126
My
Cypriot Cookbook: Re-imagining My Ethnicity
SAGE Publications, Inc.200410.1191/0967550704ab009oa
MariaAntoniou
University of Brighton, UK, ma8@brighton.ac.uk
Address
for correspondence: Maria Antoniou, Centre for Learning and Teaching, University
of Brighton, Mayfield House, Falmer, BN1 9PH, UK; Email: ma8@brighton.ac.uk
This article is written in
the form of a cookbook. It contains recipes for four Cypriot dishes, along
with my taped and then transcribed commentaries on preparing them. I locate
food making and eating as auto/biographical practices and, particularly, as
methods for examining personal and social identities. I use the cookbook to
explore my Cypriot ethnicity and to understand the problematic ways it interacts
with my lesbian sexuality. At the start of the article, I discuss how, until
now, I have marginalised my Cypriotness in order to claim a lesbian identity.
But whilst cooking Cypriot food, I begin to re-imagine my ethnicity and to
re-story myself as both Cypriot and lesbian. Throughout the article, I explore
memories, reflect upon my relationship to racial and ethnic categories, and
examine personal geographies and notions of `home'.
Menu
Fish with lemon and garlic Baked butter beans Green beans with tomato and
onion Olive bread (All recipes serve two people) Fish with lemon and garlic
2 small, whole fish, or 2 fish fillets salt and pepper juice of 1 lemon 1
clove garlic, chopped 50 ml olive oil handful chopped parsley
127
Wash
fish. Put in bowl and season. Pour lemon juice over and leave to marinate
for one hour. Put fish in shallow saucepan with lemon juice. Add garlic and
oil. Cover and simmer gently until tender. Scatter parsley over. Serve. COMMENTARY
I'm unpacking my shopping bags. I'm looking for the fish. I purpose- fully
ordered fish so that I could make this recipe. I already have the other ingredients.
Cypriot store cupboard basics: lemon, olive oil, garlic, parsley. The taste
of my ethnicity? I imagine that my genes are marinated in this mixture. I
suspect my body fluids carry a lemon, olive oil, garlic, parsley trace. I'm
gathering my ingredients together. Assembling my equipment: bowl, saucepan,
knife, fish slice. I'm clearing a space for myself. Wiping kitchen surfaces.
I'm taping this. Recording my thoughts while I cook. A tape recorder is a
writing tool. Useful when I'm doing something else. When I have my hands full
and can't use them to write. I can tape my ideas and later transcribe them.
`You might be working on the hem of a dress and you begin to think about how
it was with your ex-husband and you want to write about it. Your hands are
busy sewing; you can talk about it into a recorder' (Goldberg, 1986: 7). A
notebook would get wet in the kitchen. I'd have to stop my cooking to write.
The food would take forever to prepare. Or the food would burn. But a tape
recorder is more than a practical tool. I'm using the tape because I'm having
trouble writing this article. I can't express my thoughts straight onto the
page. I want to write about my ethnicity. My Cypriotness. How do I define
and experience Cypriotness as my ethnic identity? How do I relate Cypriotness
to my sense of body and self? What are the implications, more widely, for
theorizing the rela- tionships between my body, self and identity? Between
my identity, place and `home'? These are difficult questions. Questions I
have so far avoided. Although I superficially label myself Cypriot, my Cypriot
self remains unexplored. In everyday life, I marginalize my ethnicity. I repress
it. I ram my experiences of Cypriotness far down into my body. And bury them
beneath thoughts and feelings about other facets of my identity. But silence
is unhealthy. Silence breeds disease (Bays, 1999). And my Cypriotness has
become a festering wound. Now stabbing my stomach. Now tightening my chest.
A pain that I try to ignore. Now too painful to write. Attempting to write
my Cypriotness straight onto the page is like stabbing at the wound. Gouging
deeper into already butchered flesh. Because writing is too
128
harsh
handed. Severe. Writing jabs relentlessly at my experiences. Rips off scabs
I grow for self-protection. Delves beneath my skin. And hauls out what I hide
there. I push myself to dig deep with my writing. Because I am a writer. Because
digging makes for good text. But writing my Cypriotness — writing straight
onto the page — is too much, too soon. Using the tape recorder allows
me to begin this article gently. I do not apply the same pressures to my speech
that I do to my writing. I rarely return to my spoken words, to poke and prod
them. To polish and perfect. Also, making a tape makes me feel less exposed.
When I'm writing, I speak to an audience outside myself. I envisage my words
ending up in a journal. In libraries, offices, homes. In people's possession.
As I write, I become public, visible, vulnerable. But no one except me will
listen to this tape. I can decide what to transcribe or not to transcribe.
How to transcribe. What to let my readers see and know of me. * * * I'm rolling
a lemon between my palms. I've seen television cooks do this. They say it
releases the juice. But I just like the sensation. Hard ball of fruit pressed
along the flats of my hands. I'm rolling the lemon up my arm. Across the bump
of my collar bone. Onto my neck. Rub- bing citrus scent over my skin. But
now I've become self-conscious, standing in my kitchen, rolling a lemon over
my body. Can you see me, reader? Perhaps this tape is not as private and safe
as I imagined? I'm picking up a knife. Slicing into yellow skin. Juice bleeds
over my fingers. Flesh exposed. * * * So why is my Cypriotness so problematic
for me? Why is it so emotionally painful? The fact is that I'm a lesbian.
And Cypriotness— like most other categories of ethnicity — is
sexed. It is heterosexed (see contributors to Reinfelder, 1996). In dominant
terms, lesbians don't fit into Cypriotness. We don't even exist within it.
The possibility of our presence is totally unimagined. Within the space of
my family, my ethnic `community', my `home', I'm forced to make a `choice':
Cypriot or lesbian. It's impossible to be both. I'm not alone in these experiences.
