A Journey from Cultural Erasure to Advocacy
The other day, I found myself staring at a slice of pizza, hesitating before cutting into it with a knife and fork. It might seem like a small, seemingly insignificant moment, but it held the weight of years of unspoken pain. Trauma has a way of lingering, of resurfacing when you least expect it, and resurrecting wounds you don’t realize you have.
When I was a toddler, my family moved to America, leaving behind our home, my mother, and my baby brother.
In Filipino culture, food is more than just something to eat; it’s a language, a way of expressing love, connection, and identity. Eating with our hands is part of that language—a tactile, intimate way of engaging with our food and, by extension, our heritage.
As I grew up (in the USA) and entered grade school, I longed for the connection to my mother and our culture that seemed so far away. I began testing eating with my hands as my way of holding onto that connection, of keeping a piece of her close to me. But in Northern Michigan, this simple, meaningful but harmless act was quickly forbidden. I didn’t understand it then, but now I realize I was violating social norms dictated by the dominant culture—rules and expectations created by white folx that everyone else is expected to follow.
In America, the dominant culture centers on ideals rooted in European traditions—standards that dictate everything from the way we speak to the way we eat. These standards are presented as the “correct” or “civilized” way to do things, and anything outside of them is often dismissed as lesser, primitive, or wrong. For a biracial, first-generation child like me, trying to navigate life, these messages were confusing.
In school, I quickly learned that eating with my hands, as my mother did, was unacceptable. I was told that eating with my hands was how poor people eat, that it was dirty and improper. My hands were often smacked away from my plate, and a lunch lady once told me if I didn’t use utensils, she’d let me go hungry. These weren’t casual comments; they were reflections of a system designed to erase differences and enforce conformity to the dominant culture’s standards.
And it worked. I stopped eating with my hands and soon required a fork and knife for all consumption, even tacos - even pizza. Instead of feeling more American, I felt less whole, as if the very things that made me who I am were being chipped away. The impact of being told that my culture was wrong—was somehow animalistic—left me with a complex that would follow me for years. It wasn’t just about eating; it was about the continuous unspoken message that my culture, my identity, was inferior. And it was drilled into me in countless ways—eating with my hands is only one.
This is the insidious nature of assimilation. It’s not just about adopting new ways of being; it’s about erasing the old ones. It’s about making people feel that to belong, they must shed the parts of themselves that don’t fit the mold created by white folx. But what I’ve learned over the years is that these wounds can heal, and healing begins with reclaiming the parts of ourselves that we were taught to reject.
Trauma doesn’t just exist in our minds; it lodges itself in our bodies, creating physical manifestations of our emotional pain. For me, talking and sharing have been monumental in my healing process, helping to release the grip that these buried traumas hold over me. The power of voicing our experiences cannot be underestimated—it’s through this sharing that we find not only our own healing but the strength to help others heal as well.
Racial healing is about more than just personal reflection; it’s about recognizing the systemic forces that have sought to diminish our cultures and our identities. It’s about creating spaces where we can celebrate those parts of ourselves that were once shamed, where we can reconnect with the traditions that ground us. It’s about understanding that the journey to healing is both individual and collective, woven together by shared experiences and histories.
This path of reflection and reclamation has led me to create my Allyship to Advocacy offering. It’s born from the belief that to move forward, we must first look back. We must delve into our stories, our histories, our traumas, and understand how they shape us. And in doing so, we find a way to heal—not just for ourselves, but for our communities, for those who come after us.
I invite you to join me on this journey. Together, we can explore where your understanding of the world comes from and how it impacts your place in it. Whether you choose to join our free biweekly calls or work with me privately, as a group or individual, you’ll be contributing to a movement that empowers Black and brown folx, helping us reclaim our narratives and reshape the future.
It’s time to reclaim our stories, to embrace the richness of our cultures, and to use them as a force for change. Let’s build a community rooted in empathy, understanding, and, ultimately, advocacy. Your participation isn’t just an opportunity for personal growth—it’s a step toward collective healing and justice.
Comments