Reflecting On Childood: Thanksgiving In My Immigrant Home

Reposting a 2016 blog article from my parenting blog, Bellyitch. It is timely again today! Happy Thanksgiving!

A friend of mine rececently posted on Facebook a photo of a perfectly can-shaped portion of cranberry sauce.

The picture reminded me of my immigrant Thanksgiving experience growing up in America, in the nation’s capital, a stone’s thrown away from the White House, all of the monuments and tributes to America.

Because I was born in another country and immigrated to the United States with my family at the tender age of 4, the concept of an annual feast with family one time of year to give thanks for blessings was completely foreign.

Fortunately for us, we never had to do “Thanksgiving” because we were always invited to the home of one of my parents’ friends or over by a distant fellow immigrant’s relatives that live in our city.

Therefore, our job was usually to bring a dish or drinks and arrive.

That was the ritual until our family of three grew to a hefty size of six after my two younger sisters and younger brother were born.

The invitations trickled down and eventually came to a complete halt.