Off the Beaten Track: Native Traditions of Giving

After living in Alaska for seven years, Leslie Hsu Oh returns to the Washington, D.C., area with a wealth of adventures from the Last Frontier. Her work appears in Cirque, First Alaskans Magazine, Fourth Genre (forthcoming), Kids These Days!, Rosebud Magazine, Stoneboat, and Under the Sun. “Between the Lines” was listed as a Notable Essay in The Best American Essays 2010. She received an MFA in creative writing from the University of Alaska Anchorage, where she currently teaches, and a master’s from Harvard University. Check out her web site (www.lesliehsuoh.com) or find her on Facebook. 

My four-year-old son runs down the hall wailing, “Jiĕ Jie [Older Sister in Mandarin] ate all the grapes and didn’t share any with me.” My seven-year-old tries to defend herself, but the evidence is bulging in her squirrel cheeks.

“Kyra, what happened?” I shake my head with disappointment. A year living in the Washington, D.C., area and already they had forgotten an important lesson they learned from Alaska Natives since birth.

When we lived in Alaska, we often relaxed on the benches facing seven 56x32-inch plasma screens in the Anchorage Museum’s Living Our Cultures, Sharing our Heritage: The First Peoples of Alaska exhibit and listened to Elders and youth speak about giving in 10 (Athabascan, Eyak, Haida, Iñupiaq, Tlingit, Tsimshian, Unangan, Sugpiaq, Yup’ik, and Saint Lawrence Island Yup’ik) approximately two-minute video vignettes looping across seven monitors.

Kyra and Ethan share their first harvest
of petrushki, also known as beach lovage,
with Auntie Rita, a renowned traditional healer
and member of the International Council
of Thirteen Indigenous Grandmothers.

It was my way of simulating the old days, when daily, children could gather at the foot of an Elder after dinner and listen to his or her stories. At a minimum, I hoped that my children could understand the importance of giving, unmarred by the Western expectation for something in return.

In the Yup’ik video, Alice Rearden (Cucuaq Aluskak) speaks about ella, or awareness. Growing up in Napakiak, her Elders taught her “that if you are out walking and see a piece of driftwood sticking out of the mud, you should pull it out and turn it over so that the muddy part can dry. That piece of wood is alive and aware, and it will feel gratitude for your kindness.”

Her features are delicate, but when she speaks, her voice is laced with the weight of more than 12 years of wisdom, gleaned from serving as lead translator for the Calista Elders Council. The video pans to a scene of fish hanging on a dry rack while Rearden says off screen: “We always grew up with that sense, of not putting yourself first or above others. Giving gifts to people, those kinds of, you know, unselfish gestures that you do for people—it will come back in turn.”

Kyra harvests petrushki on the coast of
Turnagain Arm, Alaska. She learns
not to take too much, so other people
and animals can harvest too.

Working with cultural anthropologist Ann Fienup-Riordan, Rearden, who is now 35, translates books such as Ellavut: Our Yup’ik World and Weather, the ninth in a series produced by the Calista Elders Council to document Yup’ik oral traditions. Yup’ik Elders explain that "those who are capable must help those less fortunate through sharing food and doing chores for them. We were admonished: ‘Even though an old woman wants to pay you, you do not receive it.’ When an elderly woman or man is given something or helped, she is extremely grateful and thanks you with enthusiasm. And they give the person who helped them something beneficial, thinking of something in their minds that will aid him positively in his life.

“Yup’ik discussions of the ethics of sharing describe its consequences in terms of its nonmaterial return—the grateful thoughts it elicits.…Today, sharing knowledge is as critical as sharing food in both the transfer and transformation of Yup’ik moral standards. Admonitions to act with compassion and restraint remain foundational not only in Yup’ik interpersonal interaction but in their relations
with their environment.”

In Anchorage, the sharing of subsistence foods has become the warp thread weaving together Native and non-Native communities. While dip-netting, I always collected fish heads from non-Native neighboring fishermen and delivered them to Elders whom I worked with in town. During holiday seasons, the post offices are bustling with ice boxes packed with subsistence foods that are being mailed to the Lower 48.

