Interview
sharing a meal:
an interview with alexis stratton
BY Coz, Laura Del Viscio, Sammi grasso, & erica Rose
March 2026
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In recent years, queer advocacy has been at the forefront of the political sphere worldwide. From landmark court cases to devastating violence, the LGBTQ+ community has been through its share of struggles. Essayist Alexis Stratton explores their gender expression within spaces that shy away from queerness in their collection Eating Turtle. As Stratton journeys through countries such as Korea, Australia, and India, they wrestle with how these cultures intersect with their identity, and develop relationships with various people who help them discover the true essence of human acceptance.
In this interview, Stratton discusses their experiences abroad as well as their part in the queer advocacy movement, their writing processes, and their enjoyment of our “meal” together. |
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Glassworks Magazine (GM): In the title essay of your latest collection Eating Turtle, you describe an unsettling situation where your clothes may have been purposely damaged, possibly as a reaction to your identity.
Alexis Stratton (AS): When I left the United States in May 2016, I was admittedly nervous about traveling while visibly queer and gender nonconforming. I was living in South Carolina at the time, training individuals about LGBTQ+ cultural competency. I wore button-ups and bowties almost every day, and I loved my short hair. And though I’d traveled internationally before, I hadn’t really left the country since coming out as queer. |
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I mentioned my concerns to my friend O.K. Keyes, who is queer and trans and was a big supporter of my plan to leave LGBTQ+ advocacy behind and travel the world. I remember telling him that I didn’t want to be culturally insensitive, but “there is no way I’m growing my hair out.” Keyes looked at me as if that were the most absurd concern ever. “Of course not,” he said. “You’ll pass as a man.” So I kept my button-ups, packed my men’s dress shoes, bought a new binder, and even packed a couple bowties just in case—and let the world read me as it may.
In being myself, I learned so much about how culture impacts what we believe and understand about gender. In one country, I might be viewed as a masculine woman, but cross a border, and people would think I was a man. Sure, this meant sometimes being ejected from women’s restrooms, but it also meant this: A really lovely conversation with an Airbnb host in Thailand who couldn’t quite figure out my gender—so later used multiple in his Airbnb review. Long chats with a hotelier in Delhi who talked about us both being different—and how that’s why he liked talking with me. An instant connection with a homestay host in Vietnam who just happened to be queer. Fierce friendships forged with a group of queer and feminist Koreans in Seoul. It also gave me space to explore my own identity, and I grew more confident as I came out as nonbinary and started using they/them pronouns.
GM: What was it like navigating being queer in places like Kuala Lumpur, Delhi, and Seoul? How did these experiences shape your understanding of vulnerability in your own writing?
AS: There are queer and trans people everywhere, and I wanted to travel the world and learn more about myself and others in the process. Eating Turtle emerged from a blog where I wrote about those experiences (www.youarequeerhere.com). Even though I hadn’t figured everything out, I let others see both my literal journey across the globe and my personal journey toward understanding myself. For example, I wrote about traveling with a packer, which was a new experience for me—and something I was unsure if I even wanted. And I wrote about traveling with LGBTQ+ friends and making community and, sometimes, being lonely or recovering from burnout. Now, I kind of marvel at the openness with which I wrote then, but it was important to me to be real.
And that translates to the kind of essayist I want to be. In college, I took a wonderful memoir writing course with Dr. Ed Madden, a queer poet and writer, and it was that class that taught me the importance of being vulnerable in personal essays and memoirs. We talked about how writers early in their careers will often walk right up to the there there (the heart of a question, or traumatic experience, or loss) and step back. And that it’s our duty—or even a gift to our readers and ourselves--not to step back. To let the pearl of that hurt or joy or grief have a home in our writing. So I tried to do that in Eating Turtle—to not flinch at the story behind the story and to let vulnerability live there when and where I could.
