Issue 41: "The Thanksgiving that Divided Me" by Corina Yen

Immigrant Hustle: A Monthly Mini Memoir

Hello KP!

Is it just me, or do you feel more human and less alone when you remember that every family has its idiosyncrasies and foibles? Each family offers a different flavor when it comes holiday meals and functions — or should we say dysfunctions, lol?!

I love the unabashed honesty and admirable accountability with which Corina shares all that went wrong at some major family events and how to make things right for the future. I would bet money that many of us have experienced in some way what Corina details in her memoir this week!

Thanks for reminding us that we go through real trials, disappointment and loss — and can come out on the other side of it with individuation, wisdom and still… so much love. I hope you feel seen and less alone like I did reading Corina’s poignant memoir!

“The Thanksgiving that Divided Me” by Corina Yen

Corina Yen is a product designer and a writer. Driven by her empathy and curiosity for people, she has designed software ranging from healthcare apps to business tools to self-driving cars. She co-wrote two books about design, Creative Confidence and The Man Who Lied to His Laptop, and now writes creative nonfiction. She recently moved from San Francisco to New York, and loves the creative energy of the city and is doing a lot of walking. You can find Corina on IG @lilacorina.

The reason Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday is also often the reason it’s fraught—it brings together the people I love.

Thanksgiving is the one holiday my family consistently celebrated while I grew up, a puzzling choice for my Chinese immigrant parents. We barely acknowledged Lunar New Year and usually vacationed during Christmas, flying the day of for cheaper airfare. Whether due to aspirations to assimilate into our very white Connecticut suburb or because it’s oriented around eating (our favorite pastime), every Thanksgiving we spent at home as a family—my parents, my siblings, and me.

My mom would cook the whole day, a strictly traditional menu of bone-dry turkey, roasted chestnut stuffing, cranberry sauce made with the recipe on the Ocean Spray bag, and a ready-to-bake Marie Callender's pumpkin pie. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade played on the TV, and my dad remained on call for one last grocery run for forgotten ingredients. My mom usually was behind schedule, in part because she insisted on huge, plus-20-pound Butterball turkeys (for visual effect and to ensure we’d have leftovers). There were some close calls, but as long as my dad carved before midnight, it still counted as Thanksgiving dinner.

For the six years that John* and I dated before we got married, we never spent Thanksgiving together. When the leaves started to brown, I flew back east and he stayed in San Francisco. At first his absence was because my mom wanted the holiday kept to just us, but later it became personal. White and self-assured, John lacked the deference toward elders expected in Chinese culture. My mother bristled at his casual confidence with its whiff of defiance. Her disapproval grew with her perceptions of his self-interest where she expected self-sacrifice.

Their differences were more than just cultural. My mother and her moods dominated our family. Screaming fights ended in doors slammed shut, later reopened as if nothing had happened. She demanded things be done her way, including Thanksgiving, which is why the dishes and recipes remained the same even after my siblings and I took over the cooking. One year, a shouting match led to the compromise that my older sister put her herb butter beneath the skin on just the left side of the turkey, leaving the right one untouched. For my mother, tradition and being “right” was worth more than delicious turkey, than harmony, than my sister’s feelings.

While my father, my siblings, and I largely bowed to my mother’s wishes, John did not. At dinner with my parents, he took the last piece of crab off the platter on the Lazy Susan without offering it to others first. Once while he was driving us, my mom and I got into a heated argument. He abruptly pulled over, and when she ordered that he continue on, he refused unless we stopped yelling, which we did, both stunned into silence.

After we got married, John announced we should celebrate our holidays together, and he did not mean with my family. I nodded my acquiescence despite the knots in my stomach and later called my mom. After a few minutes of small talk, I told her I would not be home for Thanksgiving, my attempt at a calm, matter-of-fact tone sounding strained. “Why not?” she asked coldly. For the previous 32 years of my life, we had been together on Thanksgiving, despite college, living across the country, and my and my siblings’ relationships. “This year I’m going to stay with John,” I said quietly. There was a pause. “Okay,” she said and hung up. I didn’t mention the call to John.

That first Thanksgiving foreshadowed a recurring conflict, times I felt caught between John and my mom, accusations lobbed about who I put first, who I loved more. For years I tried to make both sides happy, to not let anyone down, as if I could magically reconcile the expectations of what family meant to my mom with what it meant to him. For both of them, my love was a zero-sum game, one that I always lost.

John and I are now divorced, and I’m in a new relationship. This time I’m unwilling to choose between the family I came from and the one I am building. It’s yet to be seen what’s possible, but I continue to work on my part. I try to love my mother without conceding to everything that she wants, to accept her limitations and stand up for what I need despite them. In my relationship, I try to talk openly about my family, both their importance in my life and our issues.

I’m bringing my boyfriend to Thanksgiving. It will be the first holiday we celebrate together with my family. I’ve talked to him about what to expect and whether he should make his popovers. We also discussed boundaries and contingency plans if we need to leave.

When my parents first invited us, I didn’t respond right away. I sat with the question for a few weeks, felt waves of worry and anxiety over what could go wrong, who might get hurt. But when I said out loud to my boyfriend, “Yes, I want to spend Thanksgiving with my family,” it felt right. By being all together, not shielding the people I love from each other, I might make myself whole.

* This name has been changed for privacy.

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“One of my best friends is Korean, and we often drink Solomon’s Seal cha at her house. I treasure our friendship, built over countless hours of talking on her couch, holding our mugs of teas.” - Corina Y.

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