Private Lives: Personal essays on the news of the world and the news of our lives.
When I was growing up in northern Minnesota, our family’s Thanksgivings were straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
Every Thanksgiving morning, my mother would rise at 6 and open the Better Homes and Gardens cookbook to check the roasting directions for the Butterball turkey. A neighbor had shown her how stuffing required an entire stick of Land O’Lakes butter, which both repulsed and thrilled us. My older brothers opened cans — jimmying out the cranberry sauce, using a church key to pierce the condensed milk for the pie. My sister and I made autumn leaves out of construction paper to decorate the table. My father’s role was to set up the camera on a tripod, rush to join us for the family picture, and to carve.
I found it all a bit predictable, even banal. But for my parents, Korean immigrants, Thanksgiving was anything but.
As children, my parents lived under the brutal Japanese occupation, through the end of World War II. Then came the partition of Korea. As the realities of what was fomenting in the new North Korea became apparent, people began to flee. My father had already moved to Seoul to attend college. My mother, only 14, fled south a day ahead of the rest of her family — but also the day the 38th Parallel was sealed, forever separating her from them.
In 1953, my father came to the United States, and my mother followed him soon after. My father was a highly trained doctor who had worked as a translator for American generals during the war. Those connections got my parents a visa, even though at the time America had instituted laws that effectively barred most immigrants from East Asia.
After a few years, my father was unable to get the visa renewed, but he was sure his immigration problems would soon work themselves out; a German doctor he knew had become a citizen with a minimum of fuss. My father got a job in a small mining town in Minnesota called Hibbing. The hospital needed him: Northern Minnesota was a difficult sell for prospective doctors, with its arctic winters and lower salaries. And as the lone anesthesiologist, he was basically on call all the time.
However, the racial difference between my father and his German friend became apparent when deportation notices for my parents arrived (on the day that I was born, according to family lore). My two older brothers and I were American citizens, but the Immigration and Naturalization Service didn’t care. My parents were approached by immigration “lawyers” who promised to help, and promptly disappeared with their money.
Just when my parents thought all was lost, the townspeople of Hibbing turned out to sign a petition requesting that the government allow us to stay because my father was essential to the safety and well-being of the town. Our congressman took this scroll of names to Washington, where it was rejected out of hand on the assumption that if my father was given what was then the equivalent of a green card, he would pack up for more lucrative opportunities and Hibbing would lose a doctor anyway. That’s when another congressman, who knew my father personally, privately appealed to aver that no, William Chae-sik Lee, M.D., would stay put.
This Jimmy Stewart-esque moment remained a high point for my parents, one that helped them get through the times when people drove by our house yelling “chink!” or when we kids were bullied at school. My parents were determined to return the favor America had done for them. They insisted that we were not Koreans or even Korean-Americans, but Americans.
What it all comes down to is that the family is the unit of cultural preservation. This is true for all families, but for immigrants, it is particularly bittersweet; to do one thing means something else is excluded. There is a fall holiday in Korea, Chuseok, that is referred to as Korean Thanksgiving. It, too, involves special food — crescent-shaped dumplings called songpyeon — and family. But this is something I learned in my 30s, as a Fulbright scholar in Korea. I took an almost anthropological interest, watching as bustling Seoul shut down for three days and my colleagues left for their distant hometowns.
A few years after American immigration laws were loosened in 1965, my parents became citizens (and even then, my father remained in Hibbing, eventually finishing out a 40-year career at Hibbing General Hospital). More Korean immigrants arrived, and a Korean grocery eventually opened, albeit a four-hour drive away in Minneapolis. At home, however, our Midwestern diets remained inviolate, on Thanksgiving in particular. Its rituals gave our family’s embryonic American life structure. It became my parents’ yearly recommitment ceremony to America.
