Think Outside the Box

“Don’t leave any rice in your bowl” my elementary textbook would say, “Uncle Farmers worked very hard to grow rice under the burning sun, the rice you eat is the product of their sweat and tears.” The book then continues on to tell a tear-jerking story of an unappreciative boy who abandoned his bowl of rice to go play with his friends, resulting in his mother giving him a lesson about appreciating the food that men had dedicated their lives for in order to feed the children of China. After the teacher read this story, she followed with a lesson about the importance of rice in Chinese culture, the men that fought to protect the fields from enemy raids, the hard labor that goes into every harvest. As she lectured to a classroom full of young, innocent faces and bright brown eyes, I wonder if she ever knew how much those words would have stayed in my mind after all these years, after I've moved across the ocean and adapted to a completely different culture.

At a young age, I took her words at face value. I went home to tell my parents about what I learned in school that day; but their attention was consumed by the news that our family will be moving to America. I didn't really understand what it meant to move to another country, but it sounded fun. I was told that America is the epitome of luxury, I will have the best education, the best food, the best lifestyle. I will be speaking English, and will no longer have to be under the Chinese educational system. America is heaven for the youth, and I planned on taking full advantage of it. One thing I was told that I would miss is the food, the traditional Chinese meals, I love the variety and the closeness you feel with everyone else when eating it. You never have “your” dish, all dishes are shared with everyone else on the table, this is the same whether you eat at home, or outside, with closest friends and family, or complete strangers. Eating the same dishes is a reflection of basic hospitality, simple, yet heartwarming.

I will always remember the casual meals that my parents would have with their co-workers. All the children would first stand shyly by our parents sides as they talked about work, life, and about us... But soon, our attentions were more fixed on the table full of dishes, that vibrant sea of colors, textures, and smells. I, along with the other kids, began our exploration with spoons and adolescent minds, taking samples from all kinds of different plates. I took a bite of the lotus root, it's clean and savory flavor immediately opened my appetite, I began to venture onto the “Beggar Chicken”, it's wrapped in lotus leaves and baked in mud. The natural scent of the earth blended with the pure delight of the lotus leaf made my little mouth drool and my body relaxed as I craved for more. I moved onto the fish, and my taste buds exploded with the combination of the tender starved fish meat and flavorful sweet and tangy vinegar glaze. I cleansed my mouth with a sip of green tea and went onto to explore a dozen more dishes. At the end of the meal, I laid around with other kids like little fat balloons trying to tag each other while laying down, waiting for our parents to finish. That would be the last memory I had of those meals.

First arriving in America, I was as confused and helpless as a fish out of water. Everyone looked different; they’re speaking a language I don’t understand, and living a lifestyle I was unfamiliar with. Everyone drives everywhere, the only people who are on the streets are runners and the homeless, no street food in sight, only mass chain restaurants that seem to reflect the commercialized nature of western food.

Learning English and understanding American culture couldn't happen overnight, so I began my assimilation through one thing I knew was universal – food. Unfortunately, McDonald’s was my official introduction to American food, and not surprisingly, the unappealing presentation of greasy meat slapped together with bread and raw vegetables disgusted me. This so called “food”, blank with its taste, was also blank in its meaning. I was used to eating every meal and every dish knowing what I was eating and where it came from. But the stale burger in front of me tells me nothing, and I knew it was more than just the language barrier, it was a pile of meaningless biomass, a random compilation of matter waiting to be consumed into empty vessels. This so called “food” is culture-less, emotionless. A sense of nostalgia overwhelmed my mind, I miss the real meals I used to have.

In search of the real food culture in America, I ventured out to all kinds of restaurants. Throughout these years, I have compiled my list of favorite foods as my taste adjusted to the standards of American dining. But there are some things that will never change; in fact, the difference of culture became more obvious to me. In America, you go into a restaurant, look at the menu and order for yourself, you eat your own plate of food, you pay for yourself. Eating out with a group of friends is really just eating by yourself with others who are doing the same. People in America are in love with closure and their individual spaces, people seem to close themselves off in invisible boxes, they work in a box, move in a box, live in a box, eat out of a box. People move from one box to the next, the food people eat comes in boxes, made in boxes, and given out in boxes. When I drive on the road, I don’t see people; I see miles and miles of concrete decorated with cubical buildings and cars. I see people confined in their own little bubbles they like to call personal freedom, while pointing out flaws of “communist” China, how no one has freedom there, as if they have lived there and know the joy of eating with everyone else and understanding the story of your food.

