23 Nov Give Thanks
As a teenager, especially an immigrant teenager, you long for nothing more than to be “normal” in America. You want to be Samantha as opposed to Samita. You want a white picket fence, apple pie cooling in the window, a mom, dad, and siblings living under one roof, and the smell of turkey on Thanksgiving.
After moving to Southern California from Chicago, my name was still Samita, our fence blew down every time the Santa Ana winds raged through Rialto (my father and the other neighbors decided to put the fence up after every “windy season” and for a few months out of the year we had community backyards), I lived with my paternal grandparents, two paternal great-aunts, my uncle, my aunt, my parents, and two brothers, and we ate apples but there was no apple pie. Near my 13th birthday I was determined to make turkey for Thanksgiving. There would be no smells of onions, garlic, ginger, coriander, cumin, and a handful of other spices that made up our daily meals.
“The turkey looked nothing like it did in the American television shows I watched: It had no white, frilly booties on it and it wasn’t golden brown surrounded in garnish.”
My Daadi, paternal grandma, loved me dearly and if her granddaughter wanted to make a turkey than she would get one. Did I mention that it had to be Halal turkey, the Muslim equivalent to Kosher? My father, mother, aunt, uncle, or someone able to drive my Daadi to the Orange County Halal markets took her so she could get me a turkey.
The turkey looked nothing like it did in the American television shows I watched: It had no white, frilly booties on it and it wasn’t golden brown surrounded in garnish. It was frozen and encased in plastic. After thawing there were still feathers to pull out and a neck and gizzards to retrieve (Gag me with a spoon! I grew up in the 80’s).
Daadi watched me proudly guiding me in how to handle poultry. Looking sideways at her she had a sly smile on her face probably reminiscing about her life in India and Pakistan taking care of her chickens, dairy cows, horses, a bull, a monkey (my Daada’s favorite) all while standing on our Rialto’s home linoleum kitchen floor.
Daada and Daadi believed in using the entire animal if one chose to consume it- nothing should ever go to waste because that would not show respect for another living creature. On any given day, I would wake up to brains being cooked, liver and kidneys being sautéed, homemade gelatin being made from cow hoofs, aromatics of onions, ginger, and garlic wafting throughout our home and neighborhood, and always a pot of chai ready to go.
We slathered butter on our first annual turkey, seasoned it with salt and lots of black pepper and stuck it in our oven (after we took out all the pots and pans that were stored in the oven). Then we waited. I think my Umme made rice and lentils and Daadi cooked up some keema, seasoned ground beef, with roti to supplement our first Thanksgiving.
Our home truly smelled different that day. It smelled of turkey, Thanksgiving, all things “American” and “normal”. For once, I felt like I belonged! I can’t recall what the turkey tasted like but I’m sure it was bone dry because I never brined it, basted it or bagged it. What I can recall is my family- grandparents, parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins being very proud of me. We ate, we talked, we laughed, we drank chai, played cards, sang songs, and loved one another.
“We ate, we talked, we laughed, we drank chai, played cards, sang songs, and loved one another.”
Thirty years later, my husband and I are hosting Thanksgiving for 30 guests. There will be cousins here tomorrow with their young children that were present at our inaugural Thanksgiving. There will be new cousins joining the fold, there will be laughter, and there will be love. There will be our “normal”. There will be our “America” where everyone is valued, where everyone is cherished for who they are at this moment, not who they were or can be, but just as is. That is what we all long for- acceptance.
On the eve of Thanksgiving and my soon to be 43rd birthday I cannot think of a greater gift than what my Daadi gave me so many years ago- accepting me for who I am and for that I give thanks.
-Samita Syed-Needelman
No Comments