I still remember my first real Chinese New Year family reunion. It was one of those moments that felt straight out of a movie, with red decorations hanging from the ceiling, the smell of dumplings and soy sauce filling the air, and the sound of laughter echoing from every corner of the house. Twenty people, maybe more, sat around one big circular table covered with steaming dishes of fish, noodles, and vegetables.
Everyone was speaking Chinese, fast.
I sat there, chopsticks in hand, smiling and nodding along even though I had absolutely no idea what anyone was saying. The conversation moved so quickly that it felt like music I couldn’t quite follow, rhythmic, familiar, but just out of reach. I tried to catch a few words I’d heard before, but they slipped away before I could make sense of them. I felt out of place, like I was at the center of my own family but still somehow on the outside looking in.
That’s when my Popo, my grandmother, looked over at me. She must have noticed my confused expression because she smiled and, in her gentle voice, asked in English, “Are you hungry?”
It was such a small thing, but in that moment, it meant everything. It reminded me that even when words don’t connect, love still does. Popo didn’t need to explain every joke or conversation; I could feel the warmth through her question, through the way she piled food onto my plate without asking, and through the laughter that surrounded the table.
That dinner taught me something I’ll never forget: sometimes, the most meaningful connections happen in silence.
Starting Narratives 
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