In a house of immigrants, Thanksgiving is a serious matter.
Every November, my Polish family has the opportunity to out-American the Americans. We load our plates with turkey, stuffing and yams. We praise Ronald Reagan, proclaim Jeffrey Sachs a genius and scoff at Vladimir Putin's latest antics.
My parents came here in the early 1980s. They are firmly lodged in that cartoonish space where Republican nostalgia meets breadline fatigue. Their fierce patriotism rests comfortably atop communism's legacy. It is a byproduct of youth under oppression, along with hoarding cheese, hiding foreign currency and instinctively waiting in any line they come across.
My family has never heard of NASCAR, and no one knows what a "Lady Gaga" is. Instead, as she passes the gravy, Aunt Basia boasts that she's concocted a system of simple machines to move a granite bust of Pope John Paul II upstairs. Uncle Bogusz briefs us about his progress teaching the neighbor's dog how to purr. My mother — who thinks Bogusz said "jog," not "dog" — launches into a tirade about America's obsession with exercise.
"Why do they run?" she demands. "Did they steal a compact disc from the mall?"
If the conversation around our Thanksgiving table doesn't mirror that of our neighbors, neither does the composition of the company. Our home becomes a haven for newcomers from all over the world.
For immigrants, America is full of surprises, like Christopher Walken, Flaming Hot Cheetos and the Electoral College. My parents understand the frustrations of adjusting to life here, and they have decided that Thanksgiving's focus on gratitude and community is the antidote.
The collection of nationalities around our table represents the archetypal Thanksgiving celebration. President Lincoln declared Thanksgiving a national holiday in 1863, after almost two decades of advocacy by Sara Josepha Hale. For 17 years, Hale wrote essays and pestered presidents. She billed the holiday as a way for the country's diverse population to connect. Given the "prodigious" flood of foreigners into the United States, she explained in an 1871 editorial, "to bind together the discordant nationalities into one American brother, what strand could be so potent as Thanksgiving?"
In preparation for the holiday, we scuttle about, grinding hazelnuts, polishing silverware and arranging seasonal arrays of decorative vegetation I clipped from the yard. The floorboards palpitate under our frenetic, dutiful waltz, from the kitchen to the dining room to the living room and back. We move with a conviction that Thanksgiving is about us, the immigrants.
We chose this country. We worked hard to get here, and we understand well what the other options are.
Yet, even while casting ourselves as the true believers, we emulate the rest. To fail in this would mean we are homeless. While life surges forward without us in the old country, there are times when our footing feels shaky in this one.
I heard this in my mother's mournful whisper one Sunday in February: "I did not know today was the Super Bowl; does this mean I am not an American?"
This Thursday, immigrants across the United States will celebrate Thanksgiving. After they've had their fill of turkey — or borscht, or kimchi or ugali — some will relax by watching football. Others might catch a game of cricket, or play dominoes, mahjong or bocci ball. But however we celebrate our holiday, we are celebrating as Americans who call this country home. As long as we gather to give thanks together, the original spirit of Thanksgiving thrives.
Kathrina Szymborski is an attorney in New York City. This year, her family in Saratoga Springs is celebrating Thanksgiving with Rwandans and Canadians.