A Thanksgiving Party

Thanksgiving: Shirley and Bernadine had set four foldout tables down the center of Shirley’s long living room. Every year for the last ten years, Shirley had invited fifteen to twenty immigrants and refugees to join her family in their Thanksgiving celebration.

“It’s one of the loveliest parts of American culture, and I enjoy sharing it with those who haven’t experienced it,” she had explained to Bernadine when presenting her with an invitation to come and help.

“Every year we have more people, and I can’t handle it by myself anymore.” Shirley didn’t say she knew Bernadine would be alone, had been alone every holiday for years. Her Thanksgiving parties were not just a time to share her American culture but were also a time when she learned more about her guests’ cultures than she did all year long at her reception desk where she dealt with over a hundred people every week. This year—for the first time, Bernadine seemed both interested in and worthy of inclusion.

The tables groaned with food contributions from everyone: turkey and dressing snuggled between humus with pita bread and eggrolls; couscous and peanut sauce shared a tablecloth with a huge pan of spankopita; tamales and hombow circled a plate of sushi with umeboshi plums. Bernadine’s pecan/pumpkin double-decker strata pie was side-by-side with baklava and apple strudel.

Dinner was a tower of Babel affair. Bernadine sat between Ivetta and Misbah. She learned at least five different ways to say “pass the gravy.” She learned there are many ways to wrap a sari, that the Black Sea is in the Ukraine, and that meals have many courses in Moscow.

While stomach space for dessert was developing, the general conversation turned to reasons for being thankful. One after another the group took the floor to share reasons for gratitude. Lin was grateful her family was still alive in spite of the attack by pirates as their boat made its way to freedom. At twelve, Lin had been raped and had watched as others were raped, robbed, and killed.

Vasiley was appreciative he no longer was the object of persecution based on his black curly hair, dark eyes, and porcelain white skin. In his country, he had run from beatings by vigilante groups more than one time.

Joyce Chan was glad she was making enough money to send back home to support an uncle in prison. She said it took every extra cent to bribe guards to feed and not to beat her relative.

Mahmoda was thankful for an opportunity to go to school. In her country, women were seldom even taught to read. She could not read in her native tongue.

Then it was Bernadine’s turn. What could she say? The other stories made her white hot aware of her reasons to be grateful, but where was her pain that could be compared to these harrowing stories? As she looked from one waiting face to the next, it dawned on Bernadine with the glare of a noonday sun erupting over the eastern horizon. Her pain, her loneliness, was clear, but not to be admitted…not then, not there.

In consternation, Bernadine began to drop tears, and once the storm cloud was seeded, it burst. A bouquet of culturally appropriate responses hovered around, across, and over her: Asians averted their eyes and bowed their heads in silent empathy; Hispanics and Russians laid hands and arms on her; a Norwegian slapped her heartily on the back as though Heimliching the sobs right out of her would work. A shower of foreign expressions of sympathy cascaded over Bernadine’s head and washed through her like a soothing rain, coated her like a lava flow of love.

The pitter patter of hands stroked and brushed against Brigit beneath Bernadine’s cardigan sleeve, and then they, or she, decided it was time to get closer. The sleeve drooped and slid to the elbow. One by one the clutch of comforters spied the arm and fell back into a circle of gawkers. Only a few of their cultures approved of such body art, on women. Nor were they used to seeing American women of Bernadine’s kind decorated in such an elaborate way.

“Well,” Lorena gave her best full-throated importance to the vowel, “you are a craysee girl.” Admiration vibrated through her voice and shone from her biased eyes. She extended a finger and poked Brigit in the nose, causing her to take on a wry and puckered expression.

“I like it velly much,” Setsuko intoned gravely. “Very much, very nice,” repeated several voices politely.

It might have been Misbah who started the tittering or Joyce who was suppressing a grin behind her hand, and it certainly was Ivetta who began belly laughing and Vasiley who joined her, followed quickly by Maria and Thanh. At any rate, it was probably not Shirley who started it, but everyone, including Bernadine finished it.

Bernadine sank into sleep like a pebble thrown into soft snow. She found herself gazing into the mysterious, crystalline interior of a glacier’s snout. A glacial pool reflected the white and blue-edged mass behind it, and cool purple mountains rose into the sky on every side. While Bernadine looked, a light snow began to drift around her, icing the top of the glacier. This is me, Bernadine thought. This is like the way I’ve been for years: so cold and so lonely. This is like me.

Immediately, a wind surged into the stillness, and Bernadine was blown and swept into a forest where a drenching rain was falling. Lightning and thunder crashed and flickered. A tree nearby was split and blackened to the undergrowth. The rain pelted mercilessly. No, this is me, Bernadine thought. This is like the confusion and upsetting feelings I’ve been having for months: the confrontations and angry outbursts.

As soon as she thought it, the rain slacked and diminished, and Bernadine found herself looking at a shimmering double rainbow, its ends overlapping. As she continued to watch, the sun brightened, and Bernadine could feel its warmth on her back and head. She felt herself crying with joy and relief. No, this is me, she thought. This is me now: generous and kind, with friends for conversation and companionship. This is me now.

The warmth of the sun penetrated her, and Bernadine awoke feeling relaxed and happy.

Excerpt from The Queen of Mean: The Conversion of a Cold and Prejudiced Heart by Ariele M. Huff.

eBook link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00TMCFPBG (Free eBook until midnight November 11, 2015.)

Paperback: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1511538899

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