Thanksgiving morning: Israel.
I'm sitting in hebrew class learning a new category of future tense conjugations, but all I can think of is home. I did the math: if I left for Tel Aviv right after class, dropped my savings and took the next plane to New York, there was a chance that I could be home in time for Thanksgiving dinner. "Why not?" I thought, laughing as I imagined the chaos that would break out upon my arrival. Three dogs, and one Mom jumping and crying for hugs; Dad's profanity filled version of "You'll never guess who's at the door"; and my smirking brothers, because my accomplices would have known all along. (Hey, someone would have had to stall dinner in case I was late.) I could study on the plane, spend the next three days overeating with my family, and return in time for my midterm on monday.
"Oh right, my midterm is on monday." Responsibilities started to sink in and the prospect of a last minute, surprise trip home for the much anticipated "Thanksgivukkah" began to fade. Wiping out my savings didn't sound like a great idea either. I left class homesick, and a little heartbroken with the heavy realization that this would be my first Thanksgiving away from home.
So what's an American to do when they can't be home for the holidays? When the country they've chosen to call home doesn't collectively eat themselves into a tryptophan induced turkey-coma at the end of every November, kicking off an entire season devoted to food and family?
They make the best of it.
They hold on tightly to their family traditions, because that's all they've got. Tradition gives them a sense of home--a sense of belonging, and identity. It gives them a compass to navigate through the dark seas of loneliness, and find some source of light.
As I prepared to face the task of whipping up a chocolate cake and my first pot of stuffing, the music of my childhood filled my head and my heart, for my memories of holiday cooking are all accompanied by soundtracks. Whether it was Les Miserables, Phantom of the Opera, or some scratchy classic rock coming out of my parent's old turntable--it never mattered. My mother and I would chop vegetables, and dance through the kitchen while the dogs followed at our feet. Which is why, this year, I sang along shamelessly to the Tenth Anniversary Dream Cast recording of Les Miserables while I baked. In my tiny Jerusalem kitchen, with the window open and Colm Wilkinson hitting notes in the upper stratosphere, I began to feel better.
But the mind is a powerful thing, and smell of chocolate chip cookies mingling with the crisp air of late November lingered in the recesses of my memories. I used to wake up early to bake cookies with my mom, and watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. We'd comment on the musical acts while trying to get as many cookies in the oven as possible before my Dad and brothers came out to ravage the dough. The warmth of these memories rushed through me as I began the stuffing, and the pangs of homesickness hit me even harder than before.
So, I made the best of it.
My brother has a fancy little device hooked up to the TV back home, which allows you to watch your home channels from anywhere in the world. I logged into his account, and turned on the parade. The camera panned over 34th street, over the massive crowds of cheering (freezing) families, the marching bands, and extravagant floats. Al Roker laughed his way through the crowds wearing a fedora and a smile, while the hosts discussed whether the wind would allow the balloons to fly. The music erupted, the marching bands came to life, the balloons lifted off, the parade started, and I was suddenly crying. My heart was heavy as I wondered what was going on back home. But tears quickly turned to laughter, as Broadways best sang and danced down 34th street. "Pippin! The Sound of Music! Matilda!" I texted my mom as each act came on. It wasn't home, but it was close. And then the channel changed.
Assuming it was a glitch in the system, I watched as the channels climbed and finally settled on my brother's favorite TV show. "Impossible..." I thought, as I switched it back to the parade. The cast of Pippin was still doing their thing, but not for long, because I was suddenly watching Toy Story 3. I laughed and quickly changed it, but in a matter of seconds Buzz Lightyear was back. My brother had declared war, and we were engaged in a full fledged Channel Battle from across world. After pleading my case, and thirty minutes of intense warfare, I finally won.
With my brother, and homesickness both defeated, I finished cooking and left for dinner where I found myself in a room full of expats, all looking for a taste of home. The smell of turkey lingered in the air, and I felt a rush of love for the friends and strangers gathered around me. We came from so many different backgrounds, and for some, this would be their first Thanksgiving. Our differences didn't matter though. We each longed to share a brick of the foundation that our families had given us, and a warm cloud of nostalgia settled in the room as we each shared our traditions. Some were quirky, some were routine, some were outright hilarious--but they represented home. One girl from China smiled as she said "This is my first Thanksgiving, and I've just come to eat all the turkey with you!" We cheered for the Newbies, laughed with the seasoned pros, and ate ourselves silly as we insisted to the non-Americans that it was Thanksgiving tradition to overeat. As the food hangovers began, the evening came to an end. We hugged, laughed, and sleepily rolled ourselves out the door. It sure felt like Thanksgiving.
Meanwhile, my family was getting ready to celebrate their version of "Thanksgivukkah" (complete with Pilgrim + Indian yarmulkes) on the other side of the world. I began to feel that loneliness sinking in once again. I wanted to be home, plain and simple. I felt lost--and then my phone rang. For the next 89 minutes, I was passed around between my cousins, aunts, uncles, grandmas, parents, brothers, and dogs. And then Skype was ringing. I was placed at the head of the table, so I could see everyone. They waved, shouted, ate, tossed turkey at the screen, held some beer up to the camera, and then sent me around the table. From over 5,000 miles away, I was still a part of my family's Thanksgiving dinner. And while nothing can quite beat being home for the holidays, as long as you have your traditions...your foundation...the roots of your life, you will never be too far to find a little taste of home.
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