Tag: tradition

The Familiar

The air was cold, and the wind was whipping. I shivered a bit as I stared at a row of pine trees.

I must have been 4 years old, maybe 5. And I was tagging along with my godmother and godfather as they shopped for a Christmas tree.

My godparents didn’t have kids of their own yet, so they were extra keen on involving me in the process.

Which tree do you think is best for us to bring home? my godmother asked.

My reply was filled with fear and panic.

I…I don’t know. They just look like trees. And I’m cold.

My godfather must have been cold as well. Or else he’d seen enough.

He and my godmother quickly conferred, before summoning over the attendant.

They pointed to their top choice. And the attendant prepared it for the long car journey to come.

We had taken two vehicles to this Christmas Tree Farm out in rural Connecticut.

My parents, my sister, and I were in one. My godparents and the tree in the other.

And on the long drive back to the big city, I peppered my parents with questions.

We didn’t have a Christmas tree at home, you see. All I knew was that we’d go to my godparents’ house late in December, and there would be an elaborately decorated tree in the living room. Then, the next time we visited, the tree would be gone.

I was too young to connect the dots. After all, I had no frame of reference.

So, my father spelled it out for me. He explained that Christmas trees were generally grown out in the country – preferably somewhere dry and hilly.

As fall set in, many got cut down and shipped to the big city. That way, the trees would be easier for urbanites to buy, set up, and decorate.

But not all trees got an early axe. Sometimes, as the air got chilly, people would come straight to the farm to select their tree and haul it back home. The experience was more authentic that way. And the tree would likely stay fresh throughout the holiday season.

Wait, so there are people who just grow Christmas trees? I asked.

Yes, my father replied. They prepare all year for one day. But that day is so big that they do quite well for themselves.

This was a lot for me to take in. So, I changed the subject. And never thought of it again.

Until now.

Where does America grow its Christmas trees?

It’s not really a question that’s top of mind. Even though hundreds of millions of people from coast to coast add a tree to their home each December, the where from hardly seems relevant to many.

But not to me. I looked it up.

It seems that thousands of small farms like that one in Connecticut still do grow Christmas trees these days. But the bulk of America’s holiday décor comes from two locations – the forests of Oregon and the mountains of North Carolina.

In a normal year, each region produces about 2 million Christmas trees.

But this is not a normal year.

I’m writing this column roughly three months after a hurricane trudged through the Smoky Mountains. The unprecedented weather event flooded Western North Carolina, leading to widespread death and destruction.

And that hurricane also disrupted the Christmas tree supply chain.

Fortunately, the short-term impacts of this particular development haven’t been too severe. There haven’t been widespread reports of Christmas trees being sold out or broadly unavailable. Oregon and the other growing locations have picked up the slack.

But this is only one year. It’s hard to forecast what the long-term implications of this devastating storm.

Will the Christmas tree farmers of Western North Carolina be able to rebuild and regrow? Will children in the Southeast still trek to the mountains with their parents and help pick out the perfect tree? Will another hurricane roll in and wipe the slate clean again?

It’s all up in the air.

The Christmas tree is not the end-all-be-all of the holiday season. The gifts under the tree and the people around it matter more.

Still, it’s far from insignificant.

In fact, I’d argue that the Christmas tree is one of the three most prominent symbols of the season, along with Santa hats and multicolored lights.

The tree is universally familiar. And that familiarity brings us a sense of inner peace.

That’s why so many people go through the motions of hauling a tree into their living rooms each winter. That’s why they decorate those trees with lights and ornaments. And that’s why public trees – such as the gigantic one in New York’s Rockefeller Center – become tourist attractions as the season’s chill sets in.

There are many staples we’ve let go of over the years. We no longer send faxes or travel by horse and buggy.

But the Christmas tree tradition? I can’t envision a shift away from that. Not now, not ever.

It needs to work. But how far will we go to ensure it does?

There was a time once when a large swath of us lived off the land.

