I would’ve liked to report that Thanksgiving in China is an uproarious and festive day, but the truth is, it’s not a recognized holiday, and is as empty of promise as Geraldo Rivera’s opening of Al Capone’s vault, or Donald Trump’s 2012 October surprise, or the red states post-election threat to secede from the Union, or the new Cracker Jack’D line of caffeinated candy coated popcorn. These days, giving thanks multiple times everyday is as natural to me as breathing, so the whole idea of setting a day aside to give thanks is kind of superfluous, yet, in my past the day has offered profound joy, strangeness, contagious gratitude, misery, compassion, cerebral hypoxia, regret, love, hostility, and the committing of each and every one of the seven deadly sins. I wanted to share the meaning of Thanksgiving with my students, but after doing a little research, I didn’t know exactly what to say. The official version is this: Oppressed Puritan Pilgrims fled England to establish freedom of worship in the New Land, coming ashore at the newly-named Plymouth Rock, where the spiritually well-fed but physically starving newcomers were embraced by the local heathens who broke open their storehouses and fed the Pilgrims throughout the long winter. The day is set aside in honor of the Indians, who with this selfless act allowed democracy to take hold and flourish, conglomerates to be formed, industrialization, Hollywood, Coca-Cola, genetically modified corn, tuna melts, Cheese Doodles, Black Friday sales, and enabled McDonalds to morph into a creepy noun form, i.e., “We ate McDonalds.” It’s a nice, tidy myth—the pumpkins, the strange black hats and oversized buckles, the overflowing cornucopias, the cranberry sauce, disposable aluminum roasting pans, but according to historians, the truth was an entirely different affair. The Pilgrims originally set sail for the New Land in two ships, the Speedwell and the Mayflower, but the Speedwell was a leaky wreck. Half the voyagers turned back, and the rest boarded the Mayflower, which set sail with 103 passengers and crew. Their original destination was the mouth of the Hudson River, but storms and assorted other catastrophes forced them ashore at Cape Cod in what is now Massachusetts (cue the Bee Gees song). Once ashore, they were starving and without provisions and plundered Indian graves to steal the corn buried with the departed, ate their own leather shoes and belts, and dumpster dived around Indian settlements. They were a sorry lot, and indeed the Indians pitied them, occasionally tossing them a dried cod or some freshly popped popcorn. But the newcomers were relentlessly odd, and stubborn, and it eventually came down to survival of the religious; they found rationalizations in their doctrines to seize land, to plunder and pillage, then the diseases they brought with them did the rest. Mather the Elder, father to that fun guy Cotton Mather, preaching in a thanksgiving sermon in 1623 offered up thanks to God for the smallpox epidemic that wiped out a prior Indian settlement. And still other historians claim the real first Thanksgiving Day was held in 1637 as a celebration for the safe return of colonists who had recently marched south and slaughtered 700 Pequot Indians—men, women and children, in what is now Mystic Connecticut. The anniversary is still mourned by a group called the United American Indians of New England who gather each year at Plymouth Rock to remember and reflect. As far as my students, I kept the explanation short and sweet: It’s a day we give thanks for all we’ve been given, when we share with those less fortunate, feast, and applaud life. So, what does Thanksgiving mean to me? I play George Winston through the headphones and remember: Though it is not really celebrated in Costa Rica, the dinners with Wayne and Lourdes, the festive spreads served by the Time Out Tavern, with Jai, and Steve, Glen and their family, Caroline, of whom we-are-not-worthy and the rest of the great staff, and Lori, and Texas Jim, Caroline and William, and the packed-house characters too numerous to mention. Also in Costa Rica, the time with Judith (Jude), Richard, Victor, and Captain Bob and the Canadian crew, the box of good cigars, Brandy Alexanders, talking all night and stumbling to bed as the tropical sun rose, as well as the time visiting Koala and Susan invited me to Guanacaste to Koala’s brother's house overlooking the ocean, where we ate and swam and told a million stories.
