Food is my mother’s love language. She meticulously prepares cultural meals, searching for hard-to-find ingredients that are only sold in Asian stores – or sometimes that are only found growing in our garden or in the gardens of family friends. It was the aroma of family recipes from far away islands that greeted us coming home from school that expressed the extent of her love. Even long, exhausting days at work didn’t stop her from standing over bubbling pots and woks, stirring and mixing and frying. It was this love that assured us of all she did to nourish our bodies and souls.
In school, all of that was hidden. This love language translated into something that mirrored the dominant culture – peanut butter and jam sandwiches, apples and orange slices – something that was presentable and acceptable in public. The fluffy white rice was traded in for sliced bread and the light, delicate pancit bihon made space for cheese and crackers. The message that sometimes love had to look and sound and smell differently in different spaces and sometimes that’s how love protected us from teasing and comments that might make us feel like we did not belong. Sandwiches didn’t mean that we weren’t loved, it just meant that we were loved more freely at home when we were together. At home we could love one another in any language we chose.
I like to think that these things have changed since those days, but I see my nieces and nephews from the Philippines not eating their lunches at school. During supervision, I sometimes catch the comments at lunch hour from students who don’t understand the impact of their words and I see the reaction of those who are hurt by them.
My first attempt to counter this was to read a book about other cultures to my students. I thought if we could just read about culture, traditions, and foods, it would be enough to build empathy and help everyone to feel welcome and included. Simply reading a book would help us all understand food and belonging and love in a way that would change our community. However, I noticed that even the best books needed to be accompanied by conversation and community building. Beautiful stories and illustrations wouldn’t be enough without the invitation to humanize ourselves and others. Conversations would open the space for us to all share and build connections with one another.
Once I chose a book to read, I started by inviting the children into the conversation with my intention. This invitation sounded like, “I have some favourite foods that are important to me. I really love it when my family gets together because we like to eat spring rolls and pancit and those foods remind me of how much we love each other. Does anyone else have food that reminds them of their family?” This guided conversations around the idea of how important and special things are to each person, even when those things are different. Next, I introduced the text by saying, “In this story, we’re going to learn about one character’s special food. I want you to listen and see if you can find out what makes that food special.” Focussing their attention on what I was looking for helped us to stop during the reading and make notes of what we were reading.
The first book we read helped to celebrate foods and family, called Cora Cooks Pancit. We talked about and wrote about our important foods, using describing words about the flavours and textures and anything else we could brainstorm. The second book we read highlighted a misunderstanding between friends who were judging one another’s lunches, called The Sandwich Swap. We read this book with the intention of deciding together how we should treat each other, what we can do when we make a mistake, and how we can move forward when that happens. We learned how to be respectful when something is different from our experiences and how to help everyone to feel comfortable in class.
Finding the right book is challenging, but sometimes we don’t always need a text to navigate these conversations. Sometimes it’s a photo, a video, or a song that can spark how we engage in community conversation together. Sometimes it’s just sharing a story about my own life that the students can connect with and that allows for conversations to begin. In any of these opportunities to build an understanding of each other’s humanity, children are learning and sharing about themselves while they are learning about others.
It’s an imperfect solution to building belonging, but I think it’s a good place to start. I still dream of schools being accepting places where masking identity doesn’t feel necessary, where celebrating the entirety of ourselves is encouraged. I imagine a space where parents don’t have to learn a new love language and can hold onto traditions and cultural norms tightly, sending their children to school wrapped securely in comfort and confidence in their identity. I hope that these intentional decisions move us one step closer and that we can, by modeling and sharing, let all students know we care. I like to think, as an educator, that is my love language to students and families. We see you and celebrate you. You belong here.
