A Birthday Party, A Silent Guest

The Cultural Divide in Inclusion

A birthday should be about joy—but sometimes, it reveals something deeper. A child left behind, an unspoken lesson in social belonging, and a quiet realization that loyalty is no longer a given. A reflection on friendship, exclusion, and the shifting values of inclusion across cultures.

By Kate Xie | Published on: March 11, 2025

The Invitation

Lena’s birthday was approaching.

Cedric urged us to start preparing one month in advance. I had never had a birthday party in my life. My parents would buy a cake—if they remembered.

“In the Netherlands, birthdays are important. Let’s do it at a theme park. Six kids. Let’s also invite the boy next door, Roy.”

Roy—a shy, soft-spoken child of Surinamese descent—sometimes plays with Lena.

“I’m not sure. Roy doesn’t know any of the kids you’re inviting.” I tried to think on his behalf. Given his quiet personality, I doubted he’d bond quickly with the other boys.

“It doesn’t matter. They’re kids. They’ll figure it out.”

And just like that, it was decided.

A Party Begins

On the day of the birthday party, the house was fully decorated. Cedric put up all the garlands—old, secondhand, their colors faded and edges slightly crooked. The same ones he had used every year since he was a little boy. He blew up balloons and tied them to Lena’s chair, making it look like a throne.

We laid out the food: crackers, raisin bread, lemonade, raw carrots and cucumbers, and a tiny cream cake. “It’s just a gesture,” Cedric explained. “For the candles. Not for eating. They’ll be stuffing themselves with junk food at the amusement park anyway.”

To my disappointment, cake was the only thing I associated with birthdays.

At exactly 11 a.m., the doorbell rang. The first guest had arrived. Over the next five minutes, nearly all the kids from Lena’s class—those from Dutch families—piled in, except for Lion, the boy from Ghana. We waited another 20 minutes, letting the kids run wild for a bit.

As a typical Dutchman, Cedric had scheduled the entire day to the hour—when to open presents, when to cut the cake, when to sing, when to leave for the amusement park, when to arrive. The late arrival of one child threw everything off.

“Let me call his father.” Cedric disappeared into the hallway to make the call. A moment later, he returned. “His mother is bringing him now.” He checked his watch. “I think we should just go ahead.”

By the time we had finished the cake and started putting on jackets, Lion and his mother arrived. And then, we were off.

The Silent Observer

The day was sunny, and I rode in the car with Cedric’s mother. She drove an old two-door compact car with no AC. I was relieved to sit in the front, where I could control the only functioning window. In the back, the boys screamed, laughed, and made jokes in Dutch—conversations I couldn’t follow.

The drive was smooth. Cedric’s mother chatted with the boys, diffusing small conflicts as they arose. But as soon as we entered the amusement park, an awkward silence settled over me.

“Cedric, I don’t think I can manage these boys. They don’t understand me.” I whispered to him as we walked toward the second attraction. I felt useless, alienated.

“They’re kids. Just say it in English. It’s fine!” Cedric brushed off my concerns. His focus was on moving, playing, keeping up with the boys.

The kids bolted toward the tall slide, grabbing helmets and climbing the stairs eagerly. I stayed at the base, watching. As always, I assumed my role—the silent observer, a nanny to my own family.

A Small Moment, A Larger Truth

After a few hours, the kids were exhausted, their faces red, their breath heavy, constantly asking for drinks. Only one child remained quiet—our neighbor’s son, Roy. Unlike the others, he wasn’t running, shouting, or scrambling from ride to ride. He had drifted away from the group, just like me.

With my broken Dutch, I walked over and asked, “Gaat het goed?” Are you okay?

He nodded but said nothing. He wasn’t engaging with Cedric or the other boys.

I had suspected this would happen. He didn’t know the other kids, and now, he was alone.

I hurried to catch up with Lena and Cedric. “Lena, can you check on Roy? He doesn’t know anyone here. He probably feels left out.”

Lena, flushed and distracted, nodded but kept his eyes darting toward the other boys.

Before he could respond, Cedric cut in. “Stop putting pressure on him! It’s fine. Lena doesn’t have to be with Roy!” He grabbed Lena’s hand and pulled him away.

“What? Roy doesn’t know anyone else here!” I called after them.

“It’s his responsibility to get along with others. Not Lena’s. Lena can do whatever he wants.” Cedric dismissed my words, walking off with Lena, his hands firmly on his small shoulders.

I stood there, stunned, watching them disappear into the crowd.

How Values Fade, How They Stay

As if I were watching my children being pulled away from the values I held dear. As if they were forced to being shaped into strangers—people who would feel no guilt, no discomfort at seeing a friend suffered and left behind.

A stranger who walks away from loyalty and brotherhood.

A stranger I do not recognize, nor approve of.

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