (Karnow, 38-39)

When Spanish colonial rule began in the 16th century, the colonizers not only brought Spanish culinary influence, but that of indigenous Mexican peoples as well. Their three-century presence in the islands explains the ubiquity of Hispanic surnames and dishes, though many of the latter have evolved to such an extent that the similarity to the original extends no farther than the name. This was the state of things when American imperialism stepped in at the end of the 19th century, with its particular brand of industry and haughty belief in benevolent superiority. Through the establishment of an American educational system with a heavy emphasis on “domestic science,” the US rapidly reworked the state of Filipinx cuisine: “[In domestic science classes,] students were taught the nutritional superiority of refined sugars, red meats like beef, animal fats, hydrogenated fats like shortenings, and highly processed foods.” (Mabalon, 153)

By the time Filipinx people were immigrating to the United States in significant numbers, they were already carrying with them a culinary “tradition” that was comprised of myriad sources from all over the globe. This already multi-faceted gustatory quilt was further elaborated here in the US by “the lack of Philippine ingredients; conditions in the fields and canneries where Filipinas/os were forced to cook and eat; the abundance of unfamiliar yet delicious local foods foraged from the land and water; the coming together of [various Filipinx identities]; and their migratory life…” (Mabalon, 171) Instead of being based on ingredients tied to a particular place, “tradition” for Filipinx peoples came to be enacted by the method and spirit of preparation.

Doreen Fernandez describes this as the “indigenizing process” in Filipinx cuisine:

“…Filipino sautéing, however, has become set into a pattern: heat the oil; sauté the garlic till golden brown; add the onions and sauté till soft and transparent; add the sliced tomatoes and sauté till cooked…this preliminary process can Filipinize anything—cauliflower, leftover fish, scrambled eggs, noodles, paella, and even canned mackerel from Japan.” (Fernandez, 224)

The idea is that, due to the nature of the culinary history of the Philippine islands, control over the traditional narrative has to be enacted in the moment of commensality. In other words, when so many players are vying for space in your own cultural history, what better place to practice reifying of self than at the dinner table? Fernandez goes on to articulate how the practice of sawsawan—the “galaxy of flavor adjusters”—always allows the Filipinx eater to participate in a meal, and make it their own particular experience. (225) Tables are set with an array of vinegars, chili sauces, miso, and bagoong (shrimp paste), all of which are permitted to be added to the main dishes without fear of retribution from the Filipinx chef. This mentality of a cooperative experience between the preparer and the consumer of the meal makes for a more flexible, identity-reinforcing process. Between the methods of cooking and the methods of eating, a Filipinx meal—an experience which in itself provides an opportunity to enact cultural identity—can be made anywhere, with any ingredients.

At this moment in time, it is difficult to articulate one correct manner with which to move the ideals of progressive food movements forward—particularly if our goal is to include cultural identity among the tenets of the movement. Advocates for positive change lean towards a desire to homogenize, to consider “progress” only if particular priorities are highlighted. It would be easy to say that shopping at the Asian market for produce shipped across oceans violates fundamental principles of Slow Food, or that because certain immigrant communities cannot afford organic foods means that they do not participate in alternative food networks. The situation is more complex than that. Enacting cultural identity is vital to the transmission of specific embodied knowledges; cultural and cognitive frameworks that may have originated in a particular place but if they are to survive must be supported. Though it may be true that “many Filipino American elders caution the younger generation not to identify as Filipino…[and] strive toward Whiteness and assimilation,” those younger generations—particularly those born abroad—strive to reconnect to the cultural values they see as lacking in their geographic locale. (Tuason et al. 362)

This process of reconnection is most simply and most firmly performed in the everyday act of preparing and eating food. it may be impossible to fully reconcile the priorities and foodways of immigrant populations with those of burgeoning progressive food movements. However, it seems that the inherent flexibility unique to Filipinx cuisine allows it to fit more readily within the movements’ frameworks, which may serve as a foot in the door for other transnational cultures seeking to both promote identity and improve our food systems.