Privilege Talking

Every year as a kid, my elementary school would host the International Dinner. Kids and their families were invited to bring a dish unique to their culture and arrive dressed in traditional garb. I’d throw open the doors to the gymnasium, and all I could see were colors. Every color. Bright flags strung from one basketball hoop to the other representing the places we all came from. I’d search immediately for the Armenian one of course. My classmates were dressed in costumes and hanboks and saris and shuka and kilts. There were trays full of steaming food smelling and looking different from the things I ate at home. I’d fill my plate and find a seat dressed in the Armenian dance costume my mom stitched together for me—pennies hanging from my headpiece. I still remember sitting with friends from all over the world coming together in this special moment. We’d eat fried plantains, boregs, sticky rice, croque madame, kimchi, and whatever else we could fit onto our styrofoam plates. Sometimes we’d go up for seconds or even thirds. I was once told that unger means a person you share your table with. I was sure I was surrounded by my ungers. I was sure the world fit perfectly together just like we did, dressed in costume, sharing a meal in a vibrant gymnasium—that’s my privilege talking.