Column | When politics goes to the cats and dogs

Trump's pet-eating claim sparks meme-fest, highlighting food's role in culture, racism, and xenophobia in U.S. presidential campaign.

“In Springfield they’re eating the dogs. The people that came in, they’re eating the cats. They’re eating the pets of the people that live there.”

With that line from his debate with Kamala Harris, U.S. Vice President and the Democratic Party’s nominee for the upcoming Presidential election, Donald Trump, the Republican Party’s nominee, became the subject of a meme-fest. Or rather a meme-feast.

The mayor of Springfield, Ohio, debunked Trump’s claim that immigrants, specifically Haitians, were eating their neighbours’ pets. But now the South African band Kiffness has a song called ‘Eating the Cats’ with Trump’s voice set to a reggaeton beat. Memes have surfaced of cats and dogs watching TV, nervously realising their human is an immigrant. Late night host Jimmy Fallon said while Harris seemed prepared at the debate, Trump was like, “My homework was eaten by a dog that was eaten by people in Ohio.” A punster friend quipped, “At which meal do they eat the pets? High Tea, of course.”

But amidst all the hilarity and eye rolls, there is some food for thought here.

Food is often a way to break down barriers between people. That’s why we break bread together. But food is also a way we can other some people. That has been unappetisingly on display in the U.S. presidential campaign. After Harris posted on X about her Indian heritage, far-right activist and Trump supporter Laura Loomer said if Harris becomes President, the White House will smell like curry.

Loomer said it’s a joke but it cuts close to the bone because many desis would complain how they found it hard to rent homes in the West because landlords objected to the smell of curry. Food is the first thing immigrants show off about their culture. But food is also the first thing they censor and hide.

Many decades ago, my parents lived in London when Indian food was not as ubiquitous. On days when the Polish landlady was out and couldn’t complain about the smell, my mother would try to cook dishes that reminded her of home — like greens with fish head curry. Too embarrassed to admit she ate fish head and bones, she would pretend to her English fishmonger that she had a cat. I sometimes imagine my mother coming home, past English flowers like hydrangea and daisies, clutching her packet of smelly lies wrapped in newsprint.