“Ma, malunggay na naman?”
Upon asking that with exasperation, my face would scrunch in disgust. Through my childhood years, my plate was constantly green. Long, stringy kangkong, bitter ampalaya, and all sorts of native greens filled my meals. These greens, I’d say, are borrowed. Usually, they were plucked from a wealthy neighbor’s backyard, where my mother would reach over the low wooden fences that separated our homes. In my eyes, they were nothing but pity giveaways from those who were well-off to us, who were one meal away from starvation.
How I envied other kids’ surface hatred towards vegetables. They hated the crunch, the mush, or the bitterness on their tongues. I hated my greens too, but my distaste ran deeper. Those leaves represented what I had and couldn’t have in my bowl.
It was humiliating to my young pride to smell the aroma of our neighbor cooking meat while we were left to cook the greens dispensable to them. A plate filled with meat was the ultimate symbol of success for my young eyes then. I watched with green, burning envy as classmates or characters on television sat down to crispy fried chicken, tender pork cuts, and rich beef stews. Meat was modern; meat meant comfort, wealth, and security. On the contrary, our green palate seemed to mock us daily, a reminder of where we stood and what we could only afford.
Vegetables were what you ate when you didn’t have enough pesos to even have a little piece of meat.
Vegetables were what you ate when you were poor.
Thankfully, I grew out of my childhood hatred, just a bit. Perhaps I was too close-minded to consider the other implications of vegetables. My newly found sense of maturity supplied that those free-offered greens from our neighbors weren't a stamp of proof that we were poor. In fact, I came to realize that we were quite rich.
Rich in connection.
Rich in kindness.
What I once viewed as an act of mere pity was actually a network of care within our neighborhood. They made sure no family went hungry because the backyards were shared, and the land was generous even when money was tight.
Still, I catch myself staring at my plate of greens with that familiar hesitation. But I remember I am not six anymore. My hatred for my greens and my shame of being left behind existed no more. Every vegetable I swallow aims to honor where I came from, and acknowledge that the very food I resented was what kept us nourished, connected, and whole.
“Ma, kailan ulit tayo kakain ng gulay?”
I no longer hated my greens.
Written by Reiza Jean Valesco
Reiza Jean Valesco is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
