With Thanksgiving coming, the regular stream of turkey confetti, frozen mashed potatoes, and obnoxious family members are upon us. The grocery stores are packed with anxious shoppers, worried that the perfect turkey will disappear if they aren’t the first in line. At a first glance, the entire holiday has a lack of sincerity; after over-eating for an afternoon, Americans can now begin to anticipate Christmas.
However, once I look past the commercialism, Thanksgiving can be far more meaningful.
My dad didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving until he was 22 years old. In 1981, his first year here as a Lebanese immigrant enrolled in a Ph.D. program at Caltech, he and six of his Lebanese friends had Thanksgiving dinner in Chicago with my great-aunt Pam and great-uncle Pierre. After traveling from Los Angeles to Chicago on Northwestern airlines, Dad spent a day meeting family members and trying foods such as yams and cranberries. There, Dad discovered yet another interesting aspect of American culture – that even a day meant for reflection can morph into three hours of indigestion.
Dad never forgot that Thanksgiving, and after marrying my Midwestern mom, he continues to celebrate the holiday, participating in the most American of activities.
Last year, for example, Mom decided that she, Dad, my two brothers, my two sisters, and I should play some three on four football. Naturally, Dad and I were placed on the same team though neither of us knew how to play. (I failed my eighth grade football quiz in P.E. class with a score of nine out of 20.) Dad accidentally ran in the wrong direction with the ball and I had no idea what a down was. Every time Dad or I made a mistake that cost us a touchdown, Mom would draw herself up to her full height of 5 feet 11 inches and cry, “Ignorance of the rules is no excuse!”
Even though Mom cooks the Thanksgiving dinner, my brothers watch football, and my sisters and I set the table, Thanksgiving is still a time Dad loves. Despite the hectic shopping experience (Dad and I once made the mistake of going to Whole Foods on Thanksgiving) and the fact that nobody but the chef knows what goes into the stuffing, my family and I will forever love this holiday.
This year my parents, brothers, sisters, and I will dine at Pam and Pierre’s house for Thanksgiving dinner, just as Dad did 17 years ago. Only this time, Dad has 17 Thanksgivings to remember, and more importantly, this time he has us.