I immigrated to the United States from South Korea at only 3 years of age, and I’ve always lived between cultures. That in-between space (the tension of adapting while holding on, of bridging while belonging) was where I grew up. And with it came a constant awareness of the divides that too often grow between communities. Within immigrant circles, I began to notice how stereotypes between different cultures often hardened into silence or — worse — into suspicion.
Many immigrants will tell you this is nothing new: Cultural and ethnic tensions don’t disappear just because you cross a border. These biases often came from a lack of understanding, misjudging the values or intentions of entire cultures based on limited exposure or isolated incidents. I noticed that when one person from a particular group did something wrong, it wasn’t just seen as their mistake. It became a reflection on their entire culture. Whether in conversations at home or in the subtle framing of news reports, I saw how quickly blame turned into broad cultural stereotyping. Even as a child, I could feel the injustice in that. I didn’t yet have the language to explain it, but I knew it wasn’t right.
When I was in fifth grade, my family took our annual trip back to Korea. At the time, I was mostly excited to eat street food and see family. But I began to notice something else: subtle and not-so-subtle prejudices that surfaced in everyday moments. I remember watching a news segment where a Japanese man had committed a crime somewhere in the United States, and rather than focusing on the individual, the broadcast seemed to shift into a broader critique of Japanese culture itself. The tone was sharper, more critical, as if one person’s wrongdoing somehow confirmed old narratives about an entire nation. I heard similar echoes in adult conversations, offhand comments that painted Japan in a negative light, not because of history alone, but because of things like that news story.
Then came a moment that’s stayed with me. I overheard a group of kids around my age say that they “didn’t want to be friends with Japanese kids.” There wasn’t anger in their voice; it was just a matter-of-fact statement, as if it were natural to keep those distances. Even then, I knew something wasn’t right. It struck me as deeply unfair: How can you dislike someone you’ve never even met?
But even this troubling memory was superseded by a quiet, unexpected, but powerful encounter that came not long after. I was at a school festival back in the U.S. Amid the chaos of balloons, spilled popcorn and a cacophony of children’s laughter, I noticed the older teens supervising the event, many of whom were Korean- and Japanese-American, laughing together, sharing inside jokes, casually handing off snacks to one another like lifelong friends.
It was simple. But it felt like a revelation.
For the first time, I recognized that while the past shapes us, it doesn’t have to define us. These teens weren’t pretending their backgrounds didn’t matter — they were just choosing something more human than the history they’d inherited. I couldn’t yet explain it, but something settled in me that day: the understanding that people, even those divided by generations of conflict, could meet in moments of genuine connection.
Not another speech
That seed stayed with me, even as my family later moved from the multicultural sprawl of Los Angeles to the quieter, close-knit suburbs of Pittsburgh. In many ways, the move felt like a reset. The skyline was unfamiliar, the weather a bit grayer and the pace of life more intimate. As I entered high school, I found myself once again searching for where I belonged, and how I could make a difference.
I’ve always seen myself as a problem-solver, someone drawn to action. So I began looking for meaningful ways to contribute, to turn reflection into impact.
As I adjusted to my new surroundings, I noticed how the same divides I had seen in my childhood existed here too, even if they looked different. Social media was flooded with political outrage. Family dinner conversations occasionally turned tense. I heard stories of arguments between classmates over cultural misunderstandings, and saw how even good people could pull away from each other out of fear or frustration.
But I also felt a calling, because in all that noise, I remembered those teens at my school’s carnival. I remembered their laughter, their ease, their refusal to let history or inherited tension define how they treated one another.
I didn’t want to give another speech. I didn’t want to start another school club that fizzled out after a few meetings. I wanted to build something that brought people face-to-face, hand-to-hand. Something that engaged people through shared action.
And I kept returning to one question: What brings people together, really together?
Food.
Cooking.
Giving.