In being myself, I learned so much about how culture impacts what we believe and understand about gender. In one country, I might be viewed as a masculine woman, but cross a border, and people would think I was a man. Sure, this meant sometimes being ejected from women’s restrooms, but it also meant this: A really lovely conversation with an Airbnb host in Thailand who couldn’t quite figure out my gender—so later used multiple in his Airbnb review. Long chats with a hotelier in Delhi who talked about us both being different—and how that’s why he liked talking with me. An instant connection with a homestay host in Vietnam who just happened to be queer. Fierce friendships forged with a group of queer and feminist Koreans in Seoul. It also gave me space to explore my own identity, and I grew more confident as I came out as nonbinary and started using they/them pronouns.
GM: What was it like navigating being queer in places like Kuala Lumpur, Delhi, and Seoul? How did these experiences shape your understanding of vulnerability in your own writing?
AS: There are queer and trans people everywhere, and I wanted to travel the world and learn more about myself and others in the process. Eating Turtle emerged from a blog where I wrote about those experiences (www.youarequeerhere.com). Even though I hadn’t figured everything out, I let others see both my literal journey across the globe and my personal journey toward understanding myself. For example, I wrote about traveling with a packer, which was a new experience for me—and something I was unsure if I even wanted. And I wrote about traveling with LGBTQ+ friends and making community and, sometimes, being lonely or recovering from burnout. Now, I kind of marvel at the openness with which I wrote then, but it was important to me to be real.
And that translates to the kind of essayist I want to be. In college, I took a wonderful memoir writing course with Dr. Ed Madden, a queer poet and writer, and it was that class that taught me the importance of being vulnerable in personal essays and memoirs. We talked about how writers early in their careers will often walk right up to the there there (the heart of a question, or traumatic experience, or loss) and step back. And that it’s our duty—or even a gift to our readers and ourselves--not to step back. To let the pearl of that hurt or joy or grief have a home in our writing. So I tried to do that in Eating Turtle—to not flinch at the story behind the story and to let vulnerability live there when and where I could.
GM: What spurred you to travel to countries that are not necessarily known for being queer-friendly? Can you tell us about a time during your travels, before you made any connections in each location, where you felt alone with your identity as a queer person? How did you handle it, and did it inspire any specific works or essays?
AS: I have spent a lot of time in the U.S. South, and so I know that there are queer and trans folks even in the most hostile of places. I didn’t want to go anywhere where I might be jailed or executed simply for being queer, so I did research before buying each plane ticket, of course—both on what the laws were in a given country and what folks on the ground said it was like. I also did research about cultural norms and do’s/don’t’s as I wanted to be a good guest.
AS: I have spent a lot of time in the U.S. South, and so I know that there are queer and trans folks even in the most hostile of places. I didn’t want to go anywhere where I might be jailed or executed simply for being queer, so I did research before buying each plane ticket, of course—both on what the laws were in a given country and what folks on the ground said it was like. I also did research about cultural norms and do’s/don’t’s as I wanted to be a good guest.
"It’s our duty [as writers]—or even a gift to our readers and ourselves—not to step back. To let the pearl of that hurt or joy or grief have a home in our writing. So I tried to do that in Eating Turtle—to not flinch at the story behind the story and to let vulnerability live there when and where I could."
Typically, I encountered more acceptance or curiosity than hostility, for which I’m grateful. I was frustrated by my not-infrequent encounter in every given language of: “Are you a man or a woman?” or “Are you a madam or a sir?” A stranger tried to eject me from the women’s subway car when I was on a group tour in New Delhi; another tried to very helpfully direct me toward the men’s room in Saigon. But stuff like that happens in the U.S., too!
Bumping up against the gender binary again and again was frustrating. But it didn’t make me feel alone—mostly just curious (once I’d taken care of my necessities). And the next moment, I’d encounter someone who looked like me or had a rainbow pin or was kind, and I was fine. And I was fortunate to be met along the way with such kindness from strangers and friends alike that I was able to move through those moments rather quickly.
GM: Most of your activism and writing are set in the United States, specifically in the American South. Even your book Trans Kids, Our Kids: Stories and Resources from the Frontlines of the Movement for Transgender Youth focuses on Southern youth. Is that something that became meaningful after you settled there? Or was that what drew you to those areas, even though the environment can be more hostile in those states?
