Genuine Thanksgiving

This past Thanksgiving weekend, I didn’t eat any turkey or yams, and I only had half of a piece of pumpkin pie, but I realized I have much to be thankful for. The funny thing is, I think this is the first Thanksgiving that I didn’t try to force thankfulness. It just came.

A common American Thanksgiving tradition is to go around the table and name a few things you’re thankful for. The social media craze seems to have taken this to a whole other level–listing something you’re thankful for every day of November. Usually, people give glossy, pre-packaged answers: my family, my significant other, my job, my freedom of religion. Come to think of it, it could make a fun drinking game. Hear the word family, do a shot.

It’s an admirable tradition, taking a few minutes to contemplate the blessings you’ve been given, and I don’t want to denounce it. But every year, it sets me on edge. I’m not good at putting on a show, of acting a certain way when I’m not feeling it. Sometimes, this is a virtue. (Saving my friend from buying an unflattering dress) Other times, it’s a fault. (Not complimenting my friend on her new baby because his face is raisin purple)

So when I’m put on the spot to fork over a serving of thankfulness, it often doesn’t happen. I just regurgitate something that will pacify the people around me. “My family, my significant other, this scrumptious-looking meal . . .” It’s not like those are lies. I am grateful for those truths. But I don’t really mean it, not in that moment.

I explained the tradition to a friend on Thursday. She thought it sounded great and wanted to do it. In our gluttony-induced comas, we kind of forgot, but I want to do it now.

This year, I’m thankful for . . .

. . . a group of friends. It takes me a long time to settle in to a place, into a group of people. I didn’t feel like Boston was home until it was time to leave. But Taiwan has been different. My friends and I may not have all the same interests or speak the same native language, but with them, I am free to be myself.

. . . Taiwanese friendliness. One of Josh and my Thanksgiving dinners was at our church. We were the only two foreigners there, and I was the only one who doesn’t speak Chinese. Yet all the festivities–the songs, the skit, the testimonies–were all translated into English. For me.

. . . parents who don’t always agree or understand, but who do always love and respect. I mean, my mother is reading Caitlin Moran right now because I mentioned it to her a few weeks ago. That is love.

. . . learning, at the behest of Josh, to ignore trivialities and pursue what makes me happy: books, writing, beer, copious amounts of coffee, and figuring out how to light my pipe by like, the third try. My underwear drawer is totally unorganized (finding a pair of matching socks is murder). My legs are getting prickly. And that is OK. I think.

I’ve pulled up a chair to many Thanksgiving tables: my mother’s, both my grandmothers’, my Boston landlord’s daughter’s, a French restaurant’s in Montreal, and a Taiwanese-Canadian couple’s. This year, it was some friends’ coffee table overloaded with seafood pasta and fried chicken. But I finally felt what Thanksgiving is really about.