Rice, Spoons, and Forks

I was four years old the first time I ate at an All-American restaurant. I vaguely

remember the decorations on the walls, an arrangement of objects and pictures that embodied

Americana and westerns, like horseshoes or guns. The waitress led my family to our table and

we all took our seats. My brother and I sat on one side of the booth, and my mom and dad sat

across from us. On our table were four cloth napkins rolled up and shaped like the cigarettes my

dad smoked inside the house. My mom unrolled my napkin and told me to put it on my lap, a

custom I’d never seen before. When she did this, a pairing of two things fell out from the napkin,

a concept that was foreign to me at the time: a knife and a fork.

At that age, even now, I considered this blasphemous. Who in their right mind would eat

with a knife and fork? What are you supposed to use to scoop up the food? How the hell do you

cut meat without a spoon? I balked at the idea of using a knife because the spoon and fork combo

was my norm. The traditional Filipino way to eat is this: you pin down, say, a piece of meat with

the fork and then you take the knife-edge of the spoon (as far as I know Filipinos are one of the

few cultures able to find the knife-edge of a spoon) and you cut away at the meat. Once it’s cut,

you lay the spoon on the plate and, using the fork, you push the food onto the spoon. The spoon

then proceeds, as an airplane would, into the mouth. This isn't to say knives are nonexistent in

the Philippines, because there are plenty, used for combat; we don’t need them as dinnerware,

but the Filipino's way of eating, to a Westerner's eye, is a weird way. I asked my mom if she

could get me a spoon. From what I remember, everyone else in my family was perfectly fine

eating with a knife and fork. I was the outlier, the one not willing to adapt. No, I thought, they
will adapt to ​me​. My mom asked the waitress for a spoon and she later returned with one. I was

ready now.

From that point on, I always looked at any waitress' face whenever my mom or I, when I

was bold enough to do it myself, asked for a spoon. I wanted to know how wrong it was, if at all.

Because if it was wrong, it was different, and if you’re different, life can be that much harder.

Some waitresses wore unquestioning smiles on their faces, which I did not know how to

appreciate then, while others scrunched their faces in bewilderment like, "But you didn't order

soup." Yeah, I didn't order soup, but I'm eating food and I want to eat food like a Filipino, so get

me a damn spoon.

We ordered our food and we waited. When our waitress arrived, I was shocked in seeing

that our food was missing an important component, except for my brother’s cheeseburger, which

I knew was never served with this ingredient but with French fries. My plate was grilled tilapia

and vegetables. It was a familiar meal except for the empty space where I would have heaved a

hefty portion of white rice onto. I was hungry and the food was fragrant, but the rest of the plate

didn't matter because of that empty space. Our dinner was mostly consisted of dishes I’d already

eaten because of America’s influence on Filipino culture. I’ve eaten ribs, burgers, steak, and

meatloaf, but those were things my mom would bring home from a restaurant or cook herself and

they would all be served with rice. I did not eat steak with grilled vegetables and potatoes. I ate

steak with rice and soy sauce. Imagine eating something every single day and always enjoying it,

never tiring of it, something that’s essentially been a part of your life as far back as you can

remember, and suddenly it’s gone. I did not know how to eat food without it, and I was too

occupied with what was missing instead of enjoying what was in front of me. Sure, the actual
reason we ate rice was because it was used as filler and meat was preciously rationed, but rice

became something much more to me. When I asked my mom about it she said that not all meals

in America are served with rice, and all I could say was what a child seeking answers from the

universe would ask: why? Why did every meal I have up until that point include rice? A part of

me wanted to go back to the Philippines.

I still ate the food and it was delicious, but I became worried that every meal from then

on was going to be an ordeal. My mom did not understand my confusion. Instead of trying to

understand, she just told me to eat. She and my dad had already been living in America for a few

years before she brought my brother and me. To her, the spoon and fork was a preference,

something that had changed during her time in America. However, I viewed it as a way of life.

My mom could not explain the intricacies of borders, culture, and race to a four-year-old. She

could not say that people looked at us differently without worrying me into thinking we were

outsiders, which of course we were just by virtue of coming from another land. She probably

didn’t think of that night in this way. She probably just saw her youngest son whining about his

food and utensils. All my mom could say to me was that there were just some people who didn't

do things the way we did.

I can’t say this realization was freeing because this awareness made me more

self-conscious, which was imprisoning for a child born in another country and who only wanted

to fit in. At that dinner table, I realized some things about me that were different, how I ate and

what I ate. I’m aware that those are only two characteristics, but to some people in America, a

place often bragged about as a melting pot, food is all they need to brand someone as an outsider.

But to the outsider, they can be just as foreign.