Every summer, we take the kids dip netting at the mouth of the Kenai River.
The kids help us clean, pack, freeze, and ship salmon to relatives in the Lower 48.

As a mother of three, Kyle (13), Kayla (11), and Christopher (4), Rearden trades ideas with me on how to teach our kids tuvqakiyaraq, the custom of sharing, in an urban setting. Rearden grew up “feeling shame to get more than someone else. Whenever I was asked to share, I always gave the other person a bigger piece. I would cut a candy in half and be ashamed to take the bigger piece.”

She raises her children, who were all born in Anchorage, with these ideas: “The more you give, the more you get back. If we are stingy, like if you don’t share your toys, then [they] will break right away. When you give, it will come back to you. Your selfless act is always rewarded. They see that I don’t hold back when it comes to helping in any situation. I hope they [her kids] watch me and observe what I do.”

Kyra thanks the salmon for giving up his life to feed us.

Because it is hard to keep traditions like tuvqakiyaraq in the city, Rearden goes out of her way to share food. She often hosts feasts where she cooks all day, serving her most precious subsistence foods, making sure her kids see that she is serving her last bag of salmonberries. She says, “it’s just enough for them to see. I am always talking to them and explaining the reasons behind sharing, the reason why it’s important to give to others and have compassion for others.”

With the holiday season upon us and this month being Native American Heritage Month, I take an apple out of the refrigerator and cut it in two. I present both pieces to Kyra.

Smiling mischievously at me, she snatches both pieces and presses them to her heart. Ethan starts to stomp his baby feet anxiously. “What will you give me in return?” she asks her pouting brother. Then, seeing the color drain from my face, she says, “I’m just kidding, Mom,” and deposits the largest piece in his little hands.

Diwali, American Style

Credit: Ramesh NG

By Supriya Savkoor 

In a dozen countries from Mauritius to Trinidad and Tobago, Suriname to Fiji, and Myanmar to Guyana, the Indian holiday of Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights, is an official national holiday. In the United States, where I grew up and still live, Diwali has grown from a quiet home affair to a festival celebrated in schools, offices, and party halls in nearly every major metropolis from coast to coast.

While the date of the festival of lights varies each year, it always falls between mid-October to mid-November. When my kids’ attended Montessori school a few years ago, our hearts were full when their American teachers greeted us at the door in saris for this most celebrated Hindu festival, salvar kameezes for the Muslim holiday of Ramadan, and in full crazy costume for Halloween—all within the same week! (Then celebrated Chinese New Year a month after the Gregorian one a few months later.)

Credit: Ethan Lofton

This year, we celebrate Thanksgiving only one week after Diwali. And since we'll be hosting Thanksgiving at our place this year, it seems only fitting that we celebrate Diwali while the whole extended clan is gathered, especially since all of the kids have been raised outside India. Thursday night, we start with our usual fare, a traditional Thanksgiving feast with turkey and all the trimmings, alongside a traditional, mostly vegetarian (but not entirely) Indian feast of mutton curry, paneer masala (spicy Indian cheese curry…or something to that effect), a lentil curry (dal) with spinach, and a cauliflower stirfry. I love that everyone gets to choose their feast of choice that night—or combine options, for those so daring. Imagine a dollop of cranberry sauce on the same plate as a curry dish (yum), a syrupy gulab jamun lolling against a slice of pumpkin pie. Only in America, right?

The following night is the real treat. None of the dozen or so kids who’ll be at our place have ever celebrated Diwali in India, and so we're excited to treat them to our own variation of the centuries-old tradition. We’ll have all the ingredients: traditional attire, sparklers, an exchange of gifts, cocktails (no, seriously), poker. And for the kids, craft time and age-appropriate games. I can’t wait.

