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IMPACT

As AAPI Month wraps up, I wish it was so much more

Entrepreneur Ayeshah Abuelhiga writes about her multilayered heritage and all that gets left out during May’s recognition.

As AAPI Month wraps up, I wish it was so much more

Mason Dixie Foods Founder & CEO Ayeshah Abuelhiga [Photos: courtesy of the author]

BY Aimee Rawlins6 minute read

As someone who qualifies to be “celebrated” in May, designated in 1992 as Asian American Pacific Islander (AAPI) Month, I’m decidedly torn about the point of it all. I appreciate having a federally sanctioned month that leads to more stories, more celebrations, more shared history. But the cultural and geographical expanse that envelops the heritage of 60% of the world’s population is just too vast and too varied to be adequately addressed in 31 days.

There is power in numbers, of course, and it’s a good thing to remind everyone of the richness of pan-Asian-American diversity. The U.S. Department of Health and Human Services reports that more than 20 million Americans have a heritage that encompasses all of East Asia, South Asia, India (18.9 million), plus the Pacific Islands (1.4 million). That covers a boatload of customs, traditions, and beliefs.

But all too often, we’re asked to celebrate AAPI people based on how intrinsically linked to an Asian culture they are. When it comes to non-whites, there’s a bit of an obsession with “authenticity,” which reduces every AAPI person to their ancestors’ country of origin. It strikes me as a modern version of Orientalism, a colonialist stereotyping of all things Asian and Middle Eastern as exotic—as the Other.

In celebrating millions of people, let’s shift the emphasis to all they have accomplished instead of limiting stories to their ancestral locations, or customs from decades (or even centuries) ago.

For starters: Asian Americans don’t eat noodles or curry exclusively. We don’t uniformly visit temples to honor our ancestors; many of us aren’t even fluent in our forebears’ native language(s).

Let’s consider a few singular examples. Korean Angeleno Roy Choi created a devoted foodie following because he grew up eating tacos and bulgogi. Comedian Ali Wong, of Chinese and Vietnamese descent, graduated early from college—not to be a doctor, but to become a comedian who’s celebrated for her raw and hilarious performances. And there’s Naomi Osaka, not only recognized for her tennis prowess, but also for bridging the gap between being an Asian and a Black athlete, and challenging the social stigma around mental health. These lived experiences are among the stories we need to celebrate. Yet none of these well-known figures are highlighted in May’s standard AAPI lists.

[Photo: courtesy of the author]

My own story reflects the complexity of all this. I’m a first-generation American whose parents are Korean and Palestinian Israeli. When I was a kid, I hated being forced to pick a single “race” box. Having a Korean mom meant I was supposed to check “Asian.” Friends who are Filipino and Indian have struggled with what to check, particularly as there are culturally racist notions of Pacific Islanders and Southeast Asians due to their darker skin tones. Another college friend was Kalmyk (a Mongolic ethnic group) but always checked “white” on applications because, as she said, “I’m Russian.” I also struggled with this question because of my dad. He wasn’t “Asian” (surely “Middle Eastern” should be its own category), but for years, everyone told me to “just check white” for my dad. He wasn’t white, and in a post-9/11 world, he certainly wasn’t treated like a white person.

Our family’s American journey began in Baltimore, where my folks ran a small café and convenience store. Thanks to a Black woman merchant at Lexington Market, one of the oldest public markets in America, my mom learned how to make quality soul food—fried chicken, gizzards, collard greens, chitterlings, hoppin’ john. When she began to sell these foods at the store, they were a hit, and I grew up eating all of them. In fact, American comfort food probably saved my parents’ marriage, as my dad disliked Korean food and my mom didn’t like lamb. Instead of fighting over what was for dinner, we found our way to soul food and other American staples like pizza and burgers. To this day, I’m sure my mom is one of the best chicken fry cooks on the planet—and she can also cook a mean kimchi jigae.

Thanks to my parents’ hard work, I was able to go to college in Washington, D.C., where I craved the food I grew up eating. The closest thing I found was unhealthy (but tasty) fast food. Before finals, I remember frantically searching for my go-to “brain food”—fried chicken and mashed potatoes. The only place I could find it was in a tiny corner store. The fried chicken sat under heat lamps; the mashed potatoes and gravy looked congealed. I never did find any decent biscuits, especially not the handmade ones I was used to—those lovely orbs cut with the lip of a water glass, fluffy and tasting of butter and sweet milk.

Eventually, my craving led me to make biscuits and other comfort food, and that’s the basis of my business today. We make real food from fresh, simple, and familiar ingredients, using the kinds of handmade techniques I learned at home—and now instead of waiting in line at a restaurant or attempting the technique by hand, consumers can go to their local grocery store and find our biscuits in the freezer aisle at supermarket chains across the country.

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[Photo: Mason Dixie Foods]

When I started Mason Dixie, I wanted to marry everything my parents taught me about food and culture: an appreciation for fresh, simple ingredients; craveable meals; food that took time to make but very little time to gobble up.

My parents only bought produce from farm stands and meat from restaurant wholesalers. They taught me the importance of knowing where your food comes from, what it should look and taste like, and how we should pay attention to the growing seasons. Having grown up in the Fertile Crescent, my dad often complained about the taste of standard American produce. I saw what he meant when I visited his home country for the first time, and bit into a tomato and a zucchini straight from the earth. They were dramatically tastier! Once at an American supermarket, I pulled a large cucumber out of the bin, exclaiming over the size. My dad said to put it back: “Those are for the donkeys,” he said. That phrase stuck with me as I developed my business: Why was the aspiration to grow bigger, and not better, foods?

I never thought anyone would question the authenticity of my quest to provide healthy comfort food. And yet a comment I often get (and wince at) is, “But you don’t look like you grew up eating biscuits.” What is a person who makes biscuits and soul food supposed to look like? How do I prove the legitimacy of my love for that food?

I’m proud of how my Korean heritage has contributed to my company: a mean fried chicken recipe, an appreciation for flavor and freshness, a grinder work ethic. And my Middle Eastern heritage gave me a desire for simple ingredients and a farm-to-table approach in building the company.

It’s the celebration of these cultural influences that I would prefer to highlight, especially during AAPI Month. I would love not to be asked why I started an American comfort-food brand instead of, say, making dumplings or noodle dishes. I am American first, biracial second, and Asian American third. This month, I want to celebrate the “American” part of AAPI, and our contributions to the world in relation to the value of every multifaceted, multitalented one of us.


Ayeshah Abuelhiga is the founder and CEO of Mason Dixie Foods in Baltimore.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Aimee Rawlins is a senior editor at Fast Company, overseeing the Impact section. You can connect with her on X/Twitter at @aimeerawlins and on LinkedIn. More