Things I Wish I Could Say at the Dinner Table

Dinner tables in brown households are their own kind of theatre. Everyone has a role: the talkative uncle with endless stories, the aunt with unsolicited advice, the parent who slips in reminders about grades or weight, the sibling who tries to disappear into their phone. And then there’s me, the one quietly calculating which version of myself will cause the least chaos.

I’ve spent so many evenings biting my tongue that it almost feels like part of the meal. Dal, roti, rice… and silence. Not the comfortable kind, but the heavy, awkward kind that presses down on your chest. It’s strange how something as ordinary as dinner can feel like walking across a minefield... one wrong word and boom.

The Questions That Never End

The classics always come first:

“How’s uni?” → Translation: Give us proof that you’re not wasting your life.

“When are you getting married?” → Translation: Your degree is nice, but rings matter more.

“Have you gained weight?” → Translation: We noticed your body before your smile.

These aren’t questions. They’re verdicts. And my replies are carefully rehearsed: “It’s fine.” “Not yet.” “I’ll be careful.” Nothing too sharp, nothing that might start an argument, nothing that shows how much it actually stings.

Because God forbid I answer honestly:

Uni is suffocating.

Marriage isn’t my priority right now.

My body is my business.

The Jokes That Cut Deep

Then come the jokes — the “just teasing” comments that never feel funny when you’re the punchline. Maybe it’s about my dreams being “too unrealistic.” Or my clothes being “too Western.” Or my personality being “too sensitive.” Everyone laughs, and I’m expected to laugh too.

But the truth? Each joke is like a paper cut. Small, maybe, but painful. And when they pile up over the years, they don’t heal, they scar.

The Silence That Speaks Volumes

What hurts most isn’t even what’s said. It’s what isn’t. The things no one asks. No one asks if I’m happy. No one asks what I’m passionate about. No one asks how I’m really doing.

It’s like the parts of me that don’t fit their script don’t even exist. And so I learn to shrink them. I sit at the table with a smile plastered on, all while swallowing whole pieces of myself.

What I Wish I Could Say

If I could really speak freely at the dinner table, I’d say:

Stop comparing me to my cousins.

Stop commenting on my body.

Stop calling my feelings “overreactions.”

Stop asking questions when you don’t actually want to hear the answers.

Stop dressing up control as “love.”

But here’s the thing: I don’t say any of this. Not because I’m weak, but because brown households train you early — keeping the peace is survival.

The Cost of Staying Quiet

But peace at the table doesn’t mean peace inside me. The words I don’t say sit like stones in my chest. They make laughter feel forced. They make food harder to swallow. They turn family time into a performance instead of a connection.

And I know I’m not alone in this. So many of us walk away from those tables feeling drained, not full. Carrying the weight of everything we didn’t say.

Learning to Speak, Slowly

I’m not going to pretend I’ve suddenly turned into the person who flips the table and storms out. I haven’t. But I’ve started testing small truths. A quiet, “I don’t find that funny.” A gentle, “That question makes me uncomfortable.” A calm, “I don’t want to talk about marriage right now.”

Sometimes the table goes silent. Sometimes people change the subject. Sometimes they look shocked that I even dared. But little by little, it feels lighter. Like I’m finally sitting at the table as myself, not just the version of me they prefer.

Final Bite

I used to think silence was the safest option. Now I see it for what it is: a slow erosion of self. And I don’t want to keep erasing myself just to keep the roti warm.

Family dinners should feed us, not starve us of our voices. And maybe the bravest thing I can do isn’t to stay quiet, but to finally say the things I’ve been swallowing for years.