Farming, hunting, ranching, coal mining — those were a means of sustenance. Both in terms of goods sold and consumed.

A bad year meant more than a light piggy bank back then. It meant going hungry through the fall or shivering through the winter.

Christmas trees were a staple back then too. But rural settlers were far more likely to cut down the nearest fresh pine themselves. And as such, they understood what it took to bring the joy of the holiday through their front doors.

Society has shifted since those days. Most of us are city dwellers or suburbanites now. We’re more likely to buy our supplies from a store or an Internet browser. And we rarely give a second thought as to how those goods arrived on our doorstep.

Oftentimes, this approach is sensible. We already have plenty to concern ourselves with. The intricacies of supply chains needn’t be added to the list.

But in this case, at this moment, it might be wise to reconsider.

The profound joy that we experience this time of year – it doesn’t just emerge out of thin air. There are plenty of people working hard to provide it to us.

We owe it to them – and to ourselves – to take a closer look. To drive out to a tree farm to pick our prize. To support a farmer waylaid by Mother Nature. Or to otherwise honor the regions of our great nation that help make our holidays merry and bright.

The familiar matters this time of year. Let’s show how much it does.

What’s Customary

She was strikingly tall, stunningly beautiful, and outfitted in an elaborate Deel.

There was much to be mesmerized by when this woman set foot in my family’s tent. But I was particularly curious about the large bowl in her hands.

I would soon get answers.

After a few moments, the woman turned to my father. Through a translator, she explained that the bowl was a gift for the honored guests who had traveled long distances to arrive in this place. Since this place was the Mongolian grasslands — half the world away from our family home — we were the honored guests.

It was now my father’s duty to drink from the bowl. He obliged without delay.

Hours later, I stepped out of the tent to relieve myself. As I did, I noticed my father stumbling around in the moonlight, slurring his words.

I was 10 years old, and I had never seen my father drunk before. Now I had, and it was jarring.

It turned out that bowl my father consumed was filled with Baijiu. That’s a 120 proof Barley liquor.

It was more grain alcohol than anyone could handle. A bout of drunkenness and a killer hangover were inevitable.

A few days later, I asked my father why he had willingly gone off the deep end. Couldn’t he have spared himself some pain by just saying no?

My father mentioned the importance of showing respect to our hosts and their customs. Declining the invitation was not an option for him.

I nodded in understanding. But I hoped I wouldn’t find myself in a similar position.

I made the team!

The shouts in the hallway woke me up early on a Saturday morning.

One of my floormates in my college dorm had tried out for the vaunted Miami Hurricanes football team. And he had made the cut.

His role would be far from glamorous. As a walk-on, my floormate would be on the scout team. He’d do all his work in practice, emulating opposing receivers and taking massive hits from defensive backs.

Still, my floormate wasn’t immune to the initiation traditions of the squad. So, when the team leaders demanded that he shave his wavy blonde hair, my neighbors helped him oblige.

This opened the door to more issues. My floormate got a sunburn on his scalp while practicing in the bright Florida sun. Some of the football players compared him to a cancer patient.

But this act also helped forge an intractable bond between my floormate and his teammates. He did ultimately appear in a game. When it concluded, the entire Miami Hurricanes football team carried him off the field on their shoulders. Then, they gave him the game ball.

I’m sure none of this would happen these days. There are copious safeguards in place against initiation rituals. The dignity of the individual supersedes the sanctity of customary team traditions.

Culture is no longer defined through majority rule.

While I’ve never played football at any level, I’ve seen the benefits of this shift.

I do not drink alcohol, and I have a dairy sensitivity. In prior eras, I might have found myself compelled to break with both restrictions to fit in.

But now, I can buck with precedent. I can turn down a round of shots at the bar. I can politely decline a home cooked dish if it’s laden with dairy.

There is a built-in support system for my choices and requirements.

I’m grateful for that. But I’m also aware of what I’m leaving on the table.

