This has been our fourth Thanksgiving in America. We’ve joined in a little more each year, and I’ve come to like the holiday. But it’s not my own, nor will it ever be. It’s a good example of how knowledge, and the way it intertwines with experience, is so much more complicated than we give it credit for.
My children know the history that the Thanksgiving tradition stems from, because our first Thanksgiving here, I bought them each a book, and read to them about it. But there it is, right there. It’s so different for them. Their American friends won’t have the stories read to them out of books. They’ll be told them by their American moms, digging around in the memories of their own American childhoods, and wrapping the tales with the warmth and significance that comes from the feeling of passing something on to the next generation. "This is our narrative. This is who we are." That’s what the stories say.
My family can enjoy a turkey dinner, but we don’t have the traditions. We don’t have decorations and special dishes, brought out and dusted off year after year. We don’t serve up unpalatable green bean casserole which nobody likes, but which has to be eaten because it is made from the recipe written in the book in Great-Grandma’s spidery hand-writing. We can’t reminisce about the time our parents made us dress up as pilgrims, or reflect on how the holiday has become so much more commercial than it used to be.
We can understand Thanksgiving from the books, and from watching how others go about the celebration. But that understanding is head knowledge, not knowledge in the marrow of our bones. It’s the wrong kind of knowledge for a holiday celebration.
At first I resented Thanksgiving. My birthday is 24th November, and 9-yo’s is the 28th. The last thing I needed was a whopping great public holiday plonked on top of the last week of November. I’ve always tried to be protective of 9-yo’s birthday, because as a child, I hated having a birthday close to Christmas (though come on, people, it’s a full month before... The logic must be that 1 in 12 of the population is in a similar or worse predicament, not to mention the January birthday folk.) So I saw Thanksgiving as an unwelcome interloper. Not only Christmas to contend with in birthday rivalry, but now Thanksgiving too.
With the passage of time, though, I have come to enjoy Thanksgiving. I can’t embrace it in all its glory, with pilgrims and natives helping each other through the year by planting corn, shooting turkeys and waving two fingers at England, but I do like the whole thankfulness theme. I’ve learned about one or two family traditions which I’m going to adopt, to encourage the children to reflect on what they have in their lives to be thankful for. I think that’s a good thing to add to our yearly calendar. I suppose it’s the role that Harvest Festival plays in Britain.
As for me, well, I’m jolly thankful for the opportunity to be spending this Thanksgiving in the mountains of Colorado, for the second year running. You can’t beat mountains. I could list a whole heap of things I'm thankful for, but that would be bordering on the cheesy, and I'm feeling the need for a restoration of ironic equilibrium after my last post. So I won't do that. Instead I'll focus on what I’m not thankful for, and what I'm not thankful for is that the laptop crashed as I was writing this post first time round, and the whole thing disappeared. It hasn’t come out nearly as well second time round. Wah.
Showing posts with label thanksgiving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thanksgiving. Show all posts
Friday, November 26, 2010
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Thanksgiving: yes, I'm still on about it
OK. Time to reveal what is behind all this ‘shadow cast over the sunshine that was Thanksgiving’ blurb.
We don't have a return ticket. It must be nice to be sent abroad by a company, for a fixed period of time, 2 or 3 years say, safe in the knowledge that they'll bring you home again to the corporate fold. But we're free-lancers. We sold our house and bought one here. We don't have jobs to go back to. We don't have an obvious community to go back to. In sum, we don't have a life to go back to. Just lots of loose strands. Lovely, important, crucial, life-enhancing loose strands, but all the same, they're not a firm enough rope to pull us back. Not a job and an income, is what it boils down to.
What do you do, as free-lancers, if you've been looking hard for a year for opportunities to return to the UK, have found none, and then out of the blue, get an offer, which is great in pretty much every detail, except for the location. Wrong side of the Atlantic. It'll involve moving job, city, state, home, schools, leaving friends, undoing all that hard work we've put into settling here, and still not get us back to Britain. It would be a good stepping stone (both career-wise, and geographically), but dang it, I didn’t ask Santa for a stepping stone.