Credit: Arne Hückelheim

It’s all tradition but then some. The cocktail party, for example, features a cheese fondue, meatballs braised in mint and honey, and a couple Italian appetizers. The gifts feature characters from Winnie the Pooh and Batman. The sparklers may include (if I get to vote) lanterns we let go of, only to watch float up into the sky (instead of putting diyas, like the one pictured at left, afloat in the river). Later, or maybe earlier, depending on how tired we all are, a show put on by the kids. A modern retelling of the Ramayana, for Diwali commemorates Lord Ram’s return to his kingdom after 13 long years in exile and after, yes, more than a few adventures.

Again, I can’t wait.

Happy Thanksgiving and Happy Diwali to you and yours!

Credit: ISAL Indian Students Association Leuven (Belgium)

A Bejeweled Feast

By Heidi Noroozy

The holiday season is upon us. I know this because Christmas lights, Santa Claus figures, and candy canes are winking at me from store-front displays all over town. And it’s not even Thanksgiving yet. But the turkey feast is just a few days away, so naturally my thoughts turn to food.

Thanksgiving is probably our most quintessentially American holiday. Even recent immigrants will set aside the familiar flavors of the old country and serve a roast turkey with all the traditional trimmings. One of the best Thanksgiving meals I ever tasted was prepared by my husband’s Iranian cousins in Los Angeles. You can read all about it here.

I like to mix things up culturally, so my holiday feast has Persian flavors along with the American ones. There will be some sort of roast fowl on the table this coming Thursday, but it won’t take center stage. That exalted position will be occupied by a big platter of javaher polo, a Persian rice dish that looks like the cook scattered brilliant gemstones over a mound of snow.

Javaher polo is traditionally served at weddings, and for good reason. It is a joyful dish that offers a celebratory blend of colors, flavors, and textures. White rice sparkles with pistachios, orange peel, and ruby-toned barberries (zereshk), finished off with a splash of golden saffron. This dish is good hot or cold, paired with chicken kebabs or Thanksgiving turkey, served on its own for a quick snack or with a spoonful of yogurt on the side.

Like the holiday meal itself, I’ve messed with the traditional recipe for this dish by replacing some of the traditional orange peel with tangerine, which makes the rice even more fragrant. And I’ve added a secret ingredient. I’ll share it if you promise not to tell.

Come closer, and let me whisper it in your ear…

Rosewater.

Not too much. Just a drop or two. You don’t want your rice to smell like a summer garden. It’s November, after all.

So if you’d like to add a bit of Persian flair to your holiday meal this year, hold the mashed potatoes and serve a platter of javaher polo. Here’s the recipe:

Ingredients:

1 orange (peel only)

2 tangerines (peel only)

2 medium-sized carrots, julienned

½ cup sliced pistachios

1 cup slivered almonds

1 cup zereshk (barberries), available in Middle Eastern markets*

½ cup sugar

½ teaspoon powdered saffron dissolved in 3-4 tablespoons of hot water
Splash of rosewater (optional)

3 tablespoons butter

For the rice:

2 ½ cups Basmati rice

8 cups water

3 tablespoons oil

¼ teaspoon ground saffron dissolved in 2 tablespoons water

Directions:

1.   Rinse the rice in several changes of water. Cover with more water, add 2 tablespoons of salt and soak for at least one hour.

2.   Cover the barberries with cold water in a bowl and let stand for at least 20 minutes so any grit will sink to the bottom.

3.   Quarter and then peel the oranges and tangerines. Remove the white part with a sharp knife and discard. Cut the remaining peel crosswise into strips. Cover with cold water in a small saucepan and bring to a boil. Drain and rinse in cold water.

4.   Melt the butter in a large frying pan. Add the carrots and sauté until they start to soften, about 5-10 minutes. Add the citrus peel and nuts and sauté for another 5 minutes. Add salt to taste.

5.   Scoop the barberries out of the water, making sure that the grit remains at the bottom of the bowl, and add to the carrot/orange peel/nut mixture along with the sugar. Stir until the sugar dissolves. Add the saffron water, bring to a simmer, cover the pan and simmer on low heat for 20 minutes, adding more water if the mixture gets too dry.

