My personal reflections on cultural assimilation and first-generation identity

Credit: Rupert Whitely @ Providece Journal

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 and resurfacing when you least expect it. It resurrects wounds you don’t realize you have.

Let's take a journey into my personal reflections on cultural assimilation and first-generation identity

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 and keeping a piece of her close to me. But in Northern Michigan, this meaningful, harmless act was quickly forbidden. I didn’t understand it then, but now I realize I was violating social norms dictated by dominant culture... rules and expectations created by white folx that everyone 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 and creates 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 deep personal reflection and 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. The journey to healing is both individual and collective, woven together by shared experiences and histories.