Black and ethnically Other lesbians are frequently `pres- surised into making
a hierarchy of oppressions'. And `the language and metaphors...[we use are]
sometimes warlike: choosing sides, betraying one's culture' (Morris et al.,
1995: 39). Dominant dis-
129
courses
divide. Compartmentalize. We have to be either/or. Domi- nant discourses often
lead us (if we are not from `dominant' groups) into confusion about our identities.
Into choosing/denying one or other part of ourselves (Fuentes, 1997). I made
my choice early in life. By the age of seven or eight. When I began to desire
women. When I began to turn away from the notion of the heterosexualized,
submissive `Cypriot woman'. The language was the first to go: I refused to
speak Greek (although the reasons for this refusal are more complex and are,
in part, due to the effects of racism). Next, I started to `disrespect' my
Dad. To badmouth other `Cypriot macho' male relatives. I laughed at their
orders, their attempts at domination. My rebellion was initially treated with
humour: I was a spirited child, my behaviour would im- prove when I became
a woman, found a man. But as I got older, my rebellion intensified. And I
was more and more despised. The war- nings/threats began: `If you carry on
like this, no man will want you.' The verbal assaults started: `What do you
think you look like in those [`men's'] clothes?' The start of isolation, low
self-esteem, de- pression, a rejection of all things Cypriot. But, thankfully,
access to lesbian books, lesbian images, lesbians. Growing confidence in my
sexuality. Myself. I have run/been pushed from my family. Extricated myself/been
excluded from the mainstream British Cypriot `community'. But, by the time
I `came out' to my family, it seemed there was no choice to make. Silence
was not an option. There was no chance I'd remain closeted about my sexuality.
Bow to family/social pressures. Be coerced into a (heterosexual) marriage.
No possibility I'd take my place in the `long line of dutiful wives' (Smith,
1987). I believed that `coming out' as a lesbian, living an `out' lesbian
life, meant losing my family, forfeiting my cultural identification, giving
up my claim to Cypriotness. And I retain this belief. I live it out in my
self-percep- tions. In my everyday life. I have little contact with my family,
or with other Cypriot people. Including Cypriot lesbians. I rarely speak Greek.
I see myself as not-really-Cypriot, not-properly-Cypriot, barely Cypriot.
As far as my Cypriotness goes, I don't even stand in the borderlands (Anzaldúa,
1987). I long ago fled the country. I now live thousands of miles away. (But
where?) And I rarely look back. But this is a lie. A wishful thought. A way
of making it easier (harder) for myself. Rejecting my Cypriotness doesn't
make it disap- pear. I'm always Cypriot and lesbian. In the face of racism,
I'm unde- niably Cypriot. I'm able to speak and write about my experiences
of racism. Because this involves turning outwards. I talk about `them',
130
not
`me'. I don't look beyond my anger. Stay, like the racists do, on the surface.
But mostly my Cypriotness sits quietly. Festers. My Cypriotness is a blister.
A sore. Caused by the rubbing, chafing of incompatible materials. The harshness
of lesbophobia (and racism). Against the fragility of my skin. My Cypriotness
is a blister. Bulging with anger, pain, confusion. And now I must prick the
blister. There's an urgent need to release the pressure. To prevent explosion.
* * * I'm putting a pan on the hob. I'm using a wok. Because it's big enough
for the fish to fit into. I'm putting the fish in the wok. I'm pouring over
the oil. The lemon. Chopping garlic. Chucking it in. * * * I'm `writing' this
article in the kitchen because here I have distrac- tions. I can use the food,
utensils, and my body's activity as barriers to my emotions. I don't have
to directly confront difficult feelings. I can swat my attention back and
forth between my cooking and my text. I often wander into the kitchen when
I'm having trouble writing. Especially when writing about emotionally difficult
topics. When I find myself `blocked', I start to cook. At first, I feel guilty
I'm not writing. I see cooking as avoidance. But then — as I peel, chop,
stir — the knots begin working loose. And if I touch on a thought or
feel- ing that's too painful, I can switch my focus to squeezing lemons, washing
fish. Cooking is like gauze over my wounds. A protective barrier. A screen
which I can think through. Cooking is a way of `taking away the painful realities
of oppression, and introducing some pleasures in life' (Hughes, 1997 [1980]:
279). Cooking is also `a form of enquiry' (Heldke, 1992b: 251). A chal- lenge
to traditional academic modes of knowing/doing. Cooking is rooted in, and
celebrates, `embodied, concrete and practical experience' (Curtin and Heldke,
1992: iv). Examining our cooking (and eating) practices gives us a sense of
our materiality, a `sense of ourselves as bodily creatures' (Curtin, 1992:
9). Cooking helps me to grasp and articulate my experiential complexity. Writing
often traps me in my head. But cooking acknowledges the holism of my body.
Recognizes my body as agent. Western, masculinist philosophi- cal thought
largely ignores cooking (Heldke, 1992a). Because cooking is perceived as too
embodied. Too animalistic. Cooking involves smell, taste and touch. The most
`intimate senses'. The `lower senses'. The least cognitive, least masculine,
most feminine senses
131
(Korsmeyer,
1999). Writing this article as a cookbook challenges the mind/body binary.
And redefines cooking as `mentally-manual', `the- oretically practical', a
`thoughtful practice' (Heldke, 1992a: 203). As both `hand work' and `mind
work'. But mostly, I'm writing this article in the kitchen because food feeds
more than our physical bodies. Food feeds our souls. It is soul food (Hughes,
1997 [1980]). `Food is more than sustenance; it is his- tory' (Allison, 1988:
155). Food is identity, memory, autobiography (Zafar, 1999). Food is `home'.
