I was in the library, North Campus, second floor, around 3:17 PM. Finals week, of course. My stomach… it just roared. Not a little rumble. A deep, guttural sound, like a beast waking up from a long sleep. There were six of us at the long oak table, silent. You could hear the fluorescent lights humming. Then my stomach. Loud enough to make three heads snap up, eyes wide. One girl, I swear she jumped. I felt the heat rise up my neck, all the way to my ears. It wasn't hunger, not exactly. It was shame. My mother, she always said, "A person’s stomach should never speak for them." From the village, you see. Scarcity. You ate what was given, when it was given. And you were quiet about it. To make a noise like that… it was an admission of lack. A public display of not having enough, of not being in control. I remember once, I was seven, my stomach grumbled during a school assembly. My father heard about it. A sharp look, nothing more, but it burned worse than any scolding. "You disgrace the family," his eyes said. All these years, and I still feel that sting. So there I sat, a man of seventy-one, caught like a child. My face burning, everyone looking at their books but knowing. That feeling, that moment… it took me straight back. To the small apartment in Queens, the four of us crammed in, my mother counting every grain of rice. To the silence around the dinner table, the quiet chewing, the unspoken rules. That hunger, that sudden, loud protest from my own body… it wasn't just physical. It was a lifetime of trying to be unseen, unheard. To fit in. To not draw attention. And there it was, announcing itself for all to hear. Like a betrayer. My own body, turning against me.