“Did You Eat?”

Note: I first wrote this draft in February 2020, just weeks before the COVID-19 pandemic changed the course of the United States and the world. I hope that readers can connect to and learn from these words, as we eagerly await the days when we can feed our students once again.

“밥 먹었어?” my dad asks over the phone.

Oftentimes, it’s never much more than that in our 90-second phone conversations. He might proceed to ask what I’ve eaten. If he’s feeling chatty, he might even ask what I’m doing at that moment. But if he doesn’t ask that first question, then the call never happened. My mom, on the other hand, asks me that question while simultaneously setting the table with food she has spent hours preparing. She doesn’t wait for a response, insisting that I eat at that moment regardless of the answer. My immigrant Korean parents always make sure they know that I have eaten, and they want me to know that too.

In many Asian cultures, “Have you eaten?” is the question used to greet each other. This value placed on food derives from a culture where eating well is a sign of good health. If a person has not eaten yet, the one who asks seeks to feed them at once with great care for that individual. This practice of hospitality is a sign of love that goes beyond words and into action.

I carry this “Have you eaten?” mindset into my practice as a Latin teacher at the secondary level. When I was teaching in Texas, I would always have some sort of food and candy for those who stayed after school with me, whether they were there to practice identifying, forming, and translating present active participles or to prepare for certāmen (a fast-paced quiz-bowl game put on by the Junior Classical League, and featuring questions about the Latin language, literature, history, culture, and mythology). In my classroom, I wanted no child to go hungry, especially as some stayed well after the end of the school day.

Sometimes I would reward certāmen players for their hours of study and preparation following regional and state competitions with meals or milkshakes from a local fast food restaurant. When I gave assessments, I handed out candy, saying, “Here’s something sweet for something sour!” I continue these actions today, where I teach at Flint Hill School in Oakton, VA, but now I also intentionally share my Asian heritage by mixing in lychee jelly, Hi-Chews, coconut sesame crackers, and Korean-style fried hot dogs (I only did that latter extravagant act once for a few students staying late to work on the Classics Club bulletin board). As a Latin teacher, I ask the question “Have you eaten?” by offering food to my students, and I hope that they know that this is how I am showing my care for them.

In Vergil’s Aeneid, I notice a number of parallels to my Asian heritage that the Trojans and Aeneas possess. While I could spend some time on the similarities between Aeneas’ piētās and my Asian American obligation to honor my parents, I’m drawn to a particular scene in the AP Latin syllabus where I can’t imagine a more Asian expression of care.

In Aeneid Book 1.174–179, the Trojans, after being tossed around in the sea and stumbling onto Libyan shores, huddle around a fire that Achates started. The Trojans scrounge for whatever food and utensils they can find, even if they are spoiled by the salt of the sea. Aeneas then promptly goes off to hunt deer, so that more fresh food will be available for his people. Only after the wine and food has been divided up (Aeneid 1.195–197), does Aeneas give one of his most famous speeches that calls his people to be hopeful in the midst of despair and includes my favorite line from Latin literature: forsan et haec ōlim meminisse iuvābit (“perhaps one day it will be pleasing to remember even these things”). As a leader, Aeneas makes certain that his people have been fed first and foremost. Despite all the doubt and heartache from losing ships, fellow Trojans, and their home, Aeneas exhibits his care by letting his actions ask, “ēdistīne?” He seems to know that around food, people will gather and from that space he can unite his people.

The consumption of food brings people together. To eat is to share a moment of common human experience. It is at the table where food is served that conversations happen, relationships grow, and people refresh. Around the dining table, we have nothing but the food we eat and the people we face. We eat to live, but we also live to eat.

One of my happiest moments this past year was at the first certāmen tournament of the season. A student from another school whom I had had the pleasure of coaching on the 2019 Virginia state certāmen team exclaimed to my current students at the tournament, “Mr. Kim is the best — he always has food for us!” This statement, as simple as it sounds, brought me up short. This student recognized my care for them by my seemingly endless supply of chips, fruit, and candy at summer practices and my provision of pizza after hard-fought certāmen rounds. This student understood that my attempts to corral everyone for team meals was not for strategy building, but to build relationships. It was from these moments gathered around the table that the team of five was able to go off to do more than just play certāmen. They bowled at the campus student center together, they browsed at the convention’s nightly bazaar together, and they played frisbee on the grassy field together. “Have you eaten?” is the question that signifies my Asian American care for them.

My point is not to say that we should all have food for our students. We express love and care in different ways, and food might be one of those ways. In my Korean American experience, I have felt the most love when food was prepared or purchased for me. When this happens, I am overwhelmed by love, so I aim to do likewise. Feeding my students is how I demonstrate my whole self in the Latin classroom.

In a recent conversation with my dad, we shared a similar sentiment: the best parts of our day are when we eat food. During these times, we get to take a break from work and ignore some of the cares of our lives. We savor the crunch of kimchi and warm our bodies with the heat of jjigae. When this time ends, we both agreed that we immediately look forward to the next time we consume more food. Food is an expression of not only health, but also love, and I love that we get to share that.

One of the losses the COVID-19 pandemic has brought me is the inability to express my love through food. For six months, mealtimes have mostly consisted of rice, banchan, and a Korean main dish at home. I, like many, are starved for the community and connection that happens over food. How much more might students feel this, especially now that the 2020–2021 academic year has begun? Whether students are in-person or virtual, they cannot partake in the snacks I purchase from H-Mart. In masks and through screens, we trudge through the first declension without much opportunity to chew on food and conversation. While I cannot respond with action once I ask “Have you eaten?” I hope one day soon I can share that experience with my Latin students once again.

Woojin Kim is the Classics Department Chair at Flint Hill School in Virginia. He enjoys consuming a variety of media and foods, including coffee, bubble tea, and anything featuring Justin H. Min. He hopes to seek every individual’s flourishing and holistic societal good in all he does, beginning with his students of Latin and colleagues.