Most give thanks to the pilgrims and their, now dubious, story of sharing a gracious feast with Native Americans for creating the holiday of Thanksgiving. However, I have always felt disconnect with this day of gratitude.
As strange as it may sound, growing up, I found myself craving what I didn’t realize at the time was the driest slab of meat served during the holidays: turkey. But its actual taste is not what I want to focus on but rather it is the fact that I had once felt un-American without having graced my tastebuds with a mouthful of turkey for all my years of living.
In school, after Thanksgiving break, the question I dreaded most was, “What did you eat for Thanksgiving?” I’ve eaten quail eggs, fermented shrimp paste, and even pork blood pudding— but never turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, or sweet potato casserole. I doubt there are accurate Vietnamese translations for these dishes. Back then, I couldn’t even tell you what was in stuffing… nor can I tell you at the current moment.
All this to say that I had never had a traditional Thanksgiving meal, and I felt that I was missing out on a true experience as my peers raved about their Thanksgiving spreads. On and on they would go about teasing, yet gatekeeping recipes that allegedly transcended generations— all of which usually revolved around the golden turkey.
Also, being big on movies and shows, the Thanksgiving spreads were just not translating to what I would see on my dining table when my family and I would get together for the national holiday.
My family and I go all out for the fireworks for the Fourth of July, so why don’t we serve some turkey?
While shopping for groceries in preparation for Thanksgiving one day, I had asked my mom to substitute one of our main dishes for turkey and she scrunched her nose at me. Lecturing me in Vietnamese, she was appalled by such a suggestion.
To essentially summarize, she responded, “Is it not American enough for us to be spending all of this money to feed you more food than we usually do? We keep our food traditional to remember our own culture while also incorporating theirs.”
It’s interesting to see just how minuscule an aspect of life can influence someone’s interpretation of their identity. Saying that I believe that the consumption of turkey makes me more American sounds incredibly silly, but there is a hint of truth in what seems extremely insignificant.
Just how does one meal in a single day of the year alter how I perceive myself amongst others?
For those who have never heard of the Vietnamese foods that I mentioned earlier, did you scrunch your nose when I mentioned the pork blood pudding? I don’t blame you! Societal norms play a great role in shaping how we view our own cultures and compare them to others’.
I’ve come to realize that I am not, and will never be, an equal blend of the two cultures I was raised in. Instead, I’ve learned that it’s not about chasing after an impossible balance but embracing the coexistence of both.
And that’s how I realize my life has always been. An odd culmination of American traditions mixed upon a largely Vietnamese lifestyle. It’s confusing, wonderful, and isolating all at the same time.
At the end of the day, it’s the capacity of my stomach that has been filled with good food that truly matters to me. There is no need for me to procure concrete boundaries and draw lines within my Vietnamese-American identity.
I simply exist and eat.