The Summer of BBQ's

“Childhood memories are sometimes covered and obscured beneath the things that come later, like childhood toys forgotten at the bottom of a crammed adult closet, but they are never lost for good.” — Neil Gaiman

I don’t remember much about my childhood, but one memory has always stuck with me — my brother’s first birthday. I must have been around three, and though time has blurred most of the details, that day still lives in my mind in vibrant flashes: laughter, food, dancing, and the feeling of family all around me. That birthday celebration was more than just a party — it set the tone for excitement, for unity, and for the importance of cultural connection.

I remember the room buzzing with laughter and life as my brother sat proudly in his high chair, surrounded by smiling adults. The moment he stuck his little fingers into the blue and white frosting of his cake, the room fell silent for a heartbeat. Eyes peeked around corners to watch, full of amusement and joy. I remember the way my own eyes lit up — I couldn’t resist sneaking a fingerful of icing for myself.

I was a quiet, introverted child, often content to stay in my own world. But something about that moment pulled me out. Maybe it was the cake. Maybe it was the joy on everyone’s faces. Maybe it was that I felt seen — part of something. I felt full, not just with sugar, but with warmth. I wanted to stay in that feeling.

That day was also the first time I truly understood what family meant. Children darted around the yard with wild, carefree energy. The tables were covered in reds and oranges, and in the center of it all sat a glorious spread of food: crawfish, BBQ chicken, potatoes, turkey necks, cabbage, corn. I remember dipping my little hands into the seasoned crawfish boil, juice running down my fingers, and feeling like I belonged.

That wasn’t just a meal — it was a communion. The people around me weren’t just relatives; they were mirrors, parts of me. We shared more than food. We shared history, love, laughter, and cultural identity. That’s when I realized family isn’t just who you're related to. It's who shows up, who makes space for joy, who teaches you what matters.

The music, of course, made everything feel even more alive. Zydeco played from the speakers, and people danced in a way that looked like art. Their arms and legs moved like they were telling a story I didn’t know yet — but wanted to. I jumped in, shy at first, but then something clicked. My body moved like it remembered the rhythm, even if I’d never danced it before. I was proud — proud that I could feel it, proud to be part of it. That dance wasn’t just fun. It was identity. It was joy in motion.

As a child, I dreamed of being a dancer, a musician, someone who made people feel what I felt that day. Over time, those dreams evolved. I still love music and dance, but I found myself drawn to new forms of storytelling — poetry, writing. But the root is the same: expression, connection, memory.

My brother’s birthday may have only lasted a few hours, but the impact lasted a lifetime. It showed me the power of celebration, the beauty of togetherness, and the importance of holding on to cultural joy. “Memories were waiting at the edges of things, beckoning to me,” as Neil Gaiman wrote — and I’m glad I followed them back to that summer day.