This essay is an annual tradition by Meteor Blades. The former Colorado resident and universally respected blogger embraces his family heritage of Seminole, Highland Scot and African-American and, now, the true meaning of Thanksgiving. It originally appeared at DailyKos.com.
For the past few years, my wife and I have had numerous conversations with Los Angelenos of various ethnic and religious backgrounds about the turkey they’ll be eating day after tomorrow. Doesn’t matter if they’re originally from Senegal or Guatemala, Belarus or Vietnam, Scotland or China, it’s the same story with all of them: turkey has to be on the table.
Not that it’ll be a traditional turkey dinner with cranberry sauce and yams and stuffing. Trimmings can range from Libyan tajeen to a cold Vietnamese egg soup whose name I’ve forgotten. And everybody’s bird seems to be done just a little differently. Last year, I got to taste Thai turkey, which is definitely not for mild palates.
I don’t buy the “melting pot” theory of American history, nor am I a sappy kind of guy. On the other hand, since I had my Thanksgiving “conversion,” I’ve found something distinctly appealing, yes, even uplifting, about this widespread integration of cultures through the medium of food and family get-together.
I love conversation, I love food and I love celebrations. This year, we’ll be with celebrating with friends at the Santa Clara Pueblo home of a college friend, Barbara Walkingstick. A few years ago, I wouldn’t’ve done this.
Because, when I was a child, we never celebrated Thanksgiving. My grandfather forbade it. A white man’s holiday based on white men’s lies, he said. He was politically correct decades before PC became a clich
