Thankful for Chinese Food

I write these words from Newark Liberty International Airport on Thanksgiving morning. The airport is flooded with wandering souls and I am sitting at a bar, an already half empty glass of sparkling white wine at my side. What a comforting feeling it is to enter the airport – a place that, by now, feels a little bit like a home away from home. This grand microcosm of steel beams and arching ceilings, dotted with massive planes and miniature private jets that purr expensively at its perimeters – all of it exists beyond the restraints of time and space. 

You see, on the outside, society is currently held tightly within the grips of the holiday season. On this Thanksgiving morning, the roads resemble something out of a post-apocalyptic novel where my Uber appears to be the only vehicle in transit. I pass through the sliding glass doors of the airport and the shift in energy is dizzying. The atmosphere is electric, pulsating beneath the hurried footsteps of thousands of travelers – families, couples, individuals, all seemingly oblivious to the holiday. 

From my seat at the bar, I observe the multitude ordering their drinks around me and can’t help but feel connected to them somehow. On this day, we’ve somehow all ended up at this very place; we are the minority – rebels against tradition, guzzling down cocktails at the early hours of the morning as the rest of the masses prepare their homes for Thanksgiving feasts. What a satisfying feeling it is; in this suspended limbo where we find ourselves planted somewhere between home and a foreign destination, anything goes. 

The chilled white wine is briny and cold against my lips but settles into my chest somewhere warm and comforting, and all at once I become acutely aware of my smallness in all of the chaos around me. A woman next to me orders a second drink and I wonder where she is flying off to (or running away from?) I wonder if anyone else here feels the same way I do about the holidays, if anyone else finds it as exhausting or contrived as I do. 

As the Winter season looms around the corner, our days become shorter and shorter still. Daylight shrinks itself into a tiny little box I curl up in and try desperately to contain until midday when I’m inevitably thrust into obscurity once again. The problem with the dark is that it brings to the surface the thoughts and fears that lay dormant during the day; how burdensome it becomes to try to be a ray of light during the season that is shrouded in darkness. We are explorers trudging along an Arctic expedition, weighed down by heavy things unseen by the naked eye, things like seasonal depression, or things that make holidays feel like cruel reminders of broken families, of loneliness, of loss, of financial woes. How do we make it through to the other side without buckling down at our knees in defeat? 

The early hours of the morning trickle down into the late afternoon and before I know it, I am in Orlando; my parents and I have flown in to spend Thanksgiving with my younger brother. The Florida heat greets me in a sticky sweet embrace and I am stuffing my heavy wool cardigan into my backpack. My flight was delayed by a few hours so by the time we arrive at my brother’s apartment, it is dark out and the post-travel exhaustion is tugging at the corners of our eyes. We settle on Chinese takeout for our Thanksgiving meal, which, being raised by a very traditional Dominican mother, feels borderline blasphemous.

Admittedly, I myself have never been a woman of tradition – the very idea of tradition to me presents itself as a societal construct that begs to be challenged; tradition is peer pressure from the dead. So as the four of us take our seats around the assortment of fried meats and rice and noodles, packets of soy sauce and fortune cookies strewn haphazardly amongst the cartons, I feel content. And then we hold hands and go around the table sharing what we are thankful for and I am more than content – elated even, filled with gratitude. I am at peace. And all at once I realize just how okay I really am with straying from tradition – how the trouble with tradition is that it can create certain expectations of what we think the holidays should look like versus what they turn out to be. Is the perfect holiday season a dream being sold to us? A dream we sell ourselves?

Dear readers, the truth is that the holidays look and feel different for everyone. I observed with silent admiration this Thanksgiving the steady stream of Instagram posts of families both big and small – I marvel at our capacity as humans to come together in love and in light, despite the heavy things we carry, despite the darkness. 

And still I marvel at life’s unpredictability, its blatant disregard for tradition, for our meager plans. I think about the one Christmas Eve I spent on my couch with my best friend during the pandemic because our families had COVID. Or the New Year’s Eve I fell asleep before midnight when I meant to go out. Or the Thanksgiving after a painful breakup I chose to spend alone with a tray of baked mac and cheese and a Sex and the City marathon. 

I have never been a woman of tradition. 

Tradition plays out around me like a Lifetime movie that I watch with warm sincerity but never see myself playing in; more spectator than participant. So whether you’re breaking away from tradition this year or embracing it with open arms, whether you’re home, or flying off to somewhere thousands of miles away – I hope you’ll give yourself a little grace, be present, be mindful, and always keep your heart open and accepting of light, even during the darkest moments.

Moral of the story – there is no shame in having Chinese on Thanksgiving. It may turn out to be the most memorable holiday you’ve had in a long time.