As I child, I viewed my father’s conundrum on the Mongolian grasslands as a cruel one.

What culture would treat poisoning its guests as a customary practice?

But in hindsight, I realize that I was looking at this scenario all wrong.

The bowl of Baijiu wasn’t the focus of the evening. It was what tied everything together.

Yes, my father was made to drink more than would seem ethical. But that was just part of a massive celebration speckled with dancing and traditional garb. A celebration in honor of him — the visitor from far away.

By downing the bowl of barley liquor, my father was sharing in the celebration. He was forging a connection with his hosts that could transcend distance and language barriers.

It was worth the ensuing drunkenness and hangover.

This is the notion behind so many customary traditions. Weddings are particularly grand because they encourage two families to connect. French wine and charcuterie boards allow for bonding through cuisine. Holi provides an opportunity to find common ground through color —even if it means ruining our clothes in the process.

Even if we’re unfamiliar with these traditions, we benefit by leaning into them. By taking ourselves out of our comfort zone, we create lasting memories that can transcend cultures.

This is what’s missing in our shift toward individuality.

We might not be forced by our teammates to shave our heads. We might not be prodded by family members to eat something that we can’t digest. We might not be egged on to drink something that makes us incoherent.

Those are net benefits, for sure. But they come with costs. Costs that can’t be brushed away.

The excursion to the grasslands was part of my first trip abroad. A three-week odyssey across China.

In the subsequent decade, I’d get my passport stamped several more times.

But then, the journeys through customs ceased.

As I write these words, it’s been nearly 15 years since I left the United States. I haven’t even ventured to Canada or Mexico.

There are many reasons why I’ve stayed home. But one of them has to do with customary traditions.

I don’t want to put myself in a situation where I get myself sick — either from consuming dairy or alcohol. And I know from my prior travels that I might well be entrapped in these scenarios.

For years, I treated this credo as a validation. Now, I’m not as convinced.

I’ve spared myself a lot of potential misfortune by playing it safe. But I’ve also missed out on numerous chances for cultural connection.

And that does give me pause.

Perhaps the customary traditions of others aren’t a threat to our sensibilities. Perhaps they’re a test of our courageousness.

My father and my floormate in my college dorm each passed this test. I have yet to face it.

And that is a problem.

Moving forward, I resolve to be more open-minded. I will still hold true to my values and lifestyle choices. But I will view the customary traditions that fly in the face of them as something other than an unvarnished threat.

I will view them opportunities. Opportunities I might not take, but at least should consider.

May we all find the gumption to do the same.

Turkey and Tradition

It’s like clockwork.

Every year, as mid-November approaches, the temperatures drop, the leaves fall, and we focus our gaze on a particular type of bird.

I’m talking, of course, about the turkey.

Turkeys exist all over this land — on farms and in the wild. And most of the year, we hardly notice their presence. But as Thanksgiving approaches, we can’t stop thinking about them.

Just about every ad we see this time of year features some sort of turkey pun. The supermarkets are overloaded with packaged birds, ready to cook. And social media is rife with advice for brining, frying, or otherwise roasting a turkey for the holiday.

Few other animals get this treatment — a day where they’re on the menu nationwide and garner all our attention. Turkeys are unique in that way.

But should they be?

As a kid, I was always enamored by Thanksgiving. It was a holiday my family would spend with relatives who we didn’t see often. And it was bereft of most of the burden of customs or religious connotations that Halloween and Christmas had, respectively.

That said, there were some notable staples of the holiday. Most notably, the menu.

There was little freelancing when it came to Thanksgiving fare. Households were expected to serve mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, gravy, dressing, and turkey.

I have no idea where this menu came from. Few, if any, of those dishes were in existence at the time of the first Thanksgiving feast in the 1600s.

Yet, these delicacies had reached critical mass. They seemed to be the only items people would talk about. And they were the only dishes Americans were expected to serve.