I’m sure there were moments, as a child, when I screwed up my eyes and wailed “I want to go home now. Can’t we just go home?”. Forty years on, and deep down that’s what I’m doing today. I could write out the pros and cons of this new opportunity. The pros would be a great long list, and the cons would be “Iota wants to go home*, and can’t face moving unless it’s to achieve that”. Does that count for anything?
And that is why, dear Bloggy Friends, writing about the Expat’s Paradox is so scary at the moment. Moving within the US now, with the kids at the ages they are (oldest will be 13 by next summer, which is when the move would happen), feels like we are making the decision to stay for the duration. I know it’s not, or it doesn’t have to be, but it feels like it is. And I really don’t want to. I really don’t. Had you spotted that already? I really don’t.
Which is why I felt almost resentful, as well as happy and grateful, when we had such a nice Thanksgiving. As I said to a friend here, I was excited to move to America, and embraced it as an adventure. But I didn't really mean it.
* and remember, I haven't let myself use that word to refer to Britain for three years now, but have religiously attached it to my current abode. But this morning I'm allowing myself to peel it off and reposition it.
We don't have a return ticket. It must be nice to be sent abroad by a company, for a fixed period of time, 2 or 3 years say, safe in the knowledge that they'll bring you home again to the corporate fold. But we're free-lancers. We sold our house and bought one here. We don't have jobs to go back to. We don't have an obvious community to go back to. In sum, we don't have a life to go back to. Just lots of loose strands. Lovely, important, crucial, life-enhancing loose strands, but all the same, they're not a firm enough rope to pull us back. Not a job and an income, is what it boils down to.
What do you do, as free-lancers, if you've been looking hard for a year for opportunities to return to the UK, have found none, and then out of the blue, get an offer, which is great in pretty much every detail, except for the location. Wrong side of the Atlantic. It'll involve moving job, city, state, home, schools, leaving friends, undoing all that hard work we've put into settling here, and still not get us back to Britain. It would be a good stepping stone (both career-wise, and geographically), but dang it, I didn’t ask Santa for a stepping stone.
I’m sure there were moments, as a child, when I screwed up my eyes and wailed “I want to go home now. Can’t we just go home?”. Forty years on, and deep down that’s what I’m doing today. I could write out the pros and cons of this new opportunity. The pros would be a great long list, and the cons would be “Iota wants to go home*, and can’t face moving unless it’s to achieve that”. Does that count for anything?
And that is why, dear Bloggy Friends, writing about the Expat’s Paradox is so scary at the moment. Moving within the US now, with the kids at the ages they are (oldest will be 13 by next summer, which is when the move would happen), feels like we are making the decision to stay for the duration. I know it’s not, or it doesn’t have to be, but it feels like it is. And I really don’t want to. I really don’t. Had you spotted that already? I really don’t.
Which is why I felt almost resentful, as well as happy and grateful, when we had such a nice Thanksgiving. As I said to a friend here, I was excited to move to America, and embraced it as an adventure. But I didn't really mean it.
* and remember, I haven't let myself use that word to refer to Britain for three years now, but have religiously attached it to my current abode. But this morning I'm allowing myself to peel it off and reposition it.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Thanksgiving: the shadow side
Okay, okay, so that Thanksgiving post was a bit Pollyanna. I admit it. Truth is, I chopped the last bit off the first draft. That was partly in line with my policy of trying to write shorter posts these days, partly because I thought it spoiled the Thanksgiving jollity, and partly because I thought it was an idea that merited a post of its own. Here is that last thought…
There's a line in the film Father of the Bride when Steve Martin is reflecting on how it feels to bring up a daughter. He says:
"There comes a day when you quit worrying about her meeting the wrong guy, and you worry about her meeting the right guy, and that's the biggest fear of all, because then you lose her".
