On Thursday most Guyanese in America – or Guyanese Americans, as they should probably be more correctly called – whether ignorant of or ignoring the minor fuss in our letters column about cultural erosion or cross-fertilization and copycat behaviour, would have tucked into their Thanksgiving turkey, with or without cranberry sauce, but certainly with great relish.
In most instances, there would have been distinctive Guyanese touches – a bit more spice, perhaps even a little curry on the side – and there would undoubtedly have been typical Guyanese enjoyment of a holiday feast, with friends and family around and the good times rolling, no matter how modest the home. Let’s face it – we Guyanese, wherever we are, love a party and the chance to enjoy good food and drink (for those who partake), no matter the occasion.
Thanksgiving is, of course, the quintessential American holiday, regardless of race or creed. And it is indubitably a rite of passage for immigrants and a declaration of assimilation, as much as it is a celebration of arrival.
Just as it was for the original immigrants, the English settlers in Virginia and the Pilgrims in New England, it is a time to give thanks for not just a safe landfall, but also survival of the myriad challenges posed by an alien and often, hostile environment, where only the strong thrive and the weak flounder.
It is, of course, debatable whether the descendants of the original inhabitants should also be celebrating Thanksgiving, given the near extermination of the Native Americans and the gross injustices they suffered at the hands of the newcomers, but the mythmakers of America would prefer that that particular running sore in their nation’s history not be exposed at Thanksgiving.
For many Guyanese Americans too, Thanksgiving can be a particularly poignant celebration, framed by feelings of regret at the circumstances that took them to the land of opportunity.
Most, however, might tend to reflect on the hurdles of prejudice that had to be overcome, the challenges of fitting in or of simply finding their space, their area of comfort and security; the frequently menial jobs, sometimes two a day and the need to work twice as hard in each to prove themselves; the bitter cold and long, dark nights of the first winter; the competition with other immigrant groups for employment and advancement – all to earn a liveable wage and provide for their families, to have not just a roof over their heads, but their own home with all mod cons, carpeting, nice furniture, running water, hot water even, electronic goods and, oh yes, electricity. And the supreme objective: to educate their children, to give them the opportunities and the promise of a better life sadly lacking in their own native land, our Guyana.
But the condition of the immigrant is circumscribed by nostalgia and we Guyanese are, if nothing else, a sentimental lot.
And so, in the warm aftermath of the Thanksgiving spread, perhaps aided by the influence of the Demerara rum saved for special occasions, thoughts would have naturally turned to the real home, where the navel string is buried, to the friends and relatives left behind, to the promise or the dream, nurtured ever since departure, of returning to El Dorado.
By the end of the weekend and the return to reality, it will be realised that paradise was well and truly lost a long time ago and that the longer they remain in their relatively prosperous and secure exile, the more their children and grandchildren grow, integrate and prosper in American society, there can be no going back.
Those with painful memories do not really want to return anyway. Those with golden memories should not return hoping to keep them intact in the context of Guyana’s present day reality. Looking back, as Lot found out to his chagrin, is fraught with disillusion and loss.
And the lost generations who should be enticed back to help rebuild the country are, perhaps, forever lost. For where would they be educated? Where would they be healed when sick? And where would they be cared for in their old age?
And so, Guyana’s tragedy is that of families separated and spread across the globe, of sons and daughters of the soil toiling for greater reward in foreign fields. And we continue to export our greatest resource, our human capital, because successive governments have failed to provide the necessary guarantees of citizen security and national prosperity. And we are moving further and further away from achieving the critical mass necessary to develop our country.
Instead, we are increasingly, in the words of one of our expatriate columnists, a “virtual nation”, existing in nostalgic recollections, debates in our letter columns, stream-of-consciousness blogs, online photo albums and reunions, Thanksgiving or otherwise, at home and abroad.