Connect, cook and care
Food isn’t just sustenance. It’s culture. It’s family. It’s memories. When people cook together, they aren’t just making a meal; they’re building trust. They’re telling stories through ingredients. And when that food is shared with people in need, it becomes something even greater.
That’s how my initiative Table Talk was born.
The idea was simple: Bring people from different cultural backgrounds together to cook meals, build relationships and donate those meals to individuals facing food insecurity. So far, we’ve prepared and donated over 200 meals to those in need. It’s about breaking bread, quite literally, to break down barriers between communities.
While the personal growth I’ve gained from this initiative has been invaluable, bringing Table Talk to life was far from easy.
At the beginning of the year, I started with what I had: my own kitchen, a borrowed folding table and a few family friends who were open to trying something new. Sourcing ingredients was tricky. Coordinating schedules across busy lives was even harder. But those early sessions, though small, were magical. Conversations flowed more easily while stirring a pot or chopping onions. Laughter emerged not despite our differences, but because of the newness we each brought.
Word began to spread. Some people joined because they believed in our mission. Others came simply because they loved to cook. Most came for both. Slowly, our events grew. My home kitchen gave way to borrowed spaces: friends’ basements, church halls and eventually commercial kitchens around Pittsburgh.
Each event is unique, but the purpose remains the same: connect, cook and care.
We recently hosted our first large-scale community session at Our Giving Kitchen on July 15, and have started conversations with the University of Pittsburgh to bring Table Talk to their campus later this year. (Anyone who’s interested in the mission can sign up here.)
Cooking community in a fracturing world
Through these gatherings, I’ve witnessed moments that quietly reaffirm why this work matters, like a Ukrainian grandmother gently guiding a Russian student through the delicate folds of homemade dumplings, or Korean and Japanese families laughing over shared memories and recipes, bridging histories once marked by division.
As I watched the world fracture further, with Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, renewed conflict in Gaza, and headlines filled with violence and division, it was easy to feel overwhelmed by the noise. But in the face of all that unrest, I’ve come to believe that one of the most powerful things we can do is to come together, not to argue or solve every global crisis, but to share in something simple, nourishing and human. There’s something deeply healing about cooking side by side: the warmth of a meal, the quiet rhythm of chopping vegetables, the stories exchanged between tasks. These may seem like small things, but they build trust, empathy and connection.
Beyond its outward impact, this project became an eye-opening journey for me personally.
When my family relocated due to my father’s job, I wasn’t exactly thrilled, since I was leaving behind close friends and the only home I really knew. Having spent seven years in the multicultural haven of Los Angeles, I underestimated the rich diversity that exists here in Pittsburgh. But over time, I began to notice the quiet beauty of Pittsburgh: its close-knit communities, its cultural pockets, its openness to connection. Table Talk didn’t just deepen my appreciation for the city; it confirmed it. Through this project, I discovered that Pittsburgh, too, holds incredible stories waiting to be shared and bridges waiting to be built.
For me, Table Talk isn’t just a project. It’s a philosophy that proves empathy is best cooked in community. That dialogue doesn’t have to happen in formal meetings. It can simmer in a shared pot of stew. That our histories may be complicated, but our futures don’t have to be.
Whether it’s been through leading my high school’s speech and debate team, founding Everest (a youth-driven initiative for financial empowerment) or engaging in advocacy beyond the classroom, I’ve come to deeply appreciate the power of creative problem-solving. These experiences have taught me that change doesn’t always come from grand gestures. It often starts with a single idea, driven by conviction. In college, I hope to launch a startup or initiative that tackles real-world challenges, addresses overlooked problems, reduces daily inconveniences, or creates more inclusive systems that bring people together.
I often think about that moment years ago, watching Korean and Japanese teens laughing together while managing a chaotic school festival. I was too young to fully understand it then. But I understand it now. They weren’t just having fun. They were modeling a way forward.
Now I hope I am, too.
Laurence Park is a rising senior at Shady Side Academy and can be reached at lapark714@gmail.com.
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