My First American Thanksgiving

They say that holidays are mostly for children or senior citizens. The rest simply go through the motions. Holidays mean food, presents, school vacations, family gatherings and often remembering better times. In Hong Kong, as a child, I loved the very idea of holidays because I was always treated well by family and friends. In fact, from family holidays often meant receiving money. But, perhaps my most impressive holiday memory occurred in November of 2006 in San Francisco. It was to be my first American Thanksgiving. And it really became something very special to this newly arrived young man from far-off Asia.

I was invited to spend this holiday at the home of a friend's family. But, after the introductions to his family and their guests, the most fascinating moment was the aromas of the cooking. Turkey is an American bird. While in Asia we love fowl- usually chicken or duck, turkey is a little strange to many Asians. Here, of course, the turkey would be the centerpiece of the meal.

Thanksgiving, in America, is not merely a time for family from near and far to gather at someone's home, it is for many- including my friend's family- a religious experience. Too many people in the worlds, especially in America, forget how lucky they are and that, compared with hundreds of millions of people throughout our world, Americans are better off, freer, and even lucky to have a nice home and a car and food on the table. In my own heart, when I was talking with some of the Americans I had met here for the first time, I told them how grateful and thankful I was not merely to be in America, but to have this chance to meet and get to know my friend's family.

Actually, I can divide my memory of this first Thanksgiving into three parts: Conversation and becoming familiar, the sumptuous meal, and the jovial pleasures after being as full as I have ever been after dinner.

So, first my memory of all the introductions: I am terrible at remembering names, and in China our names are different because our given names usually are placed last. So, you are not Fred, as in Fred Smith, But Smith, Fred. There is a familiarity among Americans I still need to get used to: everybody, even strangers once introduced, call themselves by their first name. So informal. It takes getting used to. Of course,. Here the conversation among the men was about sports. I had no idea whop the Oakland Raiders or the San Francisco 49'ers were, or what they did or why people seemed to be angry about them. My friend explained they were sports teams in the Bay Area. He also explained the anger: both teams lost more games than they won. To me growing up in Asia, "football" was what you in America call "soccer." So, in this introductory conversation, there was something new I had to learn.

It was interesting to me that this talk was basically by the men. The women were in the kitchen or dining room, helping the hostess with preparing the final dishes. It all smelled so wonderful! Several of the ladies then arrived with big platters of appetizers. There were tiny bits of cheese with toothpicks sticking out of them. Crackers with what people called a "dip." I admit. I was hungry. I knew I was invited to a big meal so I did without my usual breakfast. But, my friend came over to me as I was loading up my plate. He said "Take it easy. Save it for the big meal." So, I did.

The hostess then came and announced that dinner was ready. She led me to my place next to my friend, and all the others gathered in their seats around a big table. They sat in the same places that they probably had occupied for many years at this same Thanksgiving ritual. Then after everyone was seated, there was a moment of silence, as my friend's father said "Let us say grace." My friend grabbed my hand, and the lady sitting on the other side of me too my other hand. I saw everyone bowing their heads, so I did, too. It was a short prayer by these Christian people thanking God for his grace allowing them to get together and share the bounty of this meal.

My memory now recalls the first question I was asked at this wonderful Thanksgiving table. The hostess turned to me, and asked "White meat or dark?" Everyone seemed to stare at me, as if waiting for my important answer. I finally stammered "whatever is easiest." So, I got a little of both white and dark meat. I got sweet potatoes, and peas and corn and hot biscuits with butter and cranberry sauce. My friend's Dad was busy pouring wine into the glasses. And yes, I got some and drank it!

I have had many holiday meals in my short life. But, never this much to eat! And, I did not even mention dessert yet! We ate and ate, and the hostess asked me if I wanted seconds. I looked at her, because in my limited English, seconds meant sixty of them in one minute. She saw my language distress and smiled. "Do you want some more? There is plenty!" And, there certainly was. I took second helpings. My friend smiled at me and warned to "Save something for dessert. Mom bakes a mean apple pie!" I felt if I ate like this every day I would end up looking like a Buddha. But, it was my first American Thanksgiving and I felt obliged to accept everything I was offered.

Of course, my friend was correct. His mother baked several pies herself- along with bakery pies some of the other guests had brought. So, I had a piece of Apple pie, a piece of pumpkin pie and a small piece of pecan pie! I ate as if this was the last meal of a condemned man!

Now about the third part of this fascinating memory: The talk after dinner. The family members of other friends who had been invited were not really religious in the sense I think of as religious. They were really a cross-section of the America to which I had recently arrived. The women were in the kitchen helping clear the table and wash and dry the dishes. They had their own "girl talk." I sat with my friend among the men. These were truthful, honest people. They were not always cheerful about their lot. One man complained about his job and the company he worked for. Talk came around to politics, where everyone complained about the President and then the war in Iraq and what we should do. "We" meaning America. It was a freedom of expression new to me. It is a memory I shall treasure even as memories of the dinner wear away. When I was growing up in Asia, no one dared complain or discuss politics. Perhaps in whispers. But if that happened, we children would be whisked out of the room first. I listened, but I was afraid someone would ask my opinion. I would be afraid to speak out because it was something I simply was not used to. Yes, I had opinions about politics and the war, but it was not my place as a foreigner to utter them out loud.

When it was time for my friend to drive me back to my room, his mother brought out a shopping bag filled with food. "I know you don't eat right at school," she told me and hugged me.

This first American Thanksgiving, therefore, was truly a memorable experience for me: warmth, friendship offered to a total stranger from distant lands. An understanding that this was really a special day, not just a "holiday" and a vacation time. I have learned to be thankful myself now. Not for having friends and friends' parents who extended their hospitality to me- a total stranger, but for the pleasures and even the occasional frustration and pain of life in America. It is a "thanksgiving" that I can relive every day. And maybe one day in the not so distant future, I can learn to make turkey and "trimmings" and invite friends to share my thankfulness.