AS: I began my life in rural Illinois but moved to North Carolina when I was in eighth grade. Now, I’ve lived more than half my life in the South, including North Carolina, South Carolina, Louisiana, and Virginia. I went to college and grad school in the South and came out as queer in the South—and returned to the region eventually after my time abroad. I was involved in sexual violence prevention efforts during and after graduate school, and I cut my teeth in LGBTQ+ advocacy in South Carolina just a couple years after coming out. So the South has long been the loamy soil in which the seedlings of both my creative and social justice selves were cultivated. And I found that the arts and activism communities in the South are some of the most vibrant, passionate, and collaborative that I’ve ever seen.
Yet, sometimes being an out queer/trans activist in the South can feel daunting. I was burned out by the work in the 2010s, which is what prompted me to take my long-term backpacking journey. I was so desperate for change, so depressed, and so tired of trying to justify my existence—and that of my beloved community—to the world around me.
I thought I might be done with LGBTQ+ advocacy for good, but I somehow found my way back to the work, and I have a better balance now. I write grants for LGBTQ+ organizations across the South and engage in storytelling projects, like the Trans Kids, Our Kids book and the Rebel Girls book series and podcast. And I try to write fiction and nonfiction that reflects the lived existence of LGBTQ+ folks—here, across the globe, and sometimes even in fantastical worlds (my newest project is a queer/trans romantasy). Of course, the work is still hard—in the South and, these days, throughout the country. There is a full-court press of anti-LGBTQ+ laws that have been passed in states across the South and beyond. Yet, I’m impressed every day by my clients who are working tirelessly to make the world a better place, and I’m honored to still be a part of the movement.
GM: You write with such honesty about both faith and queerness when sometimes these two identities can be in tension. How has engaging with religion influenced the way you write about being part of the queer community?
AS: Even before I knew anything about my gender or sexuality, I knew I was a person of faith. Growing up on a farm in rural Illinois, I’d go out to the woods and spend long hours staring up at the trees. I felt connected to a divine presence there—something close and caring that I would call God. As I got older, I thought of myself as a spiritual being living a human life—in other words, that spiritual part of me was always at my center.
I grew up in the Christian tradition, and as a young adult, I became a member of multiple LGBTQ+-affirming churches. So when I came out as queer in 2011 (in my late 20s), whether or not I could be queer and Christian was not even a question for me. I had met God in the forest and in churches where all were truly welcome, and no one could take that away from me.
So the tension I have is less with needing to justify myself or my faith to those who think I don’t belong in it, and more with being as gentle and tender as possible with folks who have been harmed by the church—as so many LGBTQ+ folks have. So I try to write about my spiritual experiences in a way that makes as much space as possible—that recognizes that spirituality is just one facet of human existence and that all of us may experience it differently (or not at all). Yet, ultimately, my faith ends up in my personal essays because it weaves through every other part of me, and I want to capture that on the page.
Bumping up against the gender binary again and again was frustrating. But it didn’t make me feel alone—mostly just curious (once I’d taken care of my necessities). And the next moment, I’d encounter someone who looked like me or had a rainbow pin or was kind, and I was fine. And I was fortunate to be met along the way with such kindness from strangers and friends alike that I was able to move through those moments rather quickly.
GM: Most of your activism and writing are set in the United States, specifically in the American South. Even your book Trans Kids, Our Kids: Stories and Resources from the Frontlines of the Movement for Transgender Youth focuses on Southern youth. Is that something that became meaningful after you settled there? Or was that what drew you to those areas, even though the environment can be more hostile in those states?
AS: I began my life in rural Illinois but moved to North Carolina when I was in eighth grade. Now, I’ve lived more than half my life in the South, including North Carolina, South Carolina, Louisiana, and Virginia. I went to college and grad school in the South and came out as queer in the South—and returned to the region eventually after my time abroad. I was involved in sexual violence prevention efforts during and after graduate school, and I cut my teeth in LGBTQ+ advocacy in South Carolina just a couple years after coming out. So the South has long been the loamy soil in which the seedlings of both my creative and social justice selves were cultivated. And I found that the arts and activism communities in the South are some of the most vibrant, passionate, and collaborative that I’ve ever seen.
