I believe in watermelon. It’s not about the sweet juice that overflows from each bite. It’s not about the plump seeds that can be spit out. It’s not about fighting for the last slice. It’s about the warmth and love that comes from eating watermelon.

I call it tradition. Every year that I go back to China I am filled with trepidation. I cannot erase it. I am burdened by what my relatives will think of me. Am I to their expectations or am I still below them? Born in America but treated as one born in China is tough. They don’t see the distinction and when they do it’s always negative. Why isn’t she more independent? So and so has a daughter that uses the subway to go to school and she’s only ten. I would expect that since she was born in America. I’m sure they know New Jersey has no subways.

I deal with it though. Or at least I try to. The language barrier doesn’t help either. I don’t understand some words and they become distorted in my mind. I end up not knowing who I have to be to please my relatives. And I don’t think I should have to change who I am but I feel obligated. As a “Chinese” I was born to be obedient. It is a Confucian ideal.

But the silver lining appeared for me on a humid, muggy day. We had returned from a trip last night and I had just woken up the next morning. On the table there was breakfast: hot, steaming buns instead of pancakes with ice cream, cold yogurt, or even lightly toasted bread with jam. Anything not hot and steaming would have been perfect. Instead I ate the buns and said that they were good. It would not have been “proper” of me to say that I preferred to eat something else. That would be another notch down in my relatives’ eyes.

Finished, I left the table. A couple of hours passed and more relatives came: my uncle, my aunt, and my two male cousins (one older and one younger). I sighed. Now I was expected to entertain my three year old cousin. But, I was in for a surprise. They had brought cold watermelons. We all gathered eagerly at a table too small to fit everyone. My dad and uncle sliced the watermelons. Then we dug in. Somehow we were all talking together and I wasn’t being judged. And then somehow we were all laughing, myself included. We were laughing as we slurped up the sweet juice. We were laughing as we spat out the plump seeds. We were laughing as we fought for the last slice. We were laughing when we were finally sated and feeling the relief from the hot, muggy day. And then I was content. Suddenly I didn’t mind being in China. Suddenly I didn’t mind having to deal with my relatives. Suddenly I didn’t care about anything except the feeling of contentment that had settled in my stomach.

And so I believe in watermelon. I believe it can bring people together. I believe it can make people put aside the differences and look at the similarities. I believe watermelon is what can connect the hearts of people and make what really matters come out: family.