Kapwa: You've Got a Home in Me

The first time I tried Philomina’s food was at the Westside Farmers Market in the 19th Ward neighborhood. It was the third farmers market I had been to in Rochester and reminded me the most of the 32nd Street Farmers Market in Baltimore between its size, variety of vendors, community resources, and the way people lingered to chat with vendors and fellow shoppers alike. In an interview with the University of Rochester Campus Times, Westside Market

Manager Jessica DiSalvo commented, “The Market is this sea of beautiful, smiling faces, and the people there are just so nice, and there’s fresh food and resources that improve people’s quality of life, and a social outlet that people benefit from… it is the epitome of a third place.” I'm currently writing an entire chapter analyzing the 32nd Street Farmers Market in terms of the qualities of a third place as described by Ray Oldenburg in The Great Good Place. So, my comparison is apropos.

I left my bike with R Community Bikes, who every week set up at the Westside Farmers Market and offer free bike repairs. I was attending a city cycling safety workshop and needed a bike tune-up. While my bike was being repaired, I meandered through the parking lot, eyeing the different tablescapes of roasted nuts, microgreens, dried tea leaves, and sourdough pastries. Hungry for something more substantial, I opted to try Philomina’s.

Born in Nigeria, Philomina moved to Rochester in 2008 and has since “made it her mission to create recipes that were not only healthy but so delicious that everyone would enjoy,” as she writes on her website. On that day, I opted for the vegan combo. She filled a bowl with jollof rice, stewed veggies, and a bean medley – each of these which she cooked for hours in her kitchen at the Rochester Public Market. Philomina’s warmth and smile immediately put me at ease, and I had the pleasure of enjoying her homestyle cooking alongside a stranger, who was also waiting for her bike to be repaired.

I visited Philomina multiple times after that at her Rochester Public Market location. She came to recognize me with my pink bike helmet, which has become part of my uniform in Rochester. “Did you bike here?” she routinely asked in greeting. I always ordered the same – a vegan combo – and it was different every time. As someone who has experienced unhealthy impulses to control what I eat, the fact that I trusted her to fill my bowl without the “Just no this” or “Just a little of that” was evidence of the at-easeness I felt in her presence and the trust I felt that yes, she would feed me well. She would take care of me.

After my first day of teaching at the University of Rochester, I stopped by the Westside Farmers Market to treat myself to dinner from Philomina’s. I told her about a pudding that my husband Mike had made with saba bananas, a fruit indigenous to the Philippines and available to us at a local Asian grocery store. I promised to bring her some the next day at the Rochester Public Market. She would be working double duty – in her stall at the Public Market in the morning, and under the shed in the evening for the Food Truck Rodeo. “It will be a long day. I’ll bring you a treat,” I said. As it turned out, the pudding did not set properly, so I salvaged the bananas and made an ube banana bread to share instead.

When Mike and I arrived at the Public Market the following evening, I thought we would have to weave through the 40+ food trucks to find her, but she was the first one on the left side of the aisle. Recognizing us both in our helmets, she changed her greeting to “Salamat!”, Tagalog for “thank you.”

“Let me get you some food,” she said, and filled a take-out container with jollof rice, seasoned greens, and lentils. “How much do I owe you?” I asked. “No,” she said, waving my hand away and placing the warm plastic in my hands. "Daalu," I said, Igbo for "thank you."

As Mike and I walked away, me holding the food to my chest like a gift (and it was), I said to Mike, “I have a suki!” Meaning, I had now entered a relationship in which there was a shared agreement that we would care for each other.

In the Philippines, a suki is someone who consistently buys from you and who you buy from. You’re their suki, and they are yours. I shared this with Niel, who on August 4, 2023 marked his 655th time coming to the 32nd Street Farmers Market. “That’s a term for the importance of social interdependency,” he said. It’s not a noun, verb, adjective, or adverb. It’s all of them. “How many words are there that communicate an entire sentence?” he asked. How many words are there that communicate an entire story?

Having and being a suki implies a shared history between two people. It’s consistency. adrienne maree brown writes, “Interdependence is iterative…it’s a series of small, repetitive motions.” It requires showing up, again and again. Philomina's gesture moved me not only because of her generosity. It confirmed that I had shown up, again and again. I now knew and was known by somebody, a feeling that I first put words to in Baltimore and that was one of the hardest to leave behind.

It's not just the kindness of strangers that makes a place feel like home, although that certainly helps a place feel welcoming, a prerequisite for a home. It’s the ability to care for and be cared for, reciprocally. In Tagalog, the word kapwa communicates a psychology of shared humanity and communal care, core values of Filipino culture. As Dr. BJ Gonzalvo writes, "In essence, kapwa describes our relationship with others who share the same space with us." Space is interpreted broadly, beyond our home, city, and even country.

Prior to that day, I had lots of glimpses of “We can make a home here.” But Philomina’s gesture was the first time that I felt at home in Rochester. Her gesture acknowledged, "We share this space together."