Foodblind

I was recently at a potluck for a diversity and inclusion group gathering in our town.  Accordingly the food was diverse, as were the attendees.  Many told their stories of belonging and not belonging to the country they call home, America.  I was struck by how much of their unique experiences I had little knowledge of, either because I am not close friends with people in their particular group or because they may not feel free to share their stories and struggles in most spaces.

It reminded me that somehow in our efforts to be inclusive we attempt colorblindness.  We treat everyone as equally as we can, yet we are somehow blind to the lives around us.  We see faces and not their varied beauty.  We miss these stories that are part of the humans in front of us.

At an international potluck like this, what if we didn’t discriminate, but respectfully treated each food the same as we would the bread on our sandwiches?  Dumplings are ravioli, baklava is cake, yakisoba is pasta, curry is chili, salsa is ketchup.  What if like being colorblind we were also “foodblind”?

If we were foodblind, we would miss out on all the different flavors presented to us: spices and herbs from distant lands, textures that are delightfully different and awaken our palates, recipes that have been handed down through generations and recall a place and a home both far away and in our town.  You would forget that this lovely feast is set out by caring hands, and that in each morsel you have been briefly invited into their homes and lives.

We also forget how these cultures are already intricately woven into this country that we call home, such that we forget the lives and stories and magnificence behind them.  As we drink coffee in the morning we forget to appreciate that it was born from far away Ethiopia.  The tea you sip was also drunk by generations of Chinese and other East Asian aristocracy.  The sugar sweetening the bitterness of your morning drinks forever changed the history of the islands and countries of the Americas.  The chocolate we indulge in, from Hershey’s kisses to boutique shop truffles, are from the beans our Mexican ancestors cultivated.

And as we celebrate Thanksgiving, lets not forget that the corn in our cornbread is descended from a species that New England natives carefully adapted from their Mexican origins to their local soil.  The pumpkins in our pies are from their home gardens, planted to feed their families through harsh winters and times of scarcity.  The turkeys that we now feast on were used for their feathers for graceful adornment.  The cranberries in our sauce were used as dye for clothing, medicine, and dried as part of their version of energy bars.

Just as I connected the dots between the dishes at this international potluck and the stories of the people who brought them, I hope that we can all recover from this foodblindness.  I hope that we remember in our everyday meals there is the collective heritage of so many peoples.  We often blindly accept their inheritance as ours, but not so much their people.  We often look at those that are different from us and notice their “otherness”, that they are not one of “us”.  Yet, they have always been present around us and in us, in our collective inheritance.  Our culture is not just descended from Europe, but from Africa, Asia, the islands, the Americas.  Their heritage is our heritage, their stories are our stories, and their struggles are not separate from our struggles, because their victories are our victories.  They have always been a part of us and will forever be.