Often replacing the `home' we've run or been pushed from. Food is `one of
the most symbolic tools' that black and ethnically Other people use in `our
search for roots' (Hughes, 1997 [1980]: 272). Because food is the remaining
signifier of my Cypriotness. Because I imagine and perform my Cypriotness
largely through food. * * * I'm washing up. Comforted by the warmth of the
water. The rhythmic movement of my body. I listen to the sounds of washing
up: rattling cutlery, clanking pans. I'm looking out of the window. At our
scrubby patch of garden. At our neighbour's scabby cat. * * * I'm starting
to see that silencing my Cypriotness is counterproduc- tive. For a long time,
this strategy did work. It allowed me to assert my sexuality, to live a life
more true to my lesbian self. But I no longer feel threatened by my family.
I no longer have to alienate myself from my ethnicity, deny myself the potential
of belonging to a Cypriot community. Cypriotness belongs to me too. It is
my Cypriotness. I've colluded in my own exclusion. Allowed dominant stories
of Cypriotness to write me out (Fuentes, 1997). By insisting upon the incompatibility
of Cypriot and lesbian, I've denied the complexities of my identity (Battacharyya,
1997). By asserting my difference within Cypriotness, I inscribe a lesbian
presence into this ethnic category. I queer Cypriotness. I stand as proof
that `Cypriot' is not a homogenous ethnic identity. `It is possible to create
an identity with new layers of meanings, to have multiple subjectivities,
without separating the self into different speaking subjects: to be one with
many parts' (Mirza, 1997: 17). * * *
132
I'm
prodding the fish with a fork. It flakes apart. Done. * * * Baked butter beans
1 large tin cooked butter beans 50 ml olive oil 1 onion, sliced handful chopped
parsley 1 tin chopped tomatoes salt and pepper pinch of ground cinnamon Heat
some of oil in pan, add onions and fry until golden. Add parsley, cinnamon
and tomatoes. Season and cook for a few minutes. Put beans in oiled oven-proof
dish. Pour tomato sauce over, add remaining olive oil and a little water.
Bake in moderate oven until onions are soft and top browned. COMMENTARY I'm
opening the beans. Doing the same with the tomatoes. I'm not following this
recipe properly. I'm throwing everything into one dish. And into the oven.
It saves on washing up. This is half-hearted cook- ing. My Mum would shake
her head. Tut. See evidence of my dis- obedience. Stubborness. Failure (to
be a `Cypriot woman'). * * * How to begin? How to re-imagine Cypriotness?
I lack a theoretical framework. I lack a vocabulary. Without my Cypriot family,
com- munity, or other everyday context in which to imagine my Cypriot- ness,
I'm worried that I don't have the tools. I have no ready established space
(outside myself) in which to imagine my Cypriot- ness. I consider possible
sources of help. I go to my bookcase. A title catches my eye: Heidi Safia
Mirza's Black British feminism (1997). Does black British feminism, as articulated
by Mirza, constitute the space in which I can re-imagine Cypriotness? I flick
through the book. There are articles by lesbian writers. A promising start.
I begin to read Mirza's Introduction. I am drawn by what I read as her open,
invitational definition of black British feminism: black British femin- ism
as an interrogation and critique of the `hegemonic patriarchal discourse'
of `whiteness' (Mirza, 1997: 3); black British feminism as
133
a space
for women who live with an imposed `ethnic minority' status, who define themselves
(ourselves?) as `people of the postcolonial dia- spora' (1997: 3); black British
feminism as a move `to invoke some measure of critical race/gender reflexivity
into mainstream academic thinking' (1997: 4); black British feminism as `a
place called home'. A `meaningful act of identification' (1997: 4). But am
I not seeing something? Am I erasing the `Blackness' from Mirza's writing?
What is the `Black' in her Black British feminism? And am I that? I feel a
desperate longing to belong. I read again: `... to be black (not white), female
and ``over here'', in Scotland, England or Wales, is to disrupt all the safe
closed categories of what it means to be British: that is white and British'
(Mirza, 1997: 3); `we... stand out, we are visibly different and that is what
makes us ``black''' (1997:3); `being ``black'' in Britain is about a state
of ``becoming'' (racialized); a process of consciousness ... a self- consciously
constructed space where identity is not inscribed by natural identification
but a political kinship.... Now living sub- merged in whiteness, physical
difference becomes a defining issue, a signifier, a mark of whether or not
you belong. Thus to be black in Britain is to share a common structural location; a racial location' (1997: 3); `black' is a political identity, the naming
of `a shared space of marginalization ... shaped by the shared experience
of racializa- tion and its consequences' by `postcolonial migrants of different
lan- guages, religions, cultures and classes' (1997: 4); but ```black'' remains
a contested space' (1997: 4). There is continual disagreement over who can/not
be named as `black'. I'm confused. Am I black? Could I possibly be black?
A voice in my head says: don't be stupid! Look at your white/not-black skin!
But another voice says: You may be black ... You are `visibly differ- ent'.
You do share many of the experiences of racialization that Mirza describes.
And you are often forced into, welcomed into, or choose to enter that `shared
space of marginalization' she talks about. * * * I'm back in the kitchen,
sitting on a deck chair — our kitchen is small, a deck chair folds up
out of the way. The kitchen is filled with cook- ing smells. Sweetness of
cinnamon. Sharpness of onion. This blend draws me in, asks again: am I black
or white? It provokes some messy thoughts towards an answer: 1. My Cypriotness
locates me as a postcolonial person. My parents migrated to Britain in 1960.
The year Cyprus gained independence
134
from
British rule. Mum and Dad arrived (separately) in East London. Lived amongst
im/migrants from other postcolonial places — India, the Caribbean, African
countries. With whom they shared many similar characteristics and experiences.
Not least, that they too were `invited' here by the British government to
meet the labour shortage. They arrived not knowing how to speak Eng- lish.
Lived in ramshackle housing. Laboured on the railways, the buses, in factories.
