thefutureisred

Why Thanksgiving Can Never Be Just A Day Of Thanks

This morning I woke to see a post from Seth Godin saying that this is "the only holiday that really matters.” Thanksgiving. Are you freakin' kidding me?

Now, in no way do I intend to“call anyone out” for sending wishes of thankfulness. It is a lovely sentiment and should always be applauded. Still that post stuck in my throat like that little pointy bone in a chicken.

Thanksgiving has always been a day of ambivalence for me.

I love the big family meal where everyone brings something to the table. We all help out setting and cleaning up. I love watching Lila play with her friends, and the very tastes of turkey and cranberry, stuffing and my specialty chocolate pecan pie remind me of this time we spend together. 

Am I to be completely honest, if I could suddenly zip back to Atlanta right now to be with the whole ganza mishpacha, I would do it without a second thought. Thanksgiving holds a special place for many expats, because it tends to be a very American holiday.

It’s also my favorite time of the year. Crisp but not too cold to keep you from going outside. The leaves on the ground impart a unique scent to the entire city of Atlanta and everything is quiet on the streets as people sit down for dinner.

On the other hand and a hand that shouldn't -- although too often is -- ignored.

Thanksgiving is a day of mourning for many. It’s the yearly reminder of blankets with smallpox, families murdered, entire peoples marched sick and dying for thousands of miles, stolen land and lost hope.

For this reason, I couldn’t bring myself to post Thanksgiving recipes to mark the day on the Matador Life, and why we chose to post an article on Native American Thanksgiving traditions instead. Definitely check out the wonderful article Candice Walsh, the fabulous associate editor and angry redhead wrote.

Noah and I chatted about it over coffee this morning. He, as always, has a unique view of things, often stated so wryly and succinctly it is difficult to hear. In short, he sees the second view of Thanksgiving as “post colonial guilt.” As expected, I bristle strongly at the suggestion.

“The Indians lost,” he says. “If they had won, we wouldn’t celebrate Thanksgiving. We wouldn’t use their images as mascots for sports teams. Thanksgiving is a victory holiday. That is at base what we are celebrating, and history is littered with this kind of mangled crap.” 

South America. Australia. Canada. New Zealand. Name a country where you won’t find someone with a similar history. It's inescapable.

But to celebrate with a feast? It's something I simply can't reconcile.

Should reparations be made?

If so, how? And who? So many of the people living in the US are immigrants – including myself – and have no direct responsibility for what happened aside for our choice to live in a country that now offers greater freedom and opportunity than the countries we left.

I also wonder if we had it to do all over again today, with the knowledge we now have, would we do the same thing again?

The more I write, the more I realize I have no answers, only questions. With that, I leave you with my final one. How can we celebrate all the good we have without remembering what was lost in order to pave the way?

Photos courtesy of Jonathan Hamner's Flickrstream

What Is Said Through the Augury of Birds?

Playing a bit of catch up: It was a long and round about route to Buenos Aires, taking us through Miami, Panama, Bocas, Costa Rica, a short stop in Lima and then finally. Here.

Miami: Quick stop. Just running from gate to gate. We arrived late, so I wasn't sure we'd make our connecting flight. I asked a woman dressed in an official looking blue uniform how to get to our connecting gate.

"Turn left, then right at the sign," but clearly, she was disinterested.

What she failed to mention is that after turning right, you walk straight for ten minutes, then turn again, keep going, then up the stairs, onto a train. Once the train arrives, you take it I-don't-remember-how-many stops to another building where you keep walking until you reach a crowded waiting room in bad need of rennovation.

We made the flight, just barely. But Lila was hungry and we had no time to stop for food or at duty free for a bottle of wine (Sorry, Randall, at least I brought the M&Ms).

Panama: We arrive in the evening. The airport is packed. We wait for visas, wait for customs, wait for luggage, wait for immigration. Wait, while all the while Lila is still hungry and asking for food where there is no food. I'll admit, thought, she was unbelievably mature about it. It did break my heart, though, when she asked "Why, Mama, did you leave the marshmallows and chocolate chips on the airplane." She asked over and over and over. "I would eat them now," she told me. Even thought she hadn't wanted them on the plane.

IT WAS A MISTAKE. I DIDN'T MEAN TO LEAVE THEM IN THE FRONT SEAT POCKET WITH THE SAFETY CARD AND BARF BAG!!!! I'M SORRY.

Fred's car glided by Tocumen exit just as we walked out. Perfect timing. Thank you again to him for driving through the traffic and pouring rain to get us. We stayed up late talking. Then up early, early for Fred and Mel's new baby's naming. Ilana. She is adorable, looks just like Fred and is quite a child. You can tell she wants to be a part of everything.

I'd like to also add a quick thank you to Rochelle and Mark (friends of Fredd and Mel's) who had us over for Thanksgiving dinner. I love the holiday and was sad to miss it. They even had stuffing. Because really, what is Thanksgiving without stuffing?

That's when we learned of the flooding and mudslides in Bocas. "No way you're going," everyone told us. But I still saw updates on Facebook from friends there. They didn't even mention the rain. How bad could it be? We go anyway.

Of course, we almost don't make our flight because the alarm doesn't go off, and we wake up at the exact time we are supposed to be at the airport. Still, we jump around, shower, grab Lila still asleep and run for a cab to the airport making it just in time. Barely. (So now you know you can be late to catch the flight to Bocas and still be first on the flight if you have a child.)

We spent most of our time with Ozzy and Trevor. They lived in the house behind ours last year. Now, they've moved further down the beach. Ozzy cooked her amazing Turkish food. We hung out, talked, drank wine, and gossipped (once again) about everything we'd missed in Bocas over the six months.

A hawk perched on the tree outside the house, calling and singing while all the tomcats of the island prowled around looking for, well, I'm not quite sure what they wanted, because there weren't any eager female cats around.

What is it with all this bird imagery? First the cardinal in Atlanta. A very unexpected Thanksgiving turkey, and now the hawk.  If life is art, then someone is trying to tell us something.

I choose to think it's something good.

(More on the rest of the trip to come... specifically with pictures. Some really lovely ones from a cloud forest in Costa Rica, outside of San Ramon.)