Sometimes it takes a torched turkey to remind us what Thanksgiving is really all about.
As a sophomore in college, I decided to pack up my apartment, say farewell to America, and try my hand overseas in a study abroad program. I joined 172 all-American, green-as-grass students dropped in Israel for a semester. Talk about your innocents abroad: What were we supposed to do without Walmart?
Because of the time of year, we spent the majority of the fall festivities far, far away from all things American. Instead of costumes and back-to-school leaf piles, we celebrated the local cultures and traditions. (For the record, if you think we have a lot of holidays, try being Jewish.) When November came, our group headed north to the Sea of Galilee to spend a few weeks at a kibbutz.
Kibbutzim aren’t what they used to be. Originally, they were agricultural Jewish settlements with a socialist, Utopian theme. Most modern kibbutzim have abandoned these ideals and live a much more streamlined lifestyle. The kibbutz we stayed at was lovely. Right on the edge of the water, it was a community of small huts built around garden paths with a centrally located eating area. The staff was friendly, the food was foreign, and the experience was one-of-a-kind.
And then Thanksgiving rolled around.
It wasn’t their first year hosting a group of American college students for Thanksgiving. The previous year they had served seriously under-cooked turkey and ended up accidentally poisoning the entire gang. Apparently, non-Americans don’t regularly cook turkeys whole; they had to bring in a chef from another town who claimed to know “all about American Thanksgivings,” including the proper preparation of the bird. Unfortunately, no one told him the bird had to be well-done.
“Now,” our traveling doctor warned us before the meal, “they really try to go all out for us with this holiday, so please be especially complimentary. And whatever you do, don’t eat the bird. I don’t want a repeat of last year. Just because something looks cooked doesn’t mean it is.” So with much trepidation and just a little homesickness, we lined up outside the cafeteria – single file – in anticipation of a foreign Thanksgiving. And then the doors opened.
Holy wishbone, welcome to the Fourth of July.
The entire hall was draped in red, white and blue crepe paper, streamers, banners and balloons. Stars and stripes were everywhere, it looked like the party store had dropped an Independence Day bomb that landed right in our cafeteria. Uncle Sam would have wept with pride. We filed into Little America and took our seats. I’ll tell you right now, it was the most festive Thanksgiving I’ve ever seen. Goodbye plastic pumpkin centerpieces, hello Old Glory.
Once we were seated, the lights were dimmed and someone pushed play on a tape recorder. And then, with all the pomp and ceremony they could muster, the staff wheeled in their prize birds: Displayed on trays with white linen, sparklers shooting from the legs, in floated a dozen of the most shriveled, blackened, dried out carcass’ you’ve ever seen in your life. It looked like they’d spent the entire year in the oven, just to be on the safe side.
There we were, a group of kids as far from home as we could get, feeling lonely for mom and pop and a slice of granny’s pie. We missed mashed potatoes. We missed our families. We missed football, and belly aches, and those last-minute trips to big, beautiful American grocery stores. But at the sight of those burned out turkeys, with fire hazards shooting from their legs, the entire picture changed. Suddenly it wasn’t just Thanksgiving any more, it was a celebration of everything the Pilgrims left their homes for. Thanksgiving isn’t about pumpkin pie, it’s about freedom. The right to worship however we want, wherever we want. To be friends with anyone we meet, with no social or religious barriers. Stranded in a foreign country, rife with war and unrest, unable to even speak of my own religious beliefs in passing, I ached with pride and homesickness.
And you can bet we gave those birds a standing ovation.
Our Stars and Stripes have never seemed more appropriate, or more beautiful, than on that lonely Thanksgiving afternoon. We live in the United States of America. No matter how your turkey turns out, that’s something to be grateful for.
Annie Valentine Tintle, Fall 1998
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