Yet, sometimes being an out queer/trans activist in the South can feel daunting. I was burned out by the work in the 2010s, which is what prompted me to take my long-term backpacking journey. I was so desperate for change, so depressed, and so tired of trying to justify my existence—and that of my beloved community—to the world around me.
I thought I might be done with LGBTQ+ advocacy for good, but I somehow found my way back to the work, and I have a better balance now. I write grants for LGBTQ+ organizations across the South and engage in storytelling projects, like the Trans Kids, Our Kids book and the Rebel Girls book series and podcast. And I try to write fiction and nonfiction that reflects the lived existence of LGBTQ+ folks—here, across the globe, and sometimes even in fantastical worlds (my newest project is a queer/trans romantasy). Of course, the work is still hard—in the South and, these days, throughout the country. There is a full-court press of anti-LGBTQ+ laws that have been passed in states across the South and beyond. Yet, I’m impressed every day by my clients who are working tirelessly to make the world a better place, and I’m honored to still be a part of the movement.
GM: You write with such honesty about both faith and queerness when sometimes these two identities can be in tension. How has engaging with religion influenced the way you write about being part of the queer community?
AS: Even before I knew anything about my gender or sexuality, I knew I was a person of faith. Growing up on a farm in rural Illinois, I’d go out to the woods and spend long hours staring up at the trees. I felt connected to a divine presence there—something close and caring that I would call God. As I got older, I thought of myself as a spiritual being living a human life—in other words, that spiritual part of me was always at my center.
I grew up in the Christian tradition, and as a young adult, I became a member of multiple LGBTQ+-affirming churches. So when I came out as queer in 2011 (in my late 20s), whether or not I could be queer and Christian was not even a question for me. I had met God in the forest and in churches where all were truly welcome, and no one could take that away from me.
So the tension I have is less with needing to justify myself or my faith to those who think I don’t belong in it, and more with being as gentle and tender as possible with folks who have been harmed by the church—as so many LGBTQ+ folks have. So I try to write about my spiritual experiences in a way that makes as much space as possible—that recognizes that spirituality is just one facet of human existence and that all of us may experience it differently (or not at all). Yet, ultimately, my faith ends up in my personal essays because it weaves through every other part of me, and I want to capture that on the page.
"I try to write about my spiritual experiences in a way that makes as much space as possible—that recognizes that spirituality is just one facet of human existence and that all of us may experience it differently (or not at all)."
GM: Your essays in Eating Turtle shift points of view. “In the Shadow of the Taj” and “Eating Turtle” utilize a second-person point of view to refer to a different “you,” whereas “Talking with the Dead” is in first-person and appears to be directed toward Paul, your first high school boyfriend. Can you tell us about your decision in choosing the first- or second-person point of view? Did you write these essays with a specific audience in mind, or was the choice made organically as you wrote each piece?
AS: I’m drawn to nonlinear and lyrical styles, and I think both the essays themselves and the collection as a whole reflect this. I think of questions asked and answered, of chords that resolve and those that are left without resolution. I think of mosaics and collages—where you only get the full picture once you have all the pieces.
And in any style that plays with form, one of those pieces is point of view. In the 2010s and 2020s, I was curious about the second-person perspective, in particular. I love second-person in works like Lori Moore’s short story “How to Be a Writer,” Maggie Nelson’s Bluets, and Carmen Maria Machado’s memoir In the Dream House. In some of these, “you” takes the place of “I,” and in others, “you” stands in for another primary character—who the story/essay is written to or about.