They stood solid and blank faced against racism. But I am keen not to gloss
over the differences between postcolonial im/migrants. Some im/migrants are
more im/ migrant that others. Im/migrants are subject to different racial/racist
discourses. Im/migrants have different levels of racial/ethnic, class, gender,
sexual privilege. My family are (I am) mostly defined in British society as
`white'. Aren't we? We have white privileges, don't we? See ourselves as white?
Yes ... No ... It's complicated. By geography, history. As well as the col-
our/s of our skins. 2. My Cypriotness locates me in racial terms as both black
and white: Cyprus is an island in the eastern Mediterranean. South- east Europe.
The Middle East. The Near East. (Of course geogra- phy is imagined. Places
are labelled and boundaries (re)drawn according to political interests (Anderson,
1991; Gould and White, 1996; Women and Geography Study Group, 1997)). Cyprus's
nearest neighbours are Turkey, Syria, Lebanon, Israel, Egypt. Further away
is Greece. The dominant history of Cyprus (Dubin, 1993) informs me that the
first Cypriots, around 7000 BC, were of `uncertain origin'. Then, from 4000
BC, there is evidence of west Aegean-style fertility cults. And from 2500
BC, indication of Asian-influenced spiritual/cultural symbols. In the Bronze
Age, the beginnings of trade, predominantly with Egypt. And the arrival of
the Greeks (Minoans and then Mycenaeans). Phoeni- cians from the Middle East
brought the goddess Astarte to replace the Hellenic Aphrodite. Next Assyrian
domination, around 700 BC. Egyptian rule. Persian. Athenian. Alexander the
Great and the Hellenistic empire — the foundation of contemporary Greek
Cypriot religious and cultural life. Roman rule. Cyprus as part of the Byzantium
empire — centred in Constantinople. In 1191, Richard the Lionheart arrived
from England, invaded, took on more than he could handle, sold the island
to Guy de Lusignan — French nobility. Then Venetians. Ottoman rule.
In 1878, Cyprus sold to Britain. 1960 independence. This story overwhelms
me. How do I locate myself within it? Did my ancestors live through all these
phases? Or did they enter Cyprus at one (or more) of
135
these
historical points? If so, which one/s? And where from? I can only guess at
the possible cross-fertilizations, the blend of my blood. 3. My Dad's family
are (within living memory) Greek Cypriot. They came from Northern Cyprus.
Now Turkish-occupied territory. Many of them are brown skinned. With black
hair, dark brown eyes. At first glance, could be `Asian', `Middle Eastern',
`North African'. My sister inherited my Dad's skin colour. At school, she
was often racially abused. Called `Paki'. My Mum's family are lighter skinned.
White/r. Some with green eyes. I inherited their white skin. Burns in the
sun. Cheeks redden easily. Prone to freckles. But it's not the blotchy pinky
whiteness of white British people's skin. Instead, a beigey white. Golden
white. Cheap olive oil white. In the right light, my eyes are hazel, there's
a streak of bronze in my hair. (Look now at how I'm romanticizing/ playing
up (my) whiteness, playing down (my) blackness ... A pang of guilt. Shame.
I grew up receiving praise from my family for my light/er skin, eyes, hair.
And my sister...?). My Mum's family live/d on the south of the island. They
identify — culturally and politically — as Greek. European. Both
sides of my family speak a Cypriot Greek, spliced with Turkish and Arabic
words. A lower class, rural dialect. The language they brought with them in
1960. * * * My belly's rumbling. I'm getting the beans out of the oven. Putting
some on a plate. Cutting salad. I'm sitting in my deckchair. My feet on an
open cupboard door. I'm eating. Talking through mouthfuls of food. * * * I'm
yearning for a `home'. A place where my body belongs. A base. Stable. Fixed.
Forever. Homesickness characterizes the experiences of many im/migrant people
(George, 1996; Manalansan, 1993; Paul, 1999). The experiences of many who
are socially marginalized, whose opportunities for `belonging' are restricted
by oppressive discourses. We are sick of constantly moving — between
places, between identi- ties. We long for a place to dig in our roots. A place
of comfort. Safety. But it's not fashionable to admit to this desire. `Fixing'
body/ identity to a particular place — a town, a country, a continent — is now seen as an essentialist practice. Not conducive to postcolonial politics
(Rutherford, 1990). We're now supposed to think of our
136
ethnicities
as `deterritorialized, multiplex and anti-national' (Gilroy, 1996). We must
see ethnic identities as diasporic. But wait. Look back 20 years. To the late
1970s. The 1980s. And discover that many of the theorists who now encourage
us to live in postmodernist flux — in this `nothingnowhere' space — were themselves exploring their `roots', defining their `essence', engaging
in a `quest for ancestral cultures and genetic origins' (Hughes, 1997 [1980]:
272). And they were claim- ing this practice as self-empowering, socially
transformative. They knew then that examining our origins is a crucial first
step to devel- oping self-awareness, self-worth and a critical cultural politics.
But theory `moved on'. And these theorists `moved on'. But I am only just
starting to examine my ethnic origins, to look at my Cypriotness. And I find
comfort in the idea of locating myself in categories of belonging. And defining
them as `home'. But `is home a place? What if the sense of safety does not
refer to a place at all but to a collection of objects, feelings, bodies?'
(Bordo et al., 1998: 76). And what if `home' only exists in stories? Stories
I tell myself about Cyprus, about Cypriotness, about Cypriot food? What if
I'll never be able to grasp onto/hold onto/own my Cypriot- ness? What if my
Cypriotness is always fleeting/elusive? Like the steam in this kitchen. Which
escapes when I open the door. At this moment, this is how my Cypriotness feels
to me. 4. I'm often seen by others as part of that space called `black': I
am sitting in an A-level Sociology class. The lecturer has yet to arrive.
Two young black men pop their heads around the door, see that the class is
without a teacher and joke that they will take the lesson. They start to talk
about the historical oppression of black people, the black power movement.