The Parent's Paradox. I suggest that there’s an Expat’s Paradox which parallels it. It goes like this:
“There comes a time when you quit worrying about this being the wrong place, and you worry about this being the right place, and that's the biggest fear of all, because then you lose something important of yourself”.
I'm not there myself yet, not by a long chalk, but perhaps my idyllic Thanksgiving break gave me a glimpse (maybe it was the redemptive green bean casserole that did it).
Blimey, these thoughts look a lot scarier typed out in black and white than I imagined they would.
.
There's a line in the film Father of the Bride when Steve Martin is reflecting on how it feels to bring up a daughter. He says:
"There comes a day when you quit worrying about her meeting the wrong guy, and you worry about her meeting the right guy, and that's the biggest fear of all, because then you lose her".
The Parent's Paradox. I suggest that there’s an Expat’s Paradox which parallels it. It goes like this:
“There comes a time when you quit worrying about this being the wrong place, and you worry about this being the right place, and that's the biggest fear of all, because then you lose something important of yourself”.
I'm not there myself yet, not by a long chalk, but perhaps my idyllic Thanksgiving break gave me a glimpse (maybe it was the redemptive green bean casserole that did it).
Blimey, these thoughts look a lot scarier typed out in black and white than I imagined they would.
.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thanksgiving
We've been to Colorado again, for a week. So there's lots of stuff I could be sorting out, and there's a mountain of laundry, but... I'm going to write a blog post instead.
There is something about mountains. You always feel better for having been in them. We had a week of idyllic weather, with blue, blue skies and temperatures in the 60s, and even the 70s. Of course if it had been freezing cold and snowing a blizzard, that would have been fine too. It was win-win, really, and actually, part of us had hoped for weather so bad that we'd get snowed in and be forced to lengthen our stay.
It was, as far as I can remember, my best birthday ever. We started the day with a couple of hours of sledding. Where we were, at 7,500 ft, there wasn't any snow to speak of, but half an hour away, at 10,500 ft, there was enough. No broken limbs, just a few grazes, and glorious moments of speed and adventure. Then we soaked in the local hot springs, and emerged smelling of sulphur, but relaxed and invigorated. I successfully negotiated the changing rooms, which is a bit different in this post-surgery era of my life, but I managed ok, and even got to hold a 6-month old baby for a mother who didn't have enough hands to get herself and her two children dry and dressed (been there, know that feeling). Holding a baby: a nice thing to do on your birthday. We went out for dinner in a Chinese restaurant (new departure, having children old enough and adventurous enough to manage a Chinese menu), and ended up snuggling under a cosy blanket on the sofa watching the film Father of the Bride together. It's always a challenge to find a dvd that can be enjoyed by everyone in the family, but that seemed to hit the spot. There was a bottle of champagne in there too, somewhere along the line.
Apart from birthday frivolities, there was, of course, Thanksgiving. I have much to be thankful for this year, so for me, it was more about that, than about turkeys and pilgrims. Not that I'm knocking turkeys and pilgrims. Anyway, we got scooped up for a Thanksgiving meal by a local couple, who take it upon themselves to cook dinner for about 25, and then open their home to people who aren't celebrating with their own families. This seemed to include friends, friends of friends, and stray British wanderers. The food was totally delicious, the kids had fun, the company was relaxed, and it all took place in a perfect setting - a large house right on the shores of a beautiful lake. Going out on the deck (remember, it was sunny and warm, with blue skies), margarita in hand, I had one of those "I feel like I'm in a film" moments. How did life bring me to be enjoying Thanksgiving Dinner with all these people who I don't know, in a lake house, in Colorado, and drinking tequila? I don't even like tequila. Life is a puzzle.
I have to make a brief aside here, and reveal to you all - and I know many of you will find this hard to believe - that the green bean casserole was completely delectable. I'm a convert. It's a worrying sign that I might have been in America too long. Actually, I think it's more that I got to sample what a green bean casserole CAN be like, which is as different from what I've experienced before under that title as a unicorn is from a horse (ie not really all that different in substance, but very rare and exotic, and a whole new beautiful experience).
