What does Turkey Say?

My kinda Turkey

As most Americans were bundling up with sweaters and mittens, coats and boots; heading over to their neighbors and relatives houses in frosty cars, as they were playing hockey and cooking up a huge turkey, cranberry sauce and other such Thanksgiving feasts, I was enjoying the lovely hot weather of Buenos Aires’ summer. Flip flops and summer dresses were in order when I sat down to eat a catered meal at the university center here. The turkey, mashed potatoes and green beans were there. But where was the cranberry sauce, the yams, the candied carrots? What they called pumpkin pie was not pumpkin pie. Given the fact that cranberries are very rare down here and this holiday seems to perplex people, I was having a wonderful Thanksgiving. For me at least Thanksgiving can be a holiday of stress and drama. My parents still like to fight over whose house my sister and I will go to for Thanksgiving. Aunts and Uncles, Stepmothers and Ex-Husbands will have verbal confrontations. Babies will cry, siblings will throw up, and dogs with knock over whole tables of food. Needless to say I was a bit happy to get away from all of this. The evening went off delightfully. We ate our grilled bell peppers and spicy potato wedges with glee. The customary Turkey Tiredness was not avoided and in the morning there was nothing to clean up, no leftovers to eat for a week, and no hurt feelings.On Black Friday, a day that has even less significance here, I was not clambering around department stores trying to get clothes at half price or a TV for free. I decided to go to the horse show. My Argentine friend Jessi was showing her horse and had invited me to come see him. I was trying hard to explain why we would have such a holiday as I had been all week to various characters in my life. “We cook a huge meal. There’s turkey and potatoes and everyone eats till they are stuffed and drunk and we go to sleep.” I laughed. “I guess it’s just a holiday for eating.” “A holiday for eating, no wonder Americans are fat.” Jessi said. I laughed and I think I embarrassed her. “No not that you are fat.” She said.“No it’s okay Americans are fat, we’re the fattest people on the earth.” I told her.This conversation got me thinking. I was reminding of the many people all over America that are obese and even over weight but are malnourished. I remember seeing a news story about how some people in America can be so fat that they have heart disease but that their nutrition levels look like that of a African refugee.What does this say about our country? More importantly what does it mean that people from other countries are willing to share this observation. It is not one that of jealousy but of criticism. Gone are the days when being fat was see as a good symbol of wealth. Now it is seen as a symbol of how much the wealthy can waste and damage themselves. Also, why don’t we remember on Thanksgiving what colonization ultimately, precipitated, mass genocide. We tend to forget what happened to the nations that used to thrive in North America before European colonization. I guess part of my point is to say that I don’t really like Thanksgiving, but also part is to say that we should be looking at what holidays really mean, and being out of the country certainly shows us what we are missing more.