My First Thanksgiving

Many years ago, I celebrated my first Thanksgiving in the United States.

I was a first-year graduate student, and everyone around me was talking about going home to family for a big meal. I turned to a classmate and asked about his plans.

“Why don’t you come to our house and celebrate with us?” he said.

I was thrilled, and unsure what to expect. He also invited another classmate from China who was new here, too.

We took a train all the way up to Marble Hill, at the northern tip of Manhattan, where my classmate and his wife picked us up and drove us to their home.

They showed us their family album and told us how they met, got engaged, and married as college sweethearts from Nebraska.

Later, they turned on the TV to watch football. I didn’t know anything about football back then. All I saw were players crashing into each other, trying to reach the other side. But I could see their enthusiasm. It was clearly a big tradition.

After the game, we watched a Will Ferrell comedy. They laughed wholeheartedly. It seemed like a very funny movie. I tried to laugh, too, but I understood maybe ten percent of the jokes.

Sensing my confusion, they kindly switched to a board game, and we had a great time.

Finally, the turkey came out of the oven. It was my first time trying turkey, pie, and cranberry sauce.

After dinner, we said goodbye and made our way back.

I waited at the train station on a cold Thanksgiving night, feeling a little disoriented. I looked at the sign: 225th Street. I’d never been that far north. It was more than a hundred blocks from campus.

I saw lights glowing in the windows of the houses near the station. I smelled food in the air.

They must all be having a wonderful time with their families, I thought.

Every year since, I’ve felt the warmth of that first Thanksgiving. I think of that kind couple and their hospitality toward two foreign students whose only understanding of American culture came from watching Friends.

Since then, I’ve learned a lot about the culture. My English has improved. I’ve made my own cranberry sauce. I use forks more often than chopsticks and eat pizza more often than dumplings. I’ve watched many football games, felt the thrill of a touchdown and the heartbreak of a fumble.

I still struggle to catch some of the jokes in movies.

I’m grateful for the people who welcomed me with open arms when I first arrived. For the people who patiently explained slang I didn’t understand. For the coworkers at my first job who took me out and encouraged me to join in and dance, instead of standing on the sidelines.

They helped me embrace a new culture as an immigrant, and treated me just like anyone else.