As I was writing these essays, I tried to listen to the stories themselves to see which pronouns/perspectives emerged. Many of the essays came from my long-term travel in 2016-2018. But the earliest one, “Talking with the Dead,” was originally drafted as a poem in 2008, and the most recent one, “A Portrait of My Homestay Mother,” was written in 2021 (about living in South Korea in 2006-2007). Some were written immediately after the experiences they’re about, and others pull from different parts of my life. For example, I wrote “In the Shadow of the Taj” in my journal on an overnight train from Agra to New Delhi—just after my encounter with the hotelier featured in the work. In contrast, “Talking with the Dead” gathers together years of experiences, circling around them in an examination of death and grief. Yet all the essays explore questions of identity, faith, grief, belonging, etc.
As I wrote these works, several ended up guiding me toward second person. When I put together the collection, I wanted these “you” stories to act as anchors for the book—positioned at the beginning and end—and to offer a kind of intimacy (the “you” being someone I’d met along my journey). I also have a secret third-person anchor toward the middle, too: “A Portrait of My Homestay Mother” was originally written in second person; however, in the revision process, I shifted to third because it felt like a snapshot, something less ephemeral and a little further in the past. Yet the lyrical tone is similar and, I hope, has the same effect.
GM: In the title essay, “Eating Turtle,” you mention the integration of different cultures and the connections you gained along your travels. As you appear to still be active in the queer community, is this knowledge and wisdom what spurred you back into the activism scene once you settled in the U.S.?
AS: Before I left the country in mid-2016, I saved as much as I could, sold as much of my stuff as I could, and had no idea how far the money I had would take me. When I began, I knew my backpacking journey might last anything from three months to two years. As I traveled, I slowly started picking up editing gigs (which was my side hustle before I left), and within six months, I’d really invested in my freelance work. Since early 2017, that freelance work has been steady—and sustained me financially both during that long-term travel and after returning to the U.S. in 2018.
AS: I’m drawn to nonlinear and lyrical styles, and I think both the essays themselves and the collection as a whole reflect this. I think of questions asked and answered, of chords that resolve and those that are left without resolution. I think of mosaics and collages—where you only get the full picture once you have all the pieces.
And in any style that plays with form, one of those pieces is point of view. In the 2010s and 2020s, I was curious about the second-person perspective, in particular. I love second-person in works like Lori Moore’s short story “How to Be a Writer,” Maggie Nelson’s Bluets, and Carmen Maria Machado’s memoir In the Dream House. In some of these, “you” takes the place of “I,” and in others, “you” stands in for another primary character—who the story/essay is written to or about.
As I was writing these essays, I tried to listen to the stories themselves to see which pronouns/perspectives emerged. Many of the essays came from my long-term travel in 2016-2018. But the earliest one, “Talking with the Dead,” was originally drafted as a poem in 2008, and the most recent one, “A Portrait of My Homestay Mother,” was written in 2021 (about living in South Korea in 2006-2007). Some were written immediately after the experiences they’re about, and others pull from different parts of my life. For example, I wrote “In the Shadow of the Taj” in my journal on an overnight train from Agra to New Delhi—just after my encounter with the hotelier featured in the work. In contrast, “Talking with the Dead” gathers together years of experiences, circling around them in an examination of death and grief. Yet all the essays explore questions of identity, faith, grief, belonging, etc.
As I wrote these works, several ended up guiding me toward second person. When I put together the collection, I wanted these “you” stories to act as anchors for the book—positioned at the beginning and end—and to offer a kind of intimacy (the “you” being someone I’d met along my journey). I also have a secret third-person anchor toward the middle, too: “A Portrait of My Homestay Mother” was originally written in second person; however, in the revision process, I shifted to third because it felt like a snapshot, something less ephemeral and a little further in the past. Yet the lyrical tone is similar and, I hope, has the same effect.
GM: In the title essay, “Eating Turtle,” you mention the integration of different cultures and the connections you gained along your travels. As you appear to still be active in the queer community, is this knowledge and wisdom what spurred you back into the activism scene once you settled in the U.S.?
