The parable of the birthday party
A true story about cake.
There’s quite a spread here, and again I’m explaining to some folks what’s in different dishes. It’s polite—you don’t really know what people’s preferences are, especially when you don’t know the people. “These are all vegan,” I say with a gesture. “The potato salad has ham in it. The bami has chicken. This is rabbit. This curry is goat, but this one is vegetarian. We’ll have some more ribs and chicken off the grill soon, too.”
I have no idea who these people are. Our hostess, B, has no idea, either. Maybe a friend of one of our other guests? Not really—they just moved here from another island, and one of the other guests here invited them over when he saw them hanging out on the beach nearby. “Oh, cool! Nice to meet you.” I say. “Can I get you something to drink?”
This is a party for B’s husband’s birthday. On our island, birthday parties are often in public locations like parks, and it is common for passers-by to be invited to join in the festivities.
There are a lot of different nationalities represented at this party. B is Congolese, and her husband is American. There are two Nigerians, several Filipinos, some Dominicans and Colombians. There’s a three-way grilling contest going on between a Jamaican, a Kittian, and a Scotsman. A Canadian plays Beatles songs on his guitar.
“Oh! Do you want some cake? I forgot to offer you cake,” I say to the lady who just moved here.
Two Dutch tourists walk by. We invite them to the party. They politely decline. “Maybe later,” one says.
I understand: They don’t know us. How awkward it would be to stand around with strangers eating someone else’s birthday cake. They have tourist things they want to do, and hanging out with a bunch of weirdos who invite anyone who wanders by would take time away from that. And it does seem pretty weird, I know, because it seemed weird to me when I first moved here. Strangers inviting you to a party as you’re just passing by seems like a cult, or a scam. What do these people want from me, that they’re inviting me to drink their drinks and eat their food? There must be a catch.
When I describe these kinds of social behaviors that are utterly normal on my island to people I grew up with in the United States, I am often accused of lying, or at least exaggeration. Those who do believe me reply that it is nice that things are this way here, but that inviting strangers off the street to birthday parties just could not be done where they are—it wouldn’t be safe. People there, my American friends claim, just aren’t as nice as the people who I interact with on this tiny island. Most places, they say, are too large, and too anonymous, to foster that kind of trust. The kind of person who would agree to partake of a stranger’s birthday cake are not the kind of people one would want at their party. It’s a self-perpetuating cycle of perceived danger and distrust.
But of course those places, like the one I used to be from, are comprised of individuals no less trustworthy than anyone here. The difference is that they chose that anonymity, that separation from their fellow man. When we invite strangers to our parties, I think one of the main reasons they decline is because they do not believe in this trust. It feels dangerously naive to accept the offer of free cake. But it does not have to.
It’s late. The Kittian has won the grill-off. The Canadian guitarist has moved on to playing Black Sabbath, but changes tune when no one knows the lyrics well enough to sing along.
The Dutch tourists return from nighttime snorkeling. “Hey, do you want anything?” B asks.
“We’re fine,” one man says crisply, on instinct, but then hesitates. He confers with his friend. “I’m famished,” the friend says. “I’d love to join you—if you have any food left—but are you sure? We don’t even know you.”
“We didn’t bring anything….” the first man says by way of apology as he tucks in to a plate of pasta salad and barbeque ribs.
Sensitive to the newcomers’ feelings, B says, “You’re doing us a favor. We have so much food, and it would be a hassle to pack up all the leftovers. We’re glad you’re here.”
“Can I get you some cake?”