Eating while immigrant: The bitter taste of assimilation and the joy of 'stinky' food
(This story was presented by the author at Printers Row Lit Fest this June, during a session of Between Bites, the Chicago-based storytelling group.)
Ashley T. handed me a pink cloud wrapped in a wrinkly, silver piece of paper. On top, a shower of red and white hearts. The thing smelled suspiciously sweet, almost sickly so, but tantalizing nonetheless. What was this thing?
It was 1990, and my family had just moved to Orange County, Calif., from the Philippines. I was experiencing my first kindergarten birthday party, and I didn't understand this ritual, as I was attending school for the first time. I was new to the country, new to English. Was this freckled girl with mouse-brown hair trying to poison me? The thing she put in front of me seemed innocuous enough - the pink swirl on top matched her pink gingham dress - and the other kids seemed to be enjoying it. Except for one kid covered in crumbs and the