And, during their talk, they become increasingly insulting about white people.
I am the only white person in the room. And, although I personally identify
which much of what they say about racism, I start to feel uncomfortable. Are
they directing this `lesson' to me? Do they intend to make me feel uncomfortable?
Or have they not seen me sitting here? Is this a `lesson' meant only for black
people's ears? Do they see me as black? I need to find out. `Excuse me', I
say, `I'm white.' They stop talking. They look at me. Then shout in uni- son,
`No! ... No! You're not white!' And one of them continues, `No! You're one
of us! You're ... erm ... Italian or something!' Then the lecturer walks in.
The young men leave. I'm left with questions boiling in my blood. So, Italian
is black? And I am black? `Or something'?
137
I am
chatting to a woman I've recently met. She asks me what my ethnic origin is,
where I'm `from': `Cypriot', I say. `My parents are from Cyprus.' `Oh!' she
exclaims, `I might be Cypriot too. I never knew my Dad. My [white, English]
Mum didn't know much about him either. She told me he was black. But not black
black. He was black from Cyprus...or the Middle East ... black from some-
where like that.' She's excited at meeting me. A chance for her to make an
ethnic identification. I see the vulnerability in her eyes. The pain of not-knowing.
Of wanting to know. I don't question her vocabulary. Don't ask her to explain
`black'. Don't wonder aloud about her Mum's possible racism. But am left with
her words echoing through my chest. And I wonder if I am `black. But not black
black. Black from Cyprus ... or the Middle East ... black from somewhere like
that'? Do I have any stories that locate me as white? Yes. There are prob-
ably plenty. But they don't come easily to mind. Because whiteness doesn't
have to be conscious of itself (Frankenberg, 1997). Whiteness `never speaks
its presence' (Mirza, 1997: 3). In many everyday situa- tions, I know I'm
seen as white. I know that I blend into the whiteness of this English suburb.
This English city. I know because other white people often expect me to collude
with their racism. But in their next breath, the racism turns against me.
Then they don't see me as white. Not white white. And I don't feel white.
Not white white. I feel my not-whiteness acutely in a white, English society.
I feel my ethnic Otherness. My not belongingness. My often despisedness. The
shiver in my bones when I hear white, English people raging against asylum
seekers. The `shrinking of my scalp' (Mo, 1987: 30) when the tele- vision
news reports that someone has been stabbed for `looking Bosnian/Croatian/Kurdish'.
For `looking like an asylum seeker'. That could have been me. Any of my family.
And I feel my not- whiteness in the `unspoken complicity' (Mo, 1987: 30) with
which I interact with other not-white people. The shared understandings. Asking
the same questions. Wanting the same answers. I grew up in an area that was
largely not-white/black. My friends until I moved away to university were
mostly not-white/black. I felt comfortable in that space. I felt, despite
my sexuality, that I `belonged'. Physically. Emotionally. Politically. It
was for me `a place called home'. What is white? I fear that Mirza defines
whiteness in homogenized terms. A `brite' white. Brilliant white. Dazzling,
blinding white. Thus maintaining its hegemony. She defines a white that excludes
me. A black that excludes me. What happens when you are white but not white?
Black but not black? When your ethnicity is painted/lived in
138
shades
of grey? Where do you align yourself? Socially? Politically? Many British
Turkish Cypriots define themselves as black (e.g., `Havva', quoted in Ainley,
1995). But few Greek Cypriots do. And yet our skin colours are similar. Our
not-too-distant ancestors lived together, worked together, probably fucked
together. Is it religion which makes the difference? Islam = black, Christianity
= white? Is it the effects of (imperialist) history? Black British feminism
is a useful framework within which to begin re-imagining my Cypriotness. But
it doesn't give me all the answers. My reading of Mirza's text traps me into
binary thinking: black/white. I see this binary as absolute and try, hopelessly,
to locate myself within it. On one side, then the other. I discover that I
don't fit. That the binary doesn't work (for me). But is there any other option?
* * * Putting my plate in the sink. Turning off the tape. * * * Green beans
with tomato and onion 500 g frozen green beans olive oil 1 onion, sliced 1
tin of chopped tomatoes handful chopped parsley salt and pepper water Heat
oil, add onion and fry until golden. Add tomatoes, parsley, salt and pepper.
Cook gently for a few minutes. Add beans and stir. Add some water. Cover and
simmer until soft. COMMENTARY I'm wondering if all this cooking is worth it.
So far: lots of questions, few answers. Should I just return to my computer?
Start again? Write this article the easy way — devour countless texts
on identity theory and ethnicity, regurgitate, mix up, sprinkle on a little
autobiographi- cal narrative, serve it up as a perfectly edible academic dish?
No. That's not me. And if I did, I couldn't eat it. It wouldn't be palatable
to me. Too dry. Flavourless.
139
So,
here I am again. Getting the beans out of the freezer. Slicing the end off
an onion. Asking again: what is (my) Cypriotness? I'm looking around my kitchen.
Does anything here say Cypriot to me? There are none of the accoutrements
of a British Cypriot kitchen. No catering-size saucepans, used to prepare
food for the events cele- brating heterosexuality — engagement parties,
weddings, christen- ings; no calendar from a Greek Orthodox church; no tourist
trinkets to remind me of `home' — no Cyprus-shaped ashtrays, nor ornamental
plates splashed with primary-coloured Cypriot dancers. What is (my) Cypriotness?
This time I hear desperation in my voice. I feel a strong need to find something
Cypriot. To hold some- thing tangible. I'm searching. Ransacking the kitchen
cupboards. The fridge. I've found: jar of tahini, tub of black olives, bulb
of garlic, cinnamon sticks, extra virgin olive oil. I'm grouping them together
on the worktop. My arms around them. Hugging them close to my body. I'm standing
here staring at this still life entitled `my Cypriotness' that I've created.