Being in the land of freedom, I enjoy my freedom of pursuing my life the way I want to. But in the end, I am a minority and will always be subjected to some form of discrimination. But I did not expect that the food I eat could become a way to degrade me. I can’t read a controversial article regarding race without escaping comments that uses food to demean people’s heritage. “burrito”, “wonton”, “taquito” etc… I’ve seen all of them being used as derogatory slangs. In 2007, a controversial article was published on the CU Campus Press, the piece called for all of CU to capture any Asians they see, hog tie them and then Americanize them using humiliating methods, including “feeding” them America food and replacing their rice cookers with George Foreman Grills. Under every news coverage of this story, in every comment area, there would be people who would say something to the extent of “these fucking rice-eating gooks needs to go back to wherever they came from” I didn’t know eating rice could be a reason for people to see me as un-American. At least I understand the importance of rice in the Chinese culture, I am still reminded of the story from the elementary textbook, and I know it is a cultural icon of Chinese people’s commonality and pride for their nation. It is the basis of our meals, the foundation of communities. It is celebrated as part of our culture like food should to every culture. A sacred symbol that cannot be harmed by ignorance.
So then, my mind wandered, what is the basis of American food? What is to define America’s culture? My experience with American food had been rather disappointing; all I’ve seen in American food is the culture of corporate control. Food is made for a society of individuals in boxes who consumes without knowing its meaning; they abuse food and use it to demean others. My list of favorite American foods grew longer, but they were all solely based on taste, I still found them empty in meaning.

Ten years had gone by since I first set foot in this country. My family seems to have finally achieved the American dream, a big house, three cars, two kids, and steady jobs. I am in college and on my way to becoming a doctor. My little sister is in the second grade and very assimilated to the American culture. I love my freedom, my independence, and what my experiences had made me. But I still remorse over my lack of passion towards American food culture.

Our new house needed to be furnished and decorated, and my mother decided to buy a grill because all of our neighbors had it. Having never grilled anything before, I decided to test my skills in cooking by making a couple of steaks and with a few friends. After seasoning the raw steaks, they were thrown onto the grill. The meat hissed liked an angry snake, releasing the juicy aroma into the air, spreading the lovely haze all over the neighborhood. The smell was like a contagious infection, people came out of their boxes and into their backyards, setting up their grills to get away from their TV dinners. Their grills were on, burgers, hotdogs, corn, they all sizzelled and released their unique aroma, blending with the smell of our steak, forming an aromatic ensemble. Dogs bark as they chase kids playing around, neighbors gathered outside to catch up on each other’s lives, all under the gentle veil of the warm summer sunset. The whole scene gave me a sense of basic joy that I haven't experienced since I last had a traditional Chinese meal.

My friends and I opened some beers to enjoy the moment, all the while basking in aroma of perfectly seasoned steaks. And I understood right then, that American food does have its stories. Its story isn’t one that’s written in textbooks or told to you by your teachers, nor is it defined by a set culture. They are stories that you can shape however you like, you can set your own importance to the food you eat, as with all food. This is the reflection of American culture, the celebration of individuality and freedom. Thinking back to these ten years, I’ve experienced poverty, hardship, love, happiness… emotions and stories of all extremities, and it would be a lie if I said that I can’t associate American food with these stories. I guess that is the essence of freedom, the liberty to determine every aspect of your life. Although this is different from the Chinese culture, it comforts me to think that I finally understood the importance of American food, and I love it just as much. I took the sizzling steaks off the grill and cut into the juicy meat along with my friends, I took a bite of it, and it was the best thing I've ever tasted.