6.   Bring the 8 cups of water to a boil in a large non-stick pot and add the rice. Cook until al dente (firm to the teeth, but no longer hard). Drain and rinse with cool water.

7    Heat the oil in the same pot and layer the rice with the carrot/orange peel mixture in a pyramid shape, starting and ending with rice. Poke some holes in the top to let the steam escape and sprinkle 1/4 cup of warm water over the top. Cover with a tight-fitting lid wrapped in a clean dish towel, lower the heat and cook for 40-50 minutes. Uncover and pour the saffron water over the top. Cover again and cook for another 5-10 minutes

Noosh-e jaan! Bon appetit!

* Dried cranberries or cherries can be substituted for the barberries, but you’ll need to use less sugar. Barberries are very sour.

Thanksgiving Abroad

Edith McClintock is one of our new contributors to Novel Adventurers and will be blogging every other Thursday. She is a globe trekking author whose recent travels have taken her to Central Asia and the Middle East. You can read more about her travels at: A Wandering Tale.

I’ve only celebrated four Thanksgivings abroad—three in Suriname, and one in the Republic of Georgia. Most have been in the United States, where we travel cross-country on crowded flights to visit family, squabble, cook for days, and eat until we’re semi-catatonic.

In my immediate family, when we were young, we were always reminded that the Pilgrims eventually slaughtered their Native American friends, just as all those poor turkeys were being slaughtered across the country. Fun stuff when you’re ten. But eventually my family stopped arguing about Native Americans and began eating meat. The few holdouts were accommodated with an ever-rotating version of vegetarian Turkey. Thanksgiving became about visiting and appreciating family. Celebrating gratitude, not lingering anger. And drinking lots of wine.

Celebrating abroad is not so different, just minus the traditional family. In Suriname, the American Ambassador threw us Peace Corps volunteers a Thanksgiving pool party each year. We celebrated the old-fashioned way—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, and canon balls into the pool. Like in the US, it was a time to offer thanks for our two-years together, not to mention a free meal.

Last year, as a Peace Corps Response volunteer in Georgia, I celebrated, as one should, in excess—attending three Thanksgiving dinners. The first was a few weeks early since the volunteers were gathering for a training. Everyone contributed to the food and various preparation tasks, and the staff brought wine. The Ambassador came and over a hundred of us sat down together—at a very long table—then moved outside to mingle around a bonfire.

On the actual Thanksgiving weekend, I traveled to Borjomi, a small mountain town, where a friend threw a Thanksgiving dinner for her Georgian co-workers, combining traditional American Thanksgiving fare with a touch of Ukrainian from her own heritage.Her host family added Georgian dishes and brought out their homemade wine for hours of toasting our gratitude.

The following night, we celebrated again, this time with a blend of Peace Corps volunteers, American teachers, and Georgians. Our host was Chinese-American and added a specialty from his own family’s Thanksgiving dinner—delicious fried rice. The Georgians, of course, brought homemade wine.

Thanksgiving in Georgia was a time to feel nostalgic for my family and home, but also reminded me of the diversity of America, from the Native Americans, to the Pilgrims fleeing England, to every immigrant that’s arrived since. To all the world traditions we’ve blended into our celebrations.

I think it’s what Americans should remember this year, if only for one day. Not lingering anger over history. Not the divisive, angry politics currently polarizing the United States. Because while none of us celebrate it quite the same way, we can all be grateful, both here and abroad, for a few shared desires—peace, a good harvest, and friendship.

But not football. Football is boring.

Thanksgiving in the Diaspora

When I was teenager in Vermont, Thanksgiving was always a potluck affair. My mother would supply the turkey, stuffing, and her special cranberry-orange sauce, and the guests would bring everything else. She’d invite friends, most of whom were half her age, unattached and with families too far away to visit. They’d contribute such unconventional (and occasionally barely palatable) Thanksgiving fare as millet and zucchini salad, soybean casseroles, and apple pies with whole-wheat crusts made from hand-ground flour. This was the hippie era, after all.

