Have you ever eaten spaghetti on a Saturday night 
sitting at a long, every-leaf-inserted table 
surrounded by your best friend’s Italian family? 
I never knew anyone who had so many uncles—
Uncle Joey, Uncle Vito, Uncle Frankie, Uncle Mike. 
And so many Tonys: Big Tony, Little Tony, 
and the oldest one, Anthony. The table was crowded 
with a banquet of prosciutto, olive platters, antipasto, 
salads, fusilli, manicotti, and piping hot focaccia—
and it wasn’t even a holiday. After we said Grace, 
the conversation grew boisterous and the hands began 
their dance. At one point, one of the Tonys stood up, 
throwing his marinara-stained napkin down on his noodled plate. 
His meatball head about to explode, until Maria made a joke 
and the table roared with laughter. Tony sat down and smiled, 
with a little piece of parsley still stuck in his teeth. Mama 
urged, Mangia! Eat! Eat! and for 30 seconds all you heard 
were forks twirling noodles onto spoons, the slurp-slurp 
of the tail ends of spaghetti, and cheap Chianti swishing 
against ice cubes. Until the next spirited discussion, the next 
explosion of laughter. How foreign this felt to me. 
I expected to hear: If you don’t have anything nice to say, 
then don’t say anything at all. 
No one said: Be quiet and eat your dinner, before it gets cold. 
No scolding: Now, you know better than to make your mother upset. 
What happened to: Chew your food before you swallow... 
your feelings. Swallow your opinion. Swallow your truth 
before you open your mouth. 
What was this strange freedom to speak? 
How was this room still filled with nothing but love? 

Bio: Shawn Aveningo-Sanders