I was a picky eater growing up, so most of the vegetables, sides, and sauces didn’t appeal to me. That left turkey as my go-to option.

I would wake up on Thanksgiving morning thinking about the turkey feast to come. By the time the evening arrived, I was practically salivating at the sight of the carved bird on the table.

Still, as I sank my teeth into that first bite, I would inevitably find myself disappointed.

The bird itself wasn’t the problem. It was always prepared to perfection.

No, the problem was that I just did not much like turkey. It was too gamey for my liking, and the tryptophan within it would make me sleepy.

At first, I struggled with this disconnect. How could I reject the crown jewel of Thanksgiving dinner? I tried to bury my feelings, only for them to re-emerge a year later.

Eventually, I relented. I accepted that I didn’t like turkey and possibly never would. As such, I stopped loading my plate with it at Thanksgiving dinner.

I started preparing a brisket for Thanksgiving around this time. I did this simply so that there would be a dish on the table that I’d be excited to eat.

But as it turned out, my brisket was almost as big a hit as the turkey itself. My relatives lined up to try it. There were no leftovers to bring home, only requests that I bring more brisket next year.

So, the following year, I did. And the year after that. And the year after that.

I might have broken with the Thanksgiving gospel, but in doing so, I’d forged a new, more resonant tradition.

Who are the arbiters of the customs we follow?

Often, religious organizations come to mind. Or maybe government entities. Or even social entities, such as neighborhood groups.

Each of these structures has the power of trust, a broad following, and mass communication abilities. Yet, they each also have the downsides of preachiness and rigidity.

When you factor in the retail industrial complex, customs get fossilized. We live in a capitalist society, and businesses depend on norms to stay profitable and keep the economy afloat.

Ultimately, this all leads to a one-two punch. A form of authority establishes expectations, and retailers tell us what to buy to stay in compliance.

This is what creates our strict system of traditions, including the Thanksgiving turkey feast. It’s not an organic, grassroots process. It’s heavily manufactured.

The end effect matches a scene from the movie Mean Girls. The protagonist, Cady Heron, is invited to sit with the pretentious clique The Plastics in the school lunchroom for the rest of the week. As part of the impromptu invite, she’s given some instructions, including how to dress.

On Wednesdays, we wear pink, says Karen Smith, one of the Plastics.

Sometimes, I think traditions can be like this. Maybe they started out innocuous enough, but they evolve into On Thanksgiving, we eat turkey.

This latent expectation might not seem like a big deal, but its burden can carry a long shadow. In the case of Thanksgiving, turkeys are bulky, costly, and challenging to prepare. Turkeys — along with the rest of the holiday’s staples — fail to cater to the needs of those with dietary restrictions. And the entire idea of a feast can be cumbersome to those without large living spaces or families.

It’s no wonder that the joyful anticipation of holidays like Thanksgiving is all too often supplanted by feelings of dread. Our pursuit of a shared experience comes with strings attached.

But it doesn’t need to.

As we head into another holiday season, something has changed.

That something is us.

Living through the horrors of a global pandemic, the gut-punch of an economic recession, and the social unrest of a society in transition has not been a pleasant experience. But it has been an enlightening one.

Throughout all the turmoil, we’ve been forced to reassess what we’ve taken as gospel. Some traditions, customs, and norms that were once non-negotiable are now anything but.

Thanksgiving dinner can be one of those traditions.

Yes, we should still gather to celebrate. But maybe we can do so in our own way, and on our own terms.

That could mean Thanksgiving without a predefined menu of sides. That could mean Thanksgiving without a massive guest list. And that could even mean Thanksgiving without turkey.

Indeed, as I write this, I’m preparing for a Thanksgiving feast with all these adaptations. It will be a smaller, more intimate gathering, devoid of an excess of side dishes. And instead of a large turkey —or my brisket — there will be a beef roast.

The burden of old traditions has been lifted. And I couldn’t be more thankful for that.