Donald Trump, during a recent presidential debate, asserted, “…[immigrants are] eating the dogs. The people that came in, they’re eating the cats. They’re eating the pets of the people that live there. And this is what’s happening in our country. And it’s a shame.” This statement was quickly refuted by ABC News, with Springfield city officials confirming no credible reports supporting such claims.
While many found humor in the absurdity of Trump’s statement, creating viral TikToks and tweets, the comment resonated deeply with me in a disturbing way, surpassing even his previous harmful rhetoric against immigrants. Having heard Trump’s long history of dehumanizing claims—labeling migrants as rapists, criminals, job-stealers (“Black jobs”), and “poisoning the blood” of the nation—this latest accusation, though seemingly outlandish, felt particularly unsettling.
I wrestled with why this comment felt so uniquely offensive. Hadn’t Trump said worse? Accusing entire groups of violence and inhumanity seemed objectively more damaging. Yet, the “eating pets” claim lingered, prompting a late-night reflection. Seeking clarity, I turned inward, and the answer, surprisingly, was found in my photo library. Searching “food,” I discovered hundreds of images—645 to be exact—predominantly capturing meals shared with friends from diverse backgrounds and immigration statuses.
These weren’t just snapshots of food; they were visual reminders of connection and community. From immersion trips to the US-Mexico border, summers volunteering at the Oakland Catholic Worker, to everyday meals with friends, a profound realization emerged: many of my most meaningful meals were prepared and shared with individuals who bravely journeyed to the United States from other countries. These shared meals are far more than just sustenance; they are the building blocks of understanding and empathy.
Here are a few examples from my photo collection that illustrate this point:
A plate of Karen’s tamales, a gift shared during a home visit with my students, accompanied by stories of her experiences navigating life without legal status in the US.
Steak tlayuda with quesillo from a friend’s birthday celebration, a taste of home from Mexico, a country he hasn’t been able to revisit to taste his mother’s cooking in 17 years.
Hamburgers, a simple meal shared late one night at the Catholic Worker after a community soccer practice, fulfilling a basic need for nourishment and camaraderie.
Noodles, rice, plantains, and orange juice – a humble meal provided to a family seeking refuge at the Catholic Worker after their release from immigration detention, offering comfort and welcome.
Tapado Costeño, a fragrant Honduran seafood soup, lovingly prepared with a friend who feels like family, simply to satisfy a shared craving and strengthen bonds.
Gorditas, crafted by Joan during a border immersion trip, taught to me and my students. The meal was followed by her powerful testimony about the intersection of disability and immigration rights, shared through her daughter’s story.
A birthday cake, adorned with green icing and toy cars, celebrating the 7th birthday of an asylum seeker, his future intrinsically linked to his mother’s case, a symbol of hope amidst uncertainty.
A baleada, prepared as a friend recounted a harrowing experience of being shot at by gang members in his home country, his 6-year-old child recalling the terror of seeing “Papi with blood on him,” a story of resilience and survival shared through food.
The first cup of coffee brewed by a friend at the Catholic Worker, a gesture of trust and a quiet beginning to a burgeoning friendship, demonstrating the power of simple acts of hospitality.
And the list goes on.
These meals transcend mere sustenance; they are imbued with the love and presence of God. Food is intrinsically linked to relationships, community, and faith. This truth is central to Catholic belief, embodied in the Eucharist, the sacred meal shared in communion. We believe in a God who is present as food, offering nourishment and connection through bread. The divine is present in all aspects of life, yet its presence feels particularly palpable during shared meals.
Dorothy Day’s words resonate deeply: “We cannot love God unless we love each other, and to love, we must know each other. We know him in the breaking of bread, and we are not alone anymore. Heaven is a banquet, and life is a banquet, too, even with a crust, where there is companionship.” My life has been enriched by this reality, experiencing the hospitality, care, and love freely offered by my brothers and sisters in Christ from across the globe, each with unique stories, cuisines, and immigration statuses, all shared over a simple plate or cup.
Trump’s vile accusation about immigrants “eating pets” strikes at something profoundly sacred. His words are not just deranged; they defile the very essence of these Eucharistic moments of connection and sustenance. Eating is a universal human need. By weaponizing this fundamental aspect of our shared humanity, Trump commits a gross violation against communities, their sacredness, and the holy space created when we break bread together. Sharing meals fosters friendship; sharing lives and hearts over meals builds true community. Trump’s rhetoric seeks to dismantle these very foundations of human connection and understanding.
