Life Among the Americans: A Brief Explanation of the Ritual of Thanksgiving

Few things in the life of the present day American are as predictable as the annual ritual they call Thanksgiving.  It is a day when members of the same tribe gather at the home of their oldest member and pretend to get along while they gorge themselves on food and drink and ignore the pressing concerns of their daily lives.  From my years spent living with the Americans, I will try to relate to you this interesting and quirky practice.

The day begins when a parade of tribal members march through the main entrance. Each female carries a food known as green bean casserole and dons an expression of surprise as they are greeted and invited inside.  The men walk past me, some saying “Hello,” some simply nod, some point their hand at me in a gesture known as “shaking.”  (I am required to grab the hand they extend in my direction and initiate an up and down motion while looking into the other male’s eyes.)  Many of them pat me on the back and ask how I have been doing over the past year.  I start to answer that most of the things I have been doing are none of his concern and that it would be best if he discontinues asking about my work, but he has already walked away from me.  I would like to assume that his question was rhetorical, but I cannot be certain.

The women flutter from the entrance of the abode to the kitchen, where they quickly set down the green bean casserole, spin around and throw their arms around me, catching me completely off-guard.  The older ones touch their puckered lips to my cheek and exclaim something about how I am getting older.  Her statement seems obvious to me.  To be honest, I have always felt slightly violated during this practice, but upon seeing the beaming facial expressions on the women’s faces at the end of this “mini-ritual,” I am unable to object.

The house swarms with smell.  Turkey roasting in the oven.  Warm cinnamon littering a pile of desserts and seven varieties of yams (with or without marshmallow).  An odor known as “Old Spice” and the stench of a mystery flatulence that I’m reasonably sure did not emanate from one of my orifices, but somehow, I am accused of creating by one of the children.  This accusation delights the older men of the tribe, who join the child in laughing at my expense, albeit in a more subdued fashion, as the child, seeing that his elders approve, begins to twirl in circles and sing of my misdeed.  I imagine the stench is wafting around the room and will soon leave my vicinity but it seems to hover just under my nostrils like an anvil on a fishing line.  I wonder, “Is it appropriate to be as embarrassed as I am?”

The sweater vest makes a fashionable appearance on Thanksgiving.  Almost all of the elders are wearing one in various colors and plaid designs.  The younger children emulate their elders by wearing their own, although they sometimes complain that it makes them itch and scratch themselves in an agitated and overly dramatic fashion.  I believe they are not old enough to understand that one should endure the itch with sublime reservation.  Pretending things don’t exist seems to be a mark of maturity and masculinity among the Americans.

The clothing among most of the attendees is close to uniform, except for one whose clothing is black and torn at the knees and ends of the sleeves.  His shirt displays an image some of the elders find offensive.  I know this because I’ve overheard them talking amongst themselves about this one they call the “adolescent.”  For the most part, the topic is ignored and never acknowledged directly to the adolescent, who tends to mill about in the corner, fidgeting with his hair and muttering something to himself about the bourgeois-ness of the ritual he is currently engaged in and how it would be better to give this food to third-world peoples than to have this festival at all.

When the food has been thoroughly prepared, everyone gathers around the table and says “grace.”  This is a practice where one of the elders speaks to the gathered with everyone’s eyes closed and heads bowed.  The elder will speak of how they have much food, much camaraderie, and many things to be happy about.  He will ask for these things to continue over the next year and always concludes his address with the word “A-men.”  This word is a cue to everyone to repeat the word “A-men” and to lift their heads, open their eyes and begin feasting.

The Americans then ingest copious amounts of turkey, ham, a carbonated beverage known as “soda” or “pop,” a breading cooked inside the turkey called “stuffing,” and only a moderate amount of green bean casserole.  For some reason, although it is not eaten with as much fervor, everyone makes a point to compliment each female on the high quality of the green bean casserole she has (supposedly) laboriously prepared.

When the Americans have finished shoveling food into their mouths, the men retire to the “den,” where they promptly exclaim they have eaten too much, loosen their belts (presumably to give their stomach more room to expand; a curious practice, I must admit) and doze on the couch while a game of American football is broadcast over the television.  The men seem to not actually watch the game, or care much about the particular teams playing, but they will periodically open their eyes and remark on the admirable or reprehensible execution of a pass or catch.  This normally occurs after one of the children rushes up to one of the men and nudges him awake, whereby the man will announce to the assembled that he was merely “resting his eyes” and not actually sleeping.  I have yet to figure out if the eyes of Americans actually tire more often than their bodies.

Strangely, after viewing many games of football, I cannot find any connection between the ball and the foot.  It occurs to me that this may be some kind of cultural joke on the part of the Americans to outsiders.  It’s as if they are the only ones that truly understand why it is called “football” when the foot is not even used.  Perhaps they enjoy the superiority they feel by keeping this knowledge esoteric.  Perhaps they understand that the word “foot,” in “football” has another meaning from the standard use identifying the appendage of the human body.  Perhaps, they are just stupid.  As of this writing, I have felt too embarrassed to ask as I believe I would expose myself to harsh ridicule.  However, more research on this topic is on my agenda.

The women shuffle into the “dining room” to sip coffee and play an odd card game called “UNO.”  UNO is played by giving each person seven cards and placing the remaining cards in the center of the table.  Each person is charged with the task of ridding herself of the seven cards she was dealt.  Every player takes a turn in a clockwise motion around the table.  During a player’s turn, she flips over the card at the top of the center deck.  If she has a card that matches the card from the center in color or number, she then rids herself of one of her cards.  If not, she must take a card from the pile in the center.  The first one to get rid of all of her cards is the winner and is revered by the other women for the remainder of the day.

I believe this symbolic act of giving increases companionship amongst the women.  They seem to enjoy placing the cards back into the center pile, a sign of giving back to the community.  When someone has to take cards from the center pile, there is much jeering and taunting by the other women.  It is as if they learn from an early age to abhor blatant self-interest.  An admirable cultural adaptation, in my opinion.

Once the women have finished their game of UNO, they stand up and walk to the den, gently (or rigorously) waking their husbands and informing them that it is time to leave.  The men rarely, if ever, disagree.  They stand up, refasten their belts, straighten their sweater vests and leave by bidding adieu in much the same manner with which they greeted each other.  They once again engage in the gesture of “shaking,” patting on the back and in some cases, wrapping their arms around others in a full embrace.  Each of the men remark to everyone else how it would be good for them to “take care,” or “take it to easy,” before uttering the word “goodbye,” thereby finalizing the interpersonal exchange.   To this day, I am still confused as to what they want me to take to easy, but I guess there are some things about this eccentric but fascinating group of people I will never understand.