Several decades later, I went to another Thanksgiving feast that promised to be equally unconventional. Six years into our marriage, my husband and I drove down to Orange County in Southern California to spend the weekend with his Iranian relatives. Uncles, aunts, and cousins all turned out for the event.

I didn’t expect the meal to be a traditional Thanksgiving dinner with turkey and all the trimmings. At every dinner party I’d attended in the homes of Iranian friends and relatives up to that point, only Persian food had been served. So I expected the same at this Thanksgiving in Orange County. There would be shirin polo, perhaps, a colorful rice pilaf studded with orange peel, shredded carrots, almonds, and pistachio nuts, a dish that frequently turns up on festive occasions. Or perhaps baghali polo (braised lamb shanks served with dill-and-saffron-speckled rice). Certainly a kebab or two.

Boy was I wrong! This Thanksgiving dinner would have made Martha Stewart proud.

We had a perfectly succulent roast turkey (and in my experience, turkey is rarely perfect but usually a tad dry), bread stuffing, mashed potatoes, rich gravy, green beans, and glazed yams. There was even a homemade pumpkin pie for dessert, dished up with little rosettes of whipped cream around the rim. All lovingly prepared and graciously served by my husband’s cousin, in whose home we were staying, along with her two sisters-in-law.

Strictly speaking, this Thanksgiving dinner was a great deal more conventional than my mother’s long-ago celebrations in Vermont. And yet, apart from the food, nothing about the Orange County gathering felt in the least bit American. Not the way the guests sat formally on chairs and sofas selected more for elegance than comfort, waiting to be served tea in elegant glasses by the lady of the house (who looked thoroughly shocked when I offered to help, as though I’d suggested that her hostessing skills were not up to par). Nor the melodious tones of the Farsi I heard all around me, with its drawn-out vowels and soft consonants.

In Vermont, none of us thought it odd to turn up on Thanksgiving in jeans and work shirts, faded with many washings. After all, this most comfortable of all holidays was not intended to be a formal affair. (And tight clothes make for misery once you’ve stuffed yourself to bursting with a rich meal.)

In Orange County, the Iranian guests arrived all decked out as though for a wedding, the women in stiletto heels with gold flashing at their throats, the men in well-pressed suits and white shirts, with slicked-back hair. In Vermont, we scraped the dirt off our shoes before entering the house. In this Persian home, everyone left their footwear at the front door and walked about in their stocking feet.

One custom the two Thanksgivings shared in common was the way the food was served: buffet style. But as I made my way around the table at the Iranian feast, placing items on my plate, my helpful hosts added more spoonfuls of everything. Left to my own devices, it was assumed, I’d leave the feast hungry, not wanting to appear greedy, and clearly requiring much prodding to avoid such an unthinkable disaster. Being the only “foreigner” present, I received extra royal treatment.

Life in the diaspora always means making adjustments to fit into the rhythm of the dominant culture. It’s a balancing act between embracing new ways and preserving accustomed values, traditions, and family structures. Iranian immigrants in California have especially strong ties to the old country and usually large extended families in the new one. So it makes sense that even a quintessentially American holiday like Thanksgiving would have a Persian flavor in the diaspora.

And what is American, anyway? We are a mongrel nation made up of many different cultures, both immigrant and homegrown. Take my mother’s potluck holiday feasts – I suspect that few Americans would share such memories, where the only identifiable component was probably the turkey.

Thanksgiving is the most adaptable of holidays since it is not linked to any specific religion or ideology. After all, doesn’t every world culture have a tradition of celebrating life, family, and community with a big, delicious feast?

Happy Thanksgiving!

We are taking the day off to enjoy turkey and all the trimmings with family and friends. But we'll be back tomorrow with another Off the Beaten Track adventure. We hope you'll drop by and find out what part of the world we'll be visiting with our next guest.