The taverns in Alaska that serve buffet style dinners for free, everyone welcome, my friends and I commandeering the table overlooking the street at the Pioneer Bar, as festive and merry as a band could be. And the time at Linda’s casa in the Valley, Catherine and I and Brian, who stuffed the cavity of a turkey with whole carrots then baked it, that mildly obscene image stuck in my mind like the sludge of leftover gravy, along with the abundance and the camaraderie and the sleepover hospitality. And the time with Paula at Dan’s Houston, Alaska, cabin, where the dog stole and devoured the unguarded turkey, leaving us to dine solely on what was left. So many cross-country recollections. Heather and I cooking turkeys in advance, leaving Los Angeles and driving to the Grand Canyon to meet up with her family, picking up a hitchhiker who gave me this line: Pet food companies are always saying their products offer new and improved taste, but, how are you ever going to know? We blew his mind stopping in the twilight desert and offering a road meal of turkey and trimmings. I can still see the jagged dark mountains like the edge of a torn photograph, the telephone wires rising and dipping off to the horizon, the bland brown desert on which we spread our impromptu feast. Her family never made it and we got snowed in at the Grand Canyon for days, one unexpected form of sublime intervention. Another time, after eating a huge meal, getting a call from a woman I knew, who decided to commit suicide and was calling to say goodbye, rushing over and holding her hand all night while we argued over whether life was worth living, dumbstruck but trying to find the magic words to convince her, and dawn, the pigeons flying in crazy circles, celebrating life, totally spent but profoundly thankful that she didn’t do it, and is alive, still. Then there were the hard times in Seattle, living in an I’m-not-dead-yet-but-I-should-be hotel on skid row, the owners providing a Thanksgiving meal for the tenants, a more ragged collection of malcontents than was ever assembled, like a living Bukowski poem, but cleaned up, and behaving, and respectful, the meal so quiet, like feeding time at the morgue, the effusive thanks afterward, then the let-out-of-school rush back up to their rooms and their collective torment. And the beginnings in Boulder, Colorado. Russell’s apartment. Short of cash, we conspired to perform the great turkey heist, but buy the rest of the meal’s ingredients, and made up for it by inviting street people to attend, of which two did, and one talked about the different dimensions of the universe, about being here and there at the same time, and when he left, we went outside to see where he had gone and he had indeed disappeared into thin air. But last year was extremely special; I spent it with family for the first time in many years. I sat at a table next to my sister who had undergone cancer surgery just three weeks before. It was one kind of miracle. We sat around a table and expressed what we were thankful for. I paraphrased Keats and said, “And say my glory was, I had such family.” We ate and talked and later on I watched Anthony’s hysterical ‘Holiday Tracker’ videos. Alana played Vince Guaraldi’s Charlie Brown music on the piano. We all went for a walk, a wildly talkative pack roaming the suburbs. Dogs barked below the stars. The earth hummed. After we returned home, I went outside, dug into soil, and buried a wine cork in thanks. It was a perfect day. And so, on this Thanksgiving 2012, I hope all the thanks rise upward and are collected like clouds formed over the oceans, accumulating gratitude to fall like rain somewhere else. And I also want to thank everyone that I didn’t mention, those who have shared their tables with me; you are all part of the marrow in the bones of all that I am. Happy Thanksgiving!
2 Comments
AndyM. AndyM.
11/20/2012 10:13:38 pm
the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy sleeping dog... (just checking to see if all of these keys work).... Ahem...
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Mary
1/31/2013 04:15:10 am
Happy Thanksgiving ee, Sorry I missed this diary I know I sent you an email for Thanksgiving 2012 but I like to respond to your diaries and I just realized there are a few diaries I had missed like this one and I don't know if you will ever get this comment as it is now January 2013. This was a very informative diary I didn't know Thanksgiving was so contrary to what really took place I always learn so much from your diaries. I also didn't realize how many different types of Thanksgivings you have experienced in your lifetime. I am also happy that we got you at our table in 2011 we really were blessed to have you at our table and share Thanksgiving with you it was our treat....Love ya sis
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