AS: Before I left the country in mid-2016, I saved as much as I could, sold as much of my stuff as I could, and had no idea how far the money I had would take me. When I began, I knew my backpacking journey might last anything from three months to two years. As I traveled, I slowly started picking up editing gigs (which was my side hustle before I left), and within six months, I’d really invested in my freelance work. Since early 2017, that freelance work has been steady—and sustained me financially both during that long-term travel and after returning to the U.S. in 2018.
It was during my travels that a colleague of mine from South Carolina posted that they were looking for a grant writer for their LGBTQ+ organization. I’d written grants in my previous work, and I applied. From there, mostly by word of mouth, I got more grant writing clients, most of which were LGBTQ+ social justice organizations because that’s what I was drawn to.
I returned to South Carolina recently, and I spoke to my mentor Ed Madden’s class. When I mentioned the premise of Eating Turtle—that I got so burned out by LGBTQ+ advocacy and nonprofit life I had to leave the country—he politely interjected. “They say that,” he said, “but then they wrote this beautiful blog about sexuality and gender and culture as they traveled.” And, I reflected, I went back to the work—if in a different role. So the narrative isn’t as clean as I’d sometimes like to make it.
When I was in third or fourth grade, I read that the meaning of my name, Alexis, was “helper and defender of mankind.” I think I internalized that, and in everything I do, I want to make the world better—more just, kinder, more empathetic, more equitable. So all that to say—I think my younger self would be grateful for where I’ve landed now, even if it’s not what they’d expected. And despite my struggles with depression and burnout, I’m grateful for those experiences, as they’ve deepened my empathy and made my current life possible. And of course, I’m grateful to my younger self for taking a chance on adventure and change—and being open to growing along the way.
I returned to South Carolina recently, and I spoke to my mentor Ed Madden’s class. When I mentioned the premise of Eating Turtle—that I got so burned out by LGBTQ+ advocacy and nonprofit life I had to leave the country—he politely interjected. “They say that,” he said, “but then they wrote this beautiful blog about sexuality and gender and culture as they traveled.” And, I reflected, I went back to the work—if in a different role. So the narrative isn’t as clean as I’d sometimes like to make it.
When I was in third or fourth grade, I read that the meaning of my name, Alexis, was “helper and defender of mankind.” I think I internalized that, and in everything I do, I want to make the world better—more just, kinder, more empathetic, more equitable. So all that to say—I think my younger self would be grateful for where I’ve landed now, even if it’s not what they’d expected. And despite my struggles with depression and burnout, I’m grateful for those experiences, as they’ve deepened my empathy and made my current life possible. And of course, I’m grateful to my younger self for taking a chance on adventure and change—and being open to growing along the way.
"I think my younger self would be grateful for where I’ve landed now, even if it’s not what they’d expected. And despite my struggles with depression and burnout, I’m grateful for those experiences, as they’ve deepened my empathy and made my current life possible."
GM: A recurring theme throughout a lot of your works is food. Across many cultures, the act of eating and mealtime is a community experience. Your essays seem to hone in on that in the collection, especially in “Eating Turtle.” Is there anything significant that inspired this? Or is it something that naturally finds its way into your work?
AS: Both community and food are very important to me, and I love when they intersect. There’s nothing lovelier than sitting around a table and breaking bread (or eating rice!) with friends, family, or chosen family. At the same time, what and how we eat together create stories about our cultures, places, and spaces. Like, in what countries/cultures/restaurants is it considered okay to eat alone, and where is it frowned upon—and why? And what do restaurants look like in each of those cases? What story does it tell us that Koreans tend to share all their food in the middle of their tables (except for their rice and sometimes soup bowls)? And what sensory and cultural stories can I find in eating with my hands in Nepal and India or engaging in a tea tasting in Taiwan?
And what does it mean to have to eat alone sometimes as a solo traveler? And what does it mean when you get the opportunity in those instances to share a meal with someone? I think both of those took on weightier significance for me when I was backpacking—the loneliness of the solo meal (but learning to enjoy it nonetheless), and the gratitude that comes with a shared table.
