Potlucks Not Prayer Meetings: Aotearoa Filipino Potluck Club

I clutch a plastic container of kamote fries as I walk across Wellington, wearing a coat too large and too thick for a warm summer evening, but just right for someone who recently migrated from the tropics. I swallow thickly when I find the flat building, both nervous and excited to be there.  

There are a few people I’m keen to see at the potluck: Activists I met at the Palestine Solidarity March, and creatives from Massey University and Asian Aotearoa Arts Hui. Other than these handful of acquaintances, I’m terrified to meet everyone else, a terror stemming from the question: What if this is the same as the prayer meetings I attended before?  

The prayer meetings from my childhood were run by Metro Manila or Tagalog centric groups, with either a potluck-style or hosted dinner party. They were always led by middle-aged conservatives in heterosexual marriages who believe that the only way to become a good person is by being a devout Catholic.  

Now, I’m openly queer, irreligious, and never pass as conservative by any means. But for years, that’s what I did. I pretended to be someone I’m not to be a part of something, anything. After leaving those communities, I never once looked back.  

As I get closer to the flat, I tell myself, “If this group is the same, then I’ll leave too.”  

I hear chatter from the hallway, growing louder when I open the door to the flat. I step inside, take off my shoes, and wave hello at the vibrant community of Aotearoa Filipino Potluck Club (AFPC).  

There are around 30 people present, filling the space with the rambunctious laughter ever-present in Filipino gatherings. The dining table struggles under the weight of plates, bowls, and pots, overflowing with delicious home-cooked meals ranging from stews, to pastas, to grilled meats. It reminds me of the weekly family reunions held at my grandparents’ house, and my heart aches for the time I spent on my phone, ignoring what was happening around me.  

This time, I do what I wished I’d done during those reunions: I talk. I go around from group to group, getting to know the various members of AFPC. I discover many of them hail from all over Aotearoa, particularly from Te Whanganui-a-Tara and Tāmaki Makaurau. I discover too that many of them are like me: Queer creatives who engage in activism and the study of the diverse languages, cultures, and histories of The Philippines. Definitely a different crowd from my previous communities.  

Instead of a Catholic prayer, a karakia is said before meals. Instead of Bible study, we sit together in a large circle and reflect on the host’s given prompt: A recent moment of sweetness. The stories shared vary in sweetness, ranging from pleasantly tangy, excruciatingly sour, and deeply bitter. We laugh at anecdotes, cry over losses, and grieve over our colonial pains. But most importantly, we do it together.   

When I leave the potluck, I’m so full I can barely walk and I’m so excited to join the next one I barely sleep. Luckily, I don’t wait long. Many AFPC events pop up throughout the year, ranging from catch-up dinners to weekly Tagalog language lessons. Most are hosted by members for free. I clear my schedule to attend as often as possible.  

The food is different each time. During a documentary viewing, I fill a plate with a mountain of fragrant jasmine rice along with a generous helping of savoury bicol express, peanutty kare-kare, and crunchy lechon kawali. Later, I add crispy lumpia onto the pile. I suck my fingers clean after eating sticky biko and caramelized turon for dessert. 

At a vision board making workshop, I enjoy a brunch spread that consists of sautéed corned beef, moist scrambled eggs, fried Spam slices, dinner rolls a la pan de sal, and of course, garlic rice. While the components are not necessarily Filipino on their own, putting them all together becomes reminiscent of breakfasts I had growing up. 

The venue changes as well, taking place in homes, cafes, restaurants, cinema houses, community centres, and even Zoom.  

But while the food and venue constantly change, the sense of belonging remains the same.  

It is this collective care, this sense of community, that urges me to stay. No matter how full my belly feels, I am always hungry for more. 

I smile at the thought that I have found a space that treats individual people with the same love as the homilies and biblical passages of my childhood prayer meetings.