For My People Who Love Spam

I love spam. And this is for my people who love spam.

I grew up eating spam.

Thinly sliced, crisped in the frying pan, with rice, gim, kimchi, and a fried egg. My favorite.

Cut into bite sized pieces and put into jji-gaes.

Spam gimbap. Yum.

In college, we were all broke, and my cousins invited my sister and me over for dinner and made spam spaghetti. (Onions, garlic, spam, and a jar of good ole’ Ragu.)

I’ve always loved spam. The salty goodness. It was part of regular grocery store trips with my mom. Nothing to notice. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing different about it.

I can’t remember the first time I found out that there were people who thought spam was disgusting.

“Mystery meat.”

“Unnatural.”

“People who eat that are gross.”

I do remember what I felt in that moment, though.

Another reminder that I’m different. Not in the norm. Not deemed what is good. Another reminder that I don’t belong. Another thing about me that I need to hide away.

I won’t get into the commonality between folks who like spam. A lot of us come from or have heritage from countries who have been occupied or continue to be occupied by the U.S. military. How hunger, often during wartime, necessitated incorporating military foods like spam into the diet. I won’t go into all the implications of that.

Because this one is for all my people who love spam like me.

I will get into the fact that there was a period of time, years, when I did not eat spam. A period of time when I rejected spam.

“It’s unhealthy.”

“Only gross people eat spam.”

“It’s mystery meat.”

Then, one day, I was just craving it. I had an amazing jar of kimchi at home. Perfectly fermented. Tasted so good with rice, gim, and a fried egg. And the only thing missing was spam.

I remember being in line at the grocery store, feeling a bit embarrassed that people were going to see that I was buying spam. It brought up memories of me as a child, speaking English extra loudly at the check out so that people knew that I didn’t have an accent like my mom.

I went home; opened the can. Such a familiar smell. That pink color. I thinly sliced the spam and heated it up in the pan. I had the rice in a bowl with a fried egg on top, a small plate of gim, some kimchi, and my perfectly crisped spam. That first bite brought me such joy. It was perfect. Why did I deny this part of me for so long?

I remember the scene in Always Be My Maybe. When a young Sasha Tran made dinner for herself, she made spam and rice. I remember how emotional that scene made me. It was maybe the first time, at age 43, that I’ve ever felt truly represented on any English language TV show or movie. I remember how validated I felt. I felt visible. Nothing to hide here. Of course, we all ate spam as kids!

So for my people who love spam, I see you. Wanna go grab a spam musubi? Hit me up, let’s go! Craving some jji-gae with spam? Let’s meet up at the spot in K-town. Need that spam gimbap with a side of kimchi? I got you.

I love spam. And this is for my people who love spam.

P.S.
Hell yeah, we should love spam. It’s friggin’ delicious!

This blog post is part of the #31DaysIBPOC Blog Challenge, a month-long movement to feature the voices of indigenous and teachers of color as writers and scholars. Please CLICK HERE to read yesterday’s blog post by Sawan Jabar (and be sure to check out the link at the end of each post to catch up on the rest of the blog circle).