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Our dining room table is falling apart.
That may come as a surprise, as no one would expect anything wrong with it. A perfect exterior, no visible signs of wear and tear or damage; nothing that reveals the true age and life of the small wooden table confined to our dining room.
Oh how looks can be so deceiving…
It’s always the seemingly ordinary that have more to their story.
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Our dining room table is falling apart.
I have my grandparents to thank for the dining table in the first place. Their first big purchase with money earned through menial labor; both claim to have bought it in the hopes that they would one day have a family to gather around it.
A physical manifestation of a wish; prayers and shooting stars were rarely effective.
It didn’t matter that they couldn’t afford any chairs to go with them at the time, the pure act of owning the table brought them satisfactory pleasure. Temporary pleasure, one could argue, but pleasure nonetheless.
Pleasure, purpose, and drive.
And pride.
The most satisfying pleasure of all; pride.
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Our dining room table is falling apart.
Our family didn’t have chairs for the longest time; maybe that should have been my first sign that something was wrong.
At some point, a difficult decision was made to journey across the Pacific Ocean. A journey that began in a land of strict customs and traditions, slowly transitioning to a western-opinioned society, with the table trailing on the heels of my family.
A fresh start, building everything from the bottom up again. Not easy by any means, but my grandparents tell me that they kept reminding themselves of the chairs to keep going.
They made a vow that once they created a new life for themselves, chairs would be their next big “splurge.”
A thing usually taken for granted was unattainable for us; that thought alone can knock humility through the system in an instant.
And for far too long, my family utilized whatever was deemed “appropriate enough” as a seat; one of those plastic chairs you typically use in a backyard; a 1950’s diner counter seat that my grandfather got for free at a garage sale; a yoga ball when my mom wanted to improve her health. When we finally were at our wits end, we caved in and all collectively chipped in some money and bought chairs that we thought were perfect. I contributed five dollars from my piggy bank, so I argue that I have a small share in this collective ownership.
It was only afterwards we realized the wood on the chairs weren’t a match to the table.
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Our dining room table is falling apart.
I’m barely three-years-old as I first sit on our new chair. It doesn’t matter that I can’t even get onto it without a boost, at least I can pretend that I am at least a foot taller by standing on it on my tippy-toes.
On this chair, where I can finally reach our kitchen counters and feel more like a grown-up, I also have a front seat to a personal show. A show about family, the good and the bad, the highs and the lows, and the emotional rollercoaster of it all. And whether I like it or not, I’m on the cast list in a recurring role.
The new episode begins:
(Scene opens- my mother leaning over the stove, skimming the foam of the curry she cooks. My grandmother hovers over her shoulder, monitoring every moment to ensure every single step of the recipe is exactly like how she does it. She shakes her head and lets out a little tsk)
Grandmother:
“Your cooking skills have gotten rusty”
Mother:
(with a little bite in her tone)
“I hate to cook; it’s messy, tiring, and I don’t get any satisfaction from it.”
Grandmother:
(equally passive aggressive) “I know, but you shouldn’t waste your skills on your feelings.”
Director, when is it my cue to enter?
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Our dining room table is falling apart.
I’m twelve-years-old; considered too young to be included in everything, but old enough to begin receiving the personally-tailored comments and attacks from family to grow a thicker skin.
The women in my family are multi-taskers; their hands demonstrate their talents while their mouths are relaying the gossip and dirty laundry from those around us. This cannot be demonstrated better than cooking sessions. Almost skillfully, a piece of gossip gets passed through a personal grapevine: from one aunt to another, to a sister to a grandmother, to a mother to a niece, to whoever.
Meanwhile, our hands are the opposite. We delicately fold dumplings with beautiful creases that hold whatever is inside. We gently hold mochi in our hands, the only time where sticky and messy is deemed acceptable.
We create what we are not: wholesome, comforting, real.
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Our dining room table is falling apart.
On the brink of adulthood, I find myself realizing how the table is an odd middle ground amongst us all.
We seldom give words of encouragement, even when the accomplishments are beyond incredible. We cannot guarantee which family members will approve of our requests, as the decision-making process tends to be rooted in our own prejudices. We transform over major disagreements, as the rare words from our mouths have now become the most dangerous of weapons.
But at the dinner table, all forms of dysfunction pause for a moment.
Over steaming bowls of rice, we take a moment to sit down and be present in the moment. We do our best to savor these laborious meals— the ones with absolutely no measurements or instructions— letting the aromatics and visuals speak for themselves. From the soups that were simmering for hours or the stews whose ingredients required a special trip to the Asian grocery store, the food demonstrates more sacrifices made for the greater good.
We are silent but together; we briefly become the same.
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Our dining room table is falling apart.
From losing my spot in an online queue to buy concert tickets, to the announcement of my parents divorce over a Friday dinner, to study sessions for all the dreaded SATs, to all the college rejection letters that piled up like a centerpiece, to breakdowns, to fights, to laughter, to tears, to…, to…,
The table has seen the best of us, the worst of us, and everything in-between. Yet, it’s not the witnessing of our most difficult moments that worries me. Far from it, in fact.
The table has seen the most intimate and intense moments of us; the version of me that sits up at 2 AM because anxiety riddles her mind. Or that one that cries only when they are alone, slumped with their head down on the table as the sobs ring out into an empty household as it's safer than falling apart with others around. Even the version that just goes to the table and sits in complete silence, letting their thoughts and questions ponder to nowhere.
The table is the only one that has witnessed my emotional vulnerability.
That’s what scares me the most.
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Our dining room table is falling apart.
One random night, my mother calls me. Her voice is somewhat shaky as she breathes out those forbidden words, “I miss you.”
I’m an adult now; no obligations tying me down to family.
I’m thousands of miles away from her; physically and emotionally.
I’m only now working through the trauma I faced.
I’m not sure if I reciprocate the feeling.
I’m finally allowed to admit that.
"I need you,” she cries out.
I imagine tears delicately falling out of her eyes, leaving streaks of sorrow down her face.
A slight tingle begins behind my eyes; a watery dam that so desperately wants to break free and run rampant. It burns.
I hold any sign of emotion back; I can’t break down now, not when I made it this far.
She sighs and begs one last time, “Please come back home.”
I don’t think I’ll survive if I do…
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Our dining room table is falling apart.
And I think we’ve reached the point where the damage is irreversible.
Editors: Alisha B., Blenda Y.
Image: Unsplash