But how does this help me? What do I do with these foods? Stand here and look
at them? Cook them up and eat them? Stuff them into my mouth? Gorge on them.
To fill the hole in my belly. In my ident- ity. To satisfy my hunger for a
sense of my ethnicity. Will stuffing myself with these foods fill me up with
Cypriotness? Will taking these `Cypriot' foods into my body make me properly
Cypriot? Perhaps. After all, isn't this why I'm constructing this article
as a cookbook? Why I'm standing here chopping onions, opening the bag of beans?
Because food is all I have left of my Cypriotness? Because my Cypriot self
is experienced through food? Most of the Greek words I remember relate to
food. My Cypriot cookbook is also my dictionary: Ψάρι με σκόρδo. Φασό λια στo ϕoύρνo.
My Greek is not public Greek. I learnt most of my Greek — and my Cypriotness — in `the wordshop of the kitchen' (Marshall, 1987: 178). With my Mum, grandmothers,
aunts. As we sorted dried beans and lentils, taking out the sticks, grit,
bad bits; as we stuffed vine leaves or rolled meatballs. In the kitchen I
listened as Cypriot women swapped recipes, compared the effects of their washing
pow- ders, boasted over bargains, complained about their husbands. I learnt
what `Cypriot' is, what `Cypriot woman' is. And I knew I was different. The
kitchen may be `where crucial aspects of culture and ethnicity are [learnt
and] maintained' (Bordo et al., 1998: 77). But is also where these aspects
are refused. The kitchens of my child- hood are where my refusal of Cypriotness
began. * * *
140
I'm
putting beans into the tomato sauce. I'm putting the lid on the pan. I'm getting
a glass of water. Gulping it down. Filling the glass again. I'm thirsty. Hot.
I can feel the dampness under my arms. On my back. Steam from my cooking beads
on my skin. * * * I'm noticing how I'm standing. How I'm moving. When I cook,
my mannerisms change. My sense of my body changes. In the kitchen, I become
`Cypriot woman'. I unconsciously mimic the body beha- viours of my Mum, aunts,
grandmothers. I stand, legs apart, elbows out. Arms reaching, grabbing, pulling.
Dominating space. I'm not like this outside my kitchen. In the rest of my
life, my body performs `Western woman': pull my knees together, tuck my elbows
in, apolo- gize for taking up space. Sorry. Sorry. Cooking is a performative
act. And, as I'm cooking, I'm realizing that ethnic identity is also performative.
I'm performing my Cypriot- ness through food. My Cypriotness is little more
than a series of embodied practices. My Cypriotness only exists in my enactment
of it. And it is therefore easily re-imagined. Through cooking — and
other embodied activities — can I redefine and reclaim my Cypriot- ness?
I'm realizing that my Cypriotness is many things. Found in many places. Experienced
in many ways. There's a freedom in this realization. There's possibility.
* * * I'm taking the lid off the pan. Lifting a bean out with my fork. Touching
the bean to the tip of my tongue. Biting into it gingerly. Still crunchy.
Replace the lid. * * * Olive bread 750g bread flour 1 sachet quick-rise yeast
Warm water 250 g black olives 1 onion, finely chopped 2 tsp dried mint Make
up bread dough, adding mint to the dry ingredients. Knead for 10 minutes and
leave in warm place until double the size. Knead olives
141
and
onion into dough. Place in a greased bread tin. Bake in hot oven for 30—40
minutes. Remove from oven. Remove bread from tin and cool. COMMENTARY I've
been to the shop. To buy some flour. Making a cup of tea. Setting out the
ingredients for olive bread. Putting on the oven. * * * Olive bread is my
favourite food. I love it hot from the oven. Slath- ered with butter. Steam
rising. Olive bread is my comfort food. I love the heavy stone it forms in
my stomach. Reassuring me of my full- ness. My not-emptiness. Affirming my
body's existence. My Γιαγια'(grandmother) taught
me to make olive bread. We'd make it together whenever I spent the night at
her house. Early morn- ings in her shoebox kitchen. The yellow-grey light
of the hanging bulb catching ragged corners of lino. The cracks in the Formica
table top. Shadows under our eyes because, with my granddad on nightshift,
I'd sleep in Γιαγιά's bed and I'd natter all night,
beg her for stories. Γιαγιά tips flour into a
bowl. Crumbles in fresh yeast. Adds water. Mixes with her hands. Plops stiff
dough onto a floured board. For me to knead. I struggle with it. My child's
arms aching. Γιαγιά laughs affectionately. At
my physical weakness. And, as I grow older, at my `laziness'. My reluctance
to work hard for my food. I'm an `English girl'. Who's used to bread coming
plastic wrapped. (And plastic tasting.) I'm worried that, in writing this
article, I'm negating this experi- ence: my grandmother, her body, and everything
it's taught me. I've bad-mouthed my family. Bad-mouthed Cypriots. I'm worried
that I'm presenting a picture of Cypriotness as reactionary, conserva- tive.
To non-Cypriot readers who may assume that this is `the truth'. That Cypriotness
is grim. Oppressive. Especially to women. Readers may feel relieved they are
not Cypriot. May pity me. Or want to res- cue me. But I don't need saving.
I'm speaking my `truth', my Cypriot- ness. Speaking/writing this article is
an act of empowerment, not a victim's plea. As I stand here, sprinkling quick-rise
yeast onto flour, thinking about my grandmother, my Cypriotness is no longer
hard and cold and exclusionary. It is a warm space, a safe space. Full of
love, comfort, nurturing. It feels like `home'. * * *
142
I'm
pouring water into the flour, mixing a sticky dough. Dusting the worktop with
flour. Turning dough onto it. Pressing and pushing and folding and pummelling.
* * * Γιαγιά taught me to cook. But not by instruction.
