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.