what would it take for you to offer me a seat at your table? the one that’s dressed up in a brand so expensive it feels alien to me. or the one dominated by men in suits, barely regarding their champagne-holding servers – unless they look, in their words, “fuckable”. i don’t fit in there clearly. but what if i asked you if i could sit down anyway? what if i told you i had something to offer? would you believe me?
i look for the storytellers. they know they’re not rich in dollars but they place value in their morals, in their intelligence. their currency consists of words – the ability to make you think, laugh, or cry at the right times. the ability to make you give up your attention; make you hover over a “subscribe” button; make you relate and type “i love this”.
but that table is intimidating too. an unspoken competition in who articulates themselves best or who can say it the loudest – whose face sells the philosophy. what if we all emerge from behind our screens and my shoes are scruffy, my eyes carry bags, and my voice goes all high-pitched when you talk to me. do i still get to eat? or am i supposed to shy away from raised eyebrows and get the bus back home, pretending i never dared to show up? they care about numbers and they care about being heard. i don’t – not at that table, anyway. that’s why i wrote things down in the first place, so i wouldn't have to push my voice where it wasn’t wanted. so what exactly am i bringing here? i look down at my empty, shaking hands.
the brave ones – they set up their own tables. they dress them up in pastels or emerald or burgundy. they invite strangers to come in, to sit down. they can’t afford fancy decor but what they serve is rich with flavour – what they serve tastes like home. you can have pancakes; there’s hot coffee and honey; you’ll be surrounded by fairy lights. where are the other lonely souls who need a quiet place to rest, to zone out as they stir their sugar with a teaspoon?
lovingly laid empty tables are beautiful. tables with beautiful hearts sat at them are beautiful. tables with arrogance and cruelty, where some people are too scared to speak up, and the servers are justifiably bitching behind their backs in the kitchen – those tables are ugly. the bright, blooming bouquets of flowers are weeping at their undeserving company.
our value isn’t in our wardrobes or our hair products or our salaries or the way we tell stories. our value is in our humanity, in our willingness to share a platter. in our promise to show up, to listen, to learn, to admit when we’re wrong. to be okay with differences as long as we agree we’re all equal. sitting at a circular table, enjoying dissimilar choices.
you’re narrow-minded. you only want people at your table if they’re like you – if they laugh at your jokes. if you can guarantee they won’t say something that might leave you a little speechless, as you gulp a bitter beer or cocktail. you don’t understand humanity – you only understand people as you expect them to be. queerness scares you away, and so do toothless smiles. disability, broken english, tattooed women and drag queens would all be too different for you to make space for. the world is so big and the world is so beautiful. it’s horrific too, yes. but your table… it should be bright, it should be welcoming, it should be kind. a safe place to kick your shoes off – whether they be high heels or crocs.
it should feel like that sign i saw in a chiang mai supermarket, pleading that if you’re considering shoplifting, you should talk to the staff so they can help you. it should feel like the swedish tradition i learnt about from two girls in vietnam – kosläpp – they said people go to see cows get released and it’s joyous. it should feel like discovering dragonflies, or receiving unexpected post, or someone knowing how you take your tea.
we’re all just trying to get through the days. even when we’re living the best days of our lives – we know too much about others’ lives to ever be completely okay. so if i set up a table, i’ll make it clear what won’t be tolerated. but if you believe in compassion, i hope you’ll sit down.
because we all need somewhere, where we can just come as we are.
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This is so amazing !!! Obsessed with your themes and wording omg. Just subscribed and I love poetry and other writing pieces in case you'd like to check it out :))))
this reminded me of the quote “i would never sit at a table where you are not welcome”