I learnt by watch- ing her cook. And by eating her food. Noting the effects
of a pinch of this, a squeeze of that on my tongue. Like her, I cook by intuition.
`I cook by vibration. I can tell by the look and the smell of it' (Smart-
Grosvenor, 1992 [1970]: 294). So, the precise recipes I offer in this article
are deceptive. Not reflective of my own, more haphazard cooking practice.
I write for an audience I perceive as ξενoυς. Stran- gers.
Non-Cypriots. Who don't have an embodied knowledge of these foods. Who don't
know, without tasting, how much is `too much'. Or `not enough'. Who may be
surprised when the amount of garlic they've added waters their eyes. Or when
that extra squeeze of lemon spikes their tongues. Writers of `ethnic' cookbooks
typically address an audience of readers who are assumed not belong to that
ethnic group. `And you, a stranger, a passerby through their land must appreciate
and respect their culture which in many ways is totally different from yours'
(der Haroutunian, 1987: 12). But I also provide precise recipes because I
want my readers to pro- duce the foods that I produce. To taste what I taste.
I have prepared my menu with care: a main fish dish, a vegetarian option,
a vegetable accompaniment, bread. A complete meal. Or a mezze selection. I
want my readers to feast with me. To take my experiences into their bodies
via the food. To roll them around in their mouths. Chew on them. Digest them.
Does this sound needy? I don't feel needy. Rather, I write to make connections.
To reach out to other bodies. A cook- book is the ideal medium. Eating the
foods of o/Others, taking them into our bodies, makes the o/Other a part of
us. The boundaries between `them' and `us' blur. Eating is a form of `world-travelling'
(Lugones, 1992). A way we can attempt to — even if we can never ulti-
mately achieve it — experience another's reality. Although, in saying
this, I don't want to ignore the problematic nature of `eating the Other',
the oppressive connotations of this act. * * * I'm kneading the dough again.
This time pressing the onion into it. And the olives. The olives break up.
Stain my fingers purple. * * *
143
I'm
worried I'm objectifying Cypriotness. And Cypriot food. Uma Narayan (1997)
talks about the ways foods are used — in racist dis- course — to symbolise a culture. She focuses particularly on how British colonial discourse
represents India and Indianness through `curry' — a dish that does not
exist in Indian cuisine/s, but is a product of this colonialist discourse.
In a British context, the kebab typically represents Cypriotness. As does
the kebab shop. And the kebab shop owner. In the late 1980s, Cypriotness was
signified on British television by Harry Enfield's `Stavros' character. Stavros
was a kebab shop owner. He was dirty. Greasy. He spoke `Pidgin English' — and his mispronunciation signalled his stupidity. I laughed at Stavros. I
laughed with recognition. But was Harry Enfield/the non-Cypriot audience laughing
at me, not with me? In this article, I've purposefully avoided using recipes
that are stereotypically Greek/Cypriot. But is any food really `Cypriot'?
Kebabs are also `Middle Eastern', `North African', `South Asian'. There is
no monolithic category called `Cypriot food'. The boundaries between `Cypriot'
food and many other national cuisines are blurred. I have found recipes that
I recognize as `Cypriot' in Greek, Turkish, Italian, Spanish, Syrian, Egyptian,
Indian, and other cookbooks. Cypriot food (like Cypriot- ness? Like me?) is
characterized by its hybridity. I'm starting to see a power in this in-betweenness.
A freedom. I can slip out of restrictive social categories. Out of the boxes
built by others — built by domi- nant groups. And create my own ethnic
space. My own Cypriotness. Which is more fluid. More malleable. More reflective
of the multiple ways I experience my ethnicity. `I remain uncertain how to
name or identify myself, but take that uncertainty as empowering rather than
simply risky' (Ahmed, 1997: 155). * * * Opening the oven. Face blasted by
the heat. Putting in the olive bread, now in a tin. * * * I want to leave
room in this article for other stories of Cypriotness. Stories which are more
marginalized, more difficult to tell than mine. I am aware of the `representational
privilege' (Somerville, 1999: 5) that an education, a computer, literacy affords
me. I'm concerned that my story may `displace' other stories. I'm particularly
144
worried
that my stories might overwrite the stories of the rest of my family. Stories
which (as far as I know) are not written. Margaret Somerville (1999) says
that there are ways of making room for multiple stories (of identity, of place).
She says the potential for multiplicity lies in the concept of `the liminal',
the `inbetween'. The idea of `unfinished' space. By acknowledging the liminality
of stories I see that my own voice is one of many, that there's always something
left to say. For Somerville, `the liminal' is not just a metaphor. It is characteristic
of her third generation im/migrant experience (from Scotland to Australia).
Similarly, I'm beginning to see now that liminality characterizes my everyday
life. My embodied experiences. The relationship between my sexuality, ethnicity
and all other aspects of my identity. I don't occupy social categories. I
move through them. Continually re-imagining and re-inventing. My Cypriotness
is not tangible, graspable, easily explicable. I know my Cypriotness as a
jumble of images, sounds, smells, tastes, feelings, experiences. I know my
Cypriotness through the foods I eat, the words I speak, the thoughts I have,
the movements of my body. I know my Cypriotness. I'm beginning to re-imagine.
To reclaim. * * * The bread's done. The article's done. I'm turning off the
tape. Acknowledgements I would like to thank Liz Stanley for her advice on
an earlier version of this article, and the two anonymous reviewers for their
comments.
REFERENCES
Ahmed, S. 1997: It's a sun-tan, isn't it? Auto-biography as an identificatory
practice. In Mirza, H.S., editor, Black British feminism: a reader, London and New York: Routledge, 153—67.
Ainley, R. 1995: What is she like? Lesbian identities from the 1950s to
the 1990s. London and New York: Cassell.
Allison, D. 1988: A lesbian appetite. In Allison, D., Trash , London: Penguin, 155—71.