As kids, dressed up and trying not to squirm at the table, it didn’t occur to us that we had the entire weight of Korean history behind us. Because our parents never spoke about Korea, we felt as if we’d landed in the middle of the Iron Range of Minnesota via spaceship. How were we to know that my father, who bought the 12-pound turkey, had almost starved to death during the early part of the war? That while we voiced our complaints that we were bored, my parents, under the Japanese occupation, had not been allowed to speak their own language or even use their own names?
It is only in hindsight that I realize that this succession of Thanksgivings, never missed, never altered, was a gift. It was the ultimate gift my parents could have given their children, of optimism and safety, the feeling that the next Thanksgiving would be a lot like this one, a predictable celebration of abundance and family.
Marie Myung-Ok Lee teaches writing at Columbia and is working on a novel about the future of medicine.
Private Lives: Personal essays from writers around the globe, on the news of the world and the news of individual lives.
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The thought-provoking essay “Eat Turkey, Become American” by Arie Yung-Ok Lee explores a fascinating concept – how the act of eating traditional American dishes like turkey on Thanksgiving can serve as a symbolic ritual for immigrants to assimilate into American culture. As we dive deeper into this nuanced piece, it becomes evident that the author’s central claim revolves around embracing cultural diversity and inclusiveness without demanding assimilation.
The Role of Food in Shaping Identity
Lee highlights how food plays a crucial role in shaping cultural identity. For immigrants partaking in food traditions acts as a bridge helping them feel connected to their adopted homeland. Consuming iconic American dishes like turkey on Thanksgiving allows immigrants to symbolically integrate into American society adopting associated customs and values. Food facilitates assimilation into a new culture, fostering belonging.
However, Lee is careful to point out assimilation through food is complex – it can also represent a loss. Immigrants giving up traditions like Korean Chuseok to wholeheartedly embrace American ones may sacrifice connections to their heritage. The author advocates thoughtfully bridging cultures, not abandoning identity
Lee’s Personal Experiences as an Immigrant
Lee vividly shares her family’s touching immigrant story to provide context She details her parents’ harrowing childhoods in Korea, their immigration to America, and xenophobic discrimination they endured However, the town of Hibbing petitioned for them to stay when deportation loomed. Lee emphasizes this “Jimmy Stewart-esque moment” encapsulated the gift America gave her family – optimism, safety, and abundance.
Her family viewed Thanksgiving as a recommitment ceremony to America and an embodiment of this gift. However, Lee realizes in hindsight that unquestioningly adopting this holiday represented a loss of their Korean culture. The author advocates a nuanced, inclusive approach – celebrating both Korean and American traditions.
Embracing Diversity Without Forcing Assimilation
At its core, Lee’s central claim revolves around embracing cultural inclusivity and diversity without demanding assimilation. She thoughtfully explores the tension immigrants face between preserving their heritage and adopting cultural elements of their new home.
Lee advocates balance – thoughtfully blending cultures rather than abandoning identity for assimilation. She favors inclusiveness, urging society to make space for diverse traditions rather than forcing a homogenous American identity. The author argues food can be a unifier, bringing us together to celebrate blended cultural identities.
Additional Perspectives Support Lee’s Argument
Lee’s nuanced perspective finds support in the writing of others as well. An analysis of her piece in Chef’s Resource summarizes that Lee “advocates for diversity and inclusivity without demanding assimilation.” The author asserts individuals need not relinquish their cultural identity to feel American.
A study guide analysis also identifies Lee’s central claim as promoting “the concept of American identity as it relates to food, and how the act of consuming traditional American dishes…can serve as a symbol of acceptance and belonging.” Again, the emphasis is on inclusion – food as a bridge, not a means to erase identity.
Lee’s Timely Message Resonates Today
In an increasingly polarized world, Lee’s message championing empathy, nuance, and inclusiveness resonates deeply. She reminds us that America’s diversity is its strength. We can celebrate our blended cultural identities and traditions while retaining connection to our origins and values. Lee makes a compelling case that thoughtfully bridging – not homogenizing – cultures is the pathway to a richer, more cohesive society. Her profound yet accessible insights resonate just as powerfully today as when she first penned this provocative piece.
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