Nothing makes me feel more un-American than Thanksgiving. I get it, my family immigrated here in the 70s. We didn’t come over here on the Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria or Mayflower. We didn’t know what a Turkey tasted like until 1984. We never eat mashed potatoes for dinner. I couldn’t tell you the last time I ate cranberry sauce. This however, does not mean you have a right to prematurely assume that we don’t celebrate Thanksgiving. Last time I checked, Thanksgiving was created to celebrate the first immigrants into America, and when I learned about it in elementary school (when I would draw turkeys with the outline of my hand), the immigrants that arrived on the shores of America were lily white. And the Native Americans that greeted them had just arrived across the Bering Strait from Asia (a millennia previously).
So when you come up to me on November 20th and ask me what I’m doing for Thanksgiving, I’m going to say:
“Oh, the usual, Turkey, Stuffing, Mashed Potatoes. The works, you know what I mean Tad?!”
But what my passive-aggressive Asian-ass WANTS to say:
“We’re eating a mutha-fuckin’ turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes you racist fuck. What else do you think we’re doing? Sure, we’ll have escargot (thank you French Colonism!) and banana leaf wrapped sticky rice, but we’re gonna eat like its Boston Market on a Friday night biyyraatch!”