Americans, I have to tell you, are very good at the whole 'being nice to strangers' thing. I don't mean to knock the British, but really, we're in a very minor league when it comes to this. It's humbling to be on the receiving end. We have now stayed in Colorado for three separate weeks, each time in accommodation for which we have not paid a dime, and via a connection of two removes. And this time, we were welcomed into a Thanksgiving celebration as if we were old friends. As we left, the hostess gave me a big hug, and insisted that if we ever wanted to come to Colorado and didn't have anywhere to stay, then we must come and stay with her. She has met us once. This generous hospitality really is America at its finest. I think it's a lovely quality.
.
There is something about mountains. You always feel better for having been in them. We had a week of idyllic weather, with blue, blue skies and temperatures in the 60s, and even the 70s. Of course if it had been freezing cold and snowing a blizzard, that would have been fine too. It was win-win, really, and actually, part of us had hoped for weather so bad that we'd get snowed in and be forced to lengthen our stay.
It was, as far as I can remember, my best birthday ever. We started the day with a couple of hours of sledding. Where we were, at 7,500 ft, there wasn't any snow to speak of, but half an hour away, at 10,500 ft, there was enough. No broken limbs, just a few grazes, and glorious moments of speed and adventure. Then we soaked in the local hot springs, and emerged smelling of sulphur, but relaxed and invigorated. I successfully negotiated the changing rooms, which is a bit different in this post-surgery era of my life, but I managed ok, and even got to hold a 6-month old baby for a mother who didn't have enough hands to get herself and her two children dry and dressed (been there, know that feeling). Holding a baby: a nice thing to do on your birthday. We went out for dinner in a Chinese restaurant (new departure, having children old enough and adventurous enough to manage a Chinese menu), and ended up snuggling under a cosy blanket on the sofa watching the film Father of the Bride together. It's always a challenge to find a dvd that can be enjoyed by everyone in the family, but that seemed to hit the spot. There was a bottle of champagne in there too, somewhere along the line.
Apart from birthday frivolities, there was, of course, Thanksgiving. I have much to be thankful for this year, so for me, it was more about that, than about turkeys and pilgrims. Not that I'm knocking turkeys and pilgrims. Anyway, we got scooped up for a Thanksgiving meal by a local couple, who take it upon themselves to cook dinner for about 25, and then open their home to people who aren't celebrating with their own families. This seemed to include friends, friends of friends, and stray British wanderers. The food was totally delicious, the kids had fun, the company was relaxed, and it all took place in a perfect setting - a large house right on the shores of a beautiful lake. Going out on the deck (remember, it was sunny and warm, with blue skies), margarita in hand, I had one of those "I feel like I'm in a film" moments. How did life bring me to be enjoying Thanksgiving Dinner with all these people who I don't know, in a lake house, in Colorado, and drinking tequila? I don't even like tequila. Life is a puzzle.
I have to make a brief aside here, and reveal to you all - and I know many of you will find this hard to believe - that the green bean casserole was completely delectable. I'm a convert. It's a worrying sign that I might have been in America too long. Actually, I think it's more that I got to sample what a green bean casserole CAN be like, which is as different from what I've experienced before under that title as a unicorn is from a horse (ie not really all that different in substance, but very rare and exotic, and a whole new beautiful experience).
Americans, I have to tell you, are very good at the whole 'being nice to strangers' thing. I don't mean to knock the British, but really, we're in a very minor league when it comes to this. It's humbling to be on the receiving end. We have now stayed in Colorado for three separate weeks, each time in accommodation for which we have not paid a dime, and via a connection of two removes. And this time, we were welcomed into a Thanksgiving celebration as if we were old friends. As we left, the hostess gave me a big hug, and insisted that if we ever wanted to come to Colorado and didn't have anywhere to stay, then we must come and stay with her. She has met us once. This generous hospitality really is America at its finest. I think it's a lovely quality.
.
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