Anderson, B. 1991 [1983]: Imagined communities. London and New York: Verso.
Anzaldúa, G. 1987: Borderlands/la frontera: the new mestiza. San Francisco: Aunt Lute Books.
Battacharyya, G. 1997: The fabulous adventures of the mahogany princess.
In Mirza, H.S., editor, Black
British feminism: a reader, London and New York: Routledge, 240—52.
145
Bays, B. 1999: The journey: an extraordinary guide for healing your life
and setting yourself free. London: Thorsons.
Bordo, S., Klein, B.
and Silverman, M. 1998: Missing kitchens. In Nast,
H. and Pile, S., editors, Places through the body, London and New York: Routledge, 72—92.
Curtin, D.W. 1992: Food/body/person. In Curtin,
D.W. and Heldke, L.M., editors, Cooking, eating, thinking: transformative philosophies of food, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 3—22.
Curtin, D.W.
and Heldke, L.M. 1992: Introduction. In Curtin,
D.W. and Heldke, L.M., editors, Cooking, eating, thinking: transformative philosophies of food, Bloomington
and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, xiii—xvii.
Dubin, M. 1993: Cyprus: the rough guide. London: Rough Guides.
Frankenberg, R. 1997: Growing up white: feminism, racism and the social geography
of childhood. In McDowell, L. and Sharp, J.P., editors, Space, gender, knowledge:
feminist readings, London and New
York: Arnold, 209—18.
Fuentes, C.R. 1997: Two stories, three lovers and the creation of meaning
in a black lesbian autobiography: a diary. In Mirza,
H.S., editor, Black British feminism: a reader, London and New York: Routledge , 216—25.
George, R.M. 1996: The politics of home: postcolonial relocations and twentieth
century fiction. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University
Press.
Gilroy, P. 1996: Route work: the black Atlantic and the politics of exile . In Chambers, I. and Curti, L., editors, The postcolonial question:
common skies/divided horizons. London and New York: Routledge, 17—29.
Goldberg, N. 1986: Writing down the bones: freeing the writer within. Boston and London: Shambhala .
Gould, P.
and White, R. 1996: Mental maps, second edition. London : Allen and Unwin.
der Haroutunian, A. 1987: A Turkish cookbook. London: Ebury Press.
Heldke, L.M. 1992a: Foodmaking as a thoughtful practice. In Curtin, D.W. and Heldke,
L.M., editors, Cooking, eating, thinking: transformative
philosophies of food, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 203—29.
——— 1992b: Recipes for theory making. In Curtin,
D.W. and Heldke, L.M., editors, Cooking, eating, thinking: transformative philosophies of food, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 251—65.
Hughes, M. 1997 [1980]: Soul, black women, and food. In Counihan, C. and von Esterik,
P., editors, Food and culture: a reader. New York and London : Routledge, 272—80.
Korsmeyer, C. 1999: Making sense of taste: food and philosophy. Ithaca and
London: Cornell University Press.
Lugones, M. 1992: Playfulness, `world' — travelling and loving perception . In Curtin, D.W. and Heldke, L.M., editors, Cooking, eating,
thinking: transformative philosophies of food, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University
Press, 85—99.
Manalansan, M. 1993: (Re)locating the gay Filapino: resistance, postcolonial-ism,
and identity. In Nelson, E.S.,
editor, Critical essays: gay and lesbian writers of color, New York
and London: Haworth, 53—72.
Marshall, P. 1987: Becoming a writer. In Blatchford, R., editor, Hear me out: writings on experiences
from different cultures, London: Longman, 177—78.
146
Mirza, H.S. 1997: Introduction: mapping a genealogy of black British feminism . In Mirza, H.S., editor, Black British feminism: a reader. London and New York: Routledge, 1—28.
Mo, T. 1987: Sour sweet. In Blatchford,
R., editor, Hear me out: writings on experiences from different
cultures, London: Longman, 29—34.
Morris, J., Ojerholm, A., Brooks, T., Osowieki, D.
and Rothblum, E. 1995: Finding a `word for myself': themes in lesbian coming-out
stories. In Jay, K., editor, Dyke life: a celebration of the lesbian experience, London : Pandora, 36—49.
Narayan, U. 1997: Dislocating cultures. London
and New York: Routledge.
Paul, H. 1999: Mapping migration: women's writing and the American immigration
experience from the 1950s to the 1990s. Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag C. Winter.
Reinfelder, M., editor, 1996: Amazon to Zami: towards a global lesbian feminism. London and New York: Cassell.
Rutherford, J. 1990: Identity: community, culture, difference. London: Lawrence Wishart.
Smart-Grosvenor, V.M. 1992 [1970]: From Vibration Cooking: or the travel notes of
a Geechee girl. In Curtin, D.W.
and Heldke, L.M., editors, Cooking, eating, thinking: transformative philosophies of food, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 294—97.
Smith, R. 1987: The Banquo line. In Blatchford,
R., editor, Hear me out: writings on experiences from different
cultures, London: Longman, 62—65.
Somerville, M. 1999: Body/landscape journals. Melbourne : Spinifex.
Women and Geography Study Group 1997: Feminist geographies: explorations in diversity and difference. Harlow, UK: Addison Wesley Longman.
Zafar, R. 1999: The signifying dish: autobiography and history in two
black women's cookbooks. Feminist Studies 25, 449—60.
NOTE
ON CONTRIBUTOR I am Cypriot, lesbian and from an East London, working-class
back- ground. Living with this `Otherness' is a daily challenge — especially
in academia — but it also provides intellectual and creative stimulus.
I have a Ph.D. from the Women's Studies Centre, University of Manchester and
currently work part-time as a researcher at the University of Brighton. My
research interests cohere around the personal construction and experience
of social identities, and ways of articulating these through writing and other
art forms.