Thanksgiving, Tryptophan, and mending fences
America’s favourite holiday is a good chance to put aside political differences.
On Thursday, Thanksgiving.
Americans love this holiday more than any other. It’s secular. Everyone celebrates it. And there are no presents or obligations involved. Generally speaking, Thanksgiving success depends on avoiding overcooking the turkey, sidestepping political discussions with diametrically opposed extended family members, and combating tryptophan-induced sleepiness.
As an immigrant to the States in the early 2000s, I’ve had my share of ‘‘Friendsgivings’’ – orphans’ Thanksgivings that still concern themselves with dry turkey and drowsiness, but are free of clashes with relatives and infused with international versions of the holiday’s staples.
My most memorable Friendsgiving was a freezing November night in Cambridge, Massachusetts seven years ago. I remember waiting for a bus from Harvard Square to take me a few kilometres east.
The Harvard campus was desolate (it was Thanksgiving, after all). It was dark, well below zero, and my body hurt from the cold. I seriously considered packing it in and walking back to my apartment. How bad could Thanksgiving alone really be? The bus came just before I gave in to the weather. I spent the evening with friends from Austria, Australia, Portugal, England and Germany. We feasted on turkey and trimmings, and we drank one of Austria’s triumphs (alongside the Hapsburgs and Mozart), gluhwein: a warm concoction of red wine, cloves, orange peel and spiced rum.
Our tiny-but-festive table danced with the liberal musings of graduate students. We solved the world’s problems, as you’d expect. Despite our diverse backgrounds, we were bound together by our experience of America as foreigners. No drunk uncles, no political showdowns, and the turkey we celebrated was perfect. Not willing to do battle with Mother Nature again, I took a taxi home.
This year was much different. A large extended family gathering an hour east of Manhattan. With the tumult of the election surrounding us, I made a vow not to speak a word of politics. Especially given the inevitability of Trump voters, a candidate to whom I was diametrically opposed.
We spent five fantastic hours together. In-laws, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends ate and drank more than we probably should have. American football played on a 1.3 metre screen. We said grace, gave thanks, and caught up. I almost kept my vow. Uncle Tom cornered me in the kitchen and we spoke in general terms. About ‘‘next year,’’ and our ‘‘hopes.’’ We spoke no names, as if he had made the same vow as me and knew he’d broken it.
Thanksgiving has a 400-year history. The memory of a meal shared between English colonists and Wampanoag Indians in Plymouth on the Massachusetts Bay in 1621 became a national holiday in 1863 at the height of the Civil War, at the behest of Abraham Lincoln. It is ironic, perhaps, that this day was carved into the nation’s consciousness when America was at its most divided.
Divided as it feels again, I was grateful for a chance to step away from the political milieu and be grateful for all I have.