The meaning of holiday is clear, even when family traditions vary
As a first-generation American, I link the Thanksgiving worlds of my immigrant Filipino parents and my California-born daughter. Certainly, her Thanksgiving memories are decidedly different from my own.
Thanksgivings were big on turkey, but low on trappings. My immigrant parents viewed it only as a big food day, American-style. My father was a hotel cook and each employee received a turkey. Working in the kitchen meant he could cook his own turkey and bring it home with any leftover banquet birds, much to the delight of my mother, who loved a day off from cooking.
On Thanksgiving Day, he would usually return home with at least two roasted turkeys, and unceremoniously plop them on the stovetop next to our ever-present pot of rice.
My father would announce, ''Well, everybody, help yourselves." Then he'd go watch the game.
As I said, big on turkey, low on trappings. No sitting around a decorated table. No bowed heads whispering thanks, and, most certainly, no invited guests.
Thanks to television and fall magazines, I grew up yearning for a ''Hallmark" holiday. I idealized the traditional image of Thanksgiving in Norman Rockwell's painting, ''Freedom From Want." As a teenager, I stumped for more pomp and circumstance, which my parents translated to ''more food."
Our Filipino heritage enjoys a blending together of Malaysian, Spanish, Portuguese, and Chinese influences. My parents talked to each other in a mixture of Tagalog, Spanish, and English. In San Francisco, where we lived, various cultures widened the cuisine possibilities, so it was only natural that later Thanksgivings would become a culinary free-for-all, Asian style. As we kids grew, so did our array of holiday dishes.
Alongside the big bird were Chinese-style beef with broccoli, and Thai duck. There were lumpia rolls (Filipino-style eggrolls) and cranberry sauce. Pansit (a Filipino noodle dish), rice, and mashed potatoes were lined up, with chicken adobo and spicy shrimp as bookends.
My sister, Christine, continues this fusion of Thanksgiving traditions at her house, and it remains a source of childhood comfort foods and memories. But once I became a wife and mother, I veered in the direction of the Rockwell painting I remembered, replete in traditional Thanksgiving splendor -- straight-up stuffed turkey with side dishes to match. The big gathering around the dinner table, decorated like a fall magazine cover, makes me heady with the season, and now my grown daughter follows suit with her annual observance of this quintessential American holiday.
Despite our different Thanksgiving styles, my siblings and I share common thoughts at this time of year of our parents, Esteban and Josefa, now passed. As adults, we more keenly appreciate their struggle and hardship in establishing themselves in a new country. Not just moving to a new town or state, as we have done, but leaving behind their beloved Philippines for the United States, where they happily transformed themselves into ''Steve" and ''Josie."
As a youngster, it bothered me that my parents didn't get Thanksgiving ''right" -- the way I saw others observing the holiday. Now I only recall the many times we gathered for celebrations and my mother would say, ''You kids don't know how lucky you are to be born in this country."
Over the years, my parents' stories of their early years in America emerged, recollections of loneliness and desperation as new immigrants. They never attained financial security, but they were hopeful their children would. At some adult juncture, I realized Rockwell's Thanksgiving painting wasn't about role-modeling the menu, but about the gift my parents sought for us: freedom from want.
This year, my relatives will travel from California to my home here to celebrate. They're thrilled to be so close to the geographic origin of Thanksgiving. My brother, Steve, is challenging me to dish up some authentic 17th-century fare. We laugh and wonder what our parents would say if they could see how far their children have come.
Giving thanks and the blessings of plenty are concepts familiar to all cultures. As a Filipino-American, I am appreciative of those first Pilgrim steps onto the New World.
In my mind, they are the footfalls of my mother and father.
By Suzette Martinez Standring