GM: You use the phrase “every meal must end” in the essay “Eating Turtle,” which ties into the theme of food and community. How has that mentality influenced your next steps and future journeys? Are there bits and pieces of what you’ve “eaten” from other people that you keep with you and digest? How do these “meals” continue to fuel you as you continue your travels?
AS: I was so grateful when my Taiwanese friend told me the phrase “every meal must end.” It reminded me of something a Korean co-teacher said to me in 2007 as my first stint in Korea was ending, which I also quote in this collection: “Meeting people part. Even husband and wife must part one day.”
Endings and beginnings can both be so hard. Change is inevitable, and yet we so often fight against it. Still, both the meetings and the partings are all a kind of sweetness.
I’ve been attending a Quaker church lately, and at our last service, as folks talked about honoring the dead (it was just after All Saints’ Day), a quote from Judith Butler kept circling in my mind. In an essay on violence and mourning in their book Precarious Life, Butler wrote: “Let's face it. We're undone by each other. And if we're not, we're missing something.” In other words, grief is so hard because of the way our lives and stories are interwoven; and yet, it is that interweaving that makes life. Butler goes on to say that in both grief and desire, “One does not always stay intact.”
So when my story intersects with another’s, we’re both changed. And when those threads pull apart, as they so often must, I remain changed. The meal must end, and we must grieve that loss. But we can also be grateful for both the meal and the grief at its end because it means we’ve lived and loved.
So I continue to carry those lessons with me. I try not to hold too tightly, try not to stop the meal from ending. Instead, I enjoy the time we have together for as long as it lasts.
AS: Both community and food are very important to me, and I love when they intersect. There’s nothing lovelier than sitting around a table and breaking bread (or eating rice!) with friends, family, or chosen family. At the same time, what and how we eat together create stories about our cultures, places, and spaces. Like, in what countries/cultures/restaurants is it considered okay to eat alone, and where is it frowned upon—and why? And what do restaurants look like in each of those cases? What story does it tell us that Koreans tend to share all their food in the middle of their tables (except for their rice and sometimes soup bowls)? And what sensory and cultural stories can I find in eating with my hands in Nepal and India or engaging in a tea tasting in Taiwan?
And what does it mean to have to eat alone sometimes as a solo traveler? And what does it mean when you get the opportunity in those instances to share a meal with someone? I think both of those took on weightier significance for me when I was backpacking—the loneliness of the solo meal (but learning to enjoy it nonetheless), and the gratitude that comes with a shared table.
GM: You use the phrase “every meal must end” in the essay “Eating Turtle,” which ties into the theme of food and community. How has that mentality influenced your next steps and future journeys? Are there bits and pieces of what you’ve “eaten” from other people that you keep with you and digest? How do these “meals” continue to fuel you as you continue your travels?
AS: I was so grateful when my Taiwanese friend told me the phrase “every meal must end.” It reminded me of something a Korean co-teacher said to me in 2007 as my first stint in Korea was ending, which I also quote in this collection: “Meeting people part. Even husband and wife must part one day.”
Endings and beginnings can both be so hard. Change is inevitable, and yet we so often fight against it. Still, both the meetings and the partings are all a kind of sweetness.
I’ve been attending a Quaker church lately, and at our last service, as folks talked about honoring the dead (it was just after All Saints’ Day), a quote from Judith Butler kept circling in my mind. In an essay on violence and mourning in their book Precarious Life, Butler wrote: “Let's face it. We're undone by each other. And if we're not, we're missing something.” In other words, grief is so hard because of the way our lives and stories are interwoven; and yet, it is that interweaving that makes life. Butler goes on to say that in both grief and desire, “One does not always stay intact.”
So when my story intersects with another’s, we’re both changed. And when those threads pull apart, as they so often must, I remain changed. The meal must end, and we must grieve that loss. But we can also be grateful for both the meal and the grief at its end because it means we’ve lived and loved.
So I continue to carry those lessons with me. I try not to hold too tightly, try not to stop the meal from ending. Instead, I enjoy the time we have together for as long as it lasts.
