Turning 33 was a special year for my mom. It was the year she got her driver's license after three tries. A celebration was in order, and it came in the form of a trip to the grocery store — specifically 88 International Market and Cafe.
Up until this point, my mom had to rely on others to grab groceries or walk two miles to the nearest convenience store. It took a year and a half before she felt comfortable getting behind the wheel and even longer to get through the test with limited English. In Belton, Missouri, my mom often said no road led to home, just a version of it. Although bittersweet, her mantra became a mission to find even the smallest piece of home, and to do so, she needed her license — more importantly, she needed access. So when she did get it, 88 International Market — or 88’s, as my mom called it — seemed like the closest thing to home she could summon up in an unfamiliar place.
My mom planned the first trip to 88’s after getting her license like we were voyaging the seven seas. She woke up at the crack of dawn to pack the car with snacks, tote bags, and two copies of MapQuest directions she had 5-year-old me print out the night before. I had never seen my mom wear makeup until that morning. I remembered her pink glossy lips curling upwards when she added her license to her designer bag wallet.
“Makes my Chanel look even fancier, no?” she said with a goofy smile.
Even though 88’s didn’t open until 9 am, my mom decided it would be best to leave early. Driving still scared her, so she opted to drive on a day and time when the roads were kind and had the least amount of traffic. Therefore, my Saturday morning was spent following my mom, weaving in between the meticulously-organized aisles, frequently stopping when her eyes lit up as she saw a snack from her childhood. The supermarket chain offered a variety of traditional ingredients and authentic foods from all over Asia. You could find fish sauce from the Philippines right next to tubs of gochujang from Korea or an aisle dedicated to nothing but ramyun packets and cups. With giddy giggles, my mom snapped pictures of her selections to send them to her family and friends back in the Philippines. Our cart quickly filled up to the brim with a mountainous amount of items like rice, jars of sauces including Bagoong, a salty fermented shrimp paste, and Suka, a tart vinegar base, along with packets of lumpia wrappers.
As I got older, I noticed other moms like mine at 88’s. Each wore the same relaxed and pleased expression as they sifted through the water bin of silvery pieces of fish, clunky and prickly crabs, and shiny iridescent clams and oysters perched on an ice bath. It was the most sociable I’ve ever seen my mom. She smiled with teeth and carried on elaborate conversations with other women over which bag of greens is best for Singang na Baboy, a sour hot soup where tamarind and pork make your cheeks suck in, or how adding coconut vinegar to chicken adobo makes the brown, rendered sauce slightly sticky and glossy.
I noticed the permanent frown my mom wore eased when we went to 88’s. Any other store like Price Chopper, Walmart, or the Army base exchange store near our house dampened her spirit, like a thunderous cloud over her head. Our trips to those stores were robotic and listless. No mini-stories about my mother’s childhood, no exclamations of excitement when she found the perfect cut of fish, and no urgency to unpack the bags of groceries on the kitchen table when we returned home. Her internal storm ceased when she went to 88’s, and every store like it. There was no expectation to uphold an “American” identity or answer the god-awful question: ‘Where are you really from?’ She simply went shopping, fueled by the sheer desire to fill our pantry with the same abundance of home 88’s had instilled in their aisles. Our 30-minute drive turned into a whole-day affair, accompanied by savory shrimp chips and spiced-coated dried squid we feasted on the drive home.
Food meant more than sustenance. It was her lifeline.
The surge in Asian supermarkets is a product of immigration reform dating back to the mid-20th century. Uprooting the preexisting immigration quota system from the early 1920s, the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 initiated a system with skill-based requirements constructed by the labor needs in the United States along with the family unification clause. Not only did this lead to a mass influx of Asian immigrants, but it reshaped the current demographic of suburban communities post-WWII. About ten years after signing the bill, the population of Asian immigrants doubled. According to the Census Bureau, the Asian immigrant population increased by 70 percent by the 1980s.
Many who came to the United States hailed from different parts of Asia. Much like American grocery chains, Asian supermarkets became more and more mainstream with establishments like the Filipino-owned Pacific and Seafood Seafood City, the Taiwanese-owned 99 Ranch Market, the Korean-run H-Mart, the Japanese-owned Nijiya and Mitsuwa stores, the Indian Patel Brothers and Pioneer Cash & Carry stores, the Vietnamese-Chinese Shun Fat Supermarket, and many, many more.
Beyond the food, my mom frequented 88’s for the community bulletin board. Much like other pan-Asian grocery stores, 88’s served as an information-sharing hub. Colorful event fliers, advertisements for small businesses, and community news presented a literal collage of the AAPI diaspora. Connecting us with large potlucks, festivals, and holiday celebrations where multigenerational families used food to cross cultural divides and become a catalyst for business development. This announcement board afforded us opportunities that made rural Missouri feel less isolating when the lay of the land opened up to new restaurant locations, coffee and tea shops, beauty spas, and other local Asian grocers. On a personal level, it’s where my mom connected with other Filipinas and Asian/Pacific Islander women who regularly showcased their home foods as a symbol of friendship and reassurance that she’s not alone.
To this day, my mom talks about her childhood food as if they were heroic epics. Her animated hands dance as she vividly details the colorful array of vendors serving lechon, halo-halo, and balut on her way to school. Food followed her everywhere she went in the Philippines. Rain or sunshine, my mom received delicacies. Moving to America changed that, a common, yet startling change for many immigrants.
Her journey to finding a grocery store that reaffirmed her identity in 2006 looks different today considering the power of the internet and how items sold in most stores become viral like Buldak noodles and Melona popsicles garnering more customer demand.
As an adult, I reminisce about our grocery trips tenderly since I don’t live in the same state as my mom. I wonder when I’m standing in the designated “Asian Cuisine” section of a random American grocer if my mom also felt this wave of loneliness before. On those occasions, the hour-long drive to my nearest Asian grocery store is every bit worth it — along with calling my mom on the way home.