By the time Thanksgiving descends upon Manhattan like a slow-moving swarm of bees, New York has already begun preparing for Christmas. That’s just the way this city rolls: It’s always looking forward, moving forward, but never back.
All the shops have begun blasting Christmas classics and decorating their windows with ornate holiday displays and decorations. Madison and Fifth Avenue have basically transformed into pageantry. Walking down either requires pushing through a sea of tourists huddled together in some form of a demented hug, stopping every five seconds to ooh and aah at the twinkling lights and the gold velvet ribbons. It’s all a little too camp, just like New York itself.
Central Park, on the other hand, grows widely understated and reserved to the point of sheepish. The trees are naked and frail, blushing as they lower their branches to cover their crotches. The damp slew of mud that lines the Reservoir and the Bridle Path like papier-mâché is covered in fallen leaves, peppering the ground with color and texture. It’s larger than life, by far the closest natural habitat to grace the concrete.
In other ways, it’s just a collection of quiet moments. An elderly couple sits on a bench in front of a statue of three bronze bears and watches the children play on a nearby swing set. A group of teenage girls picnic on the lawn, giggling to themselves as they pass a single cigarette back and forth like a game of telephone. And a near-invisible photographer, dressed in black leather, captures it all, as he hums the melodies of Leonard Cohen, close enough to his chest that only he can hear.
Central Park is the only location in all of New York where a person can really hear their thoughts echoed back to them. So, naturally, it’s where I retreat the morning of Thanksgiving.
Leila and I have plans to treat ourselves to Mr. Chow later tonight, a fancy Chinese restaurant on Fifty-Seventh Street that’s filled with tapestries, fancy clientele, and servers wearing bow ties who refuse to take your plate until you’ve eaten every last bite of the food you ordered. We’re going to stuff ourselves until we have to unbutton our jeans and then attempt to sneak into Dear Evan Hansen. Attendance will likely be considerably low on Thanksgiving.
I make my way down the park, toward the exit. I pass the tiny gazebo on the top of a mountain made of rock formations and stop briefly at the boat pond filled with tiny, motorized sailboats to stare at the big metal Alice in Wonderland statue I used to attempt to climb as a kid. No matter how many times I’d get close to making it to the top, I’d always slide back down. But for some reason, I’d keep on trying. I never learned. Then I make my way through the Central Park Zoo to wave to the sea lions that populate that tiny roundabout tank.
I check my phone to see what time it is. A quarter to 4:00. I still have a little time before I need to meet Leila at home; she had a few errands to run before our dinner.
Taking a seat on one of the benches lining the zoo walkway, I wait for the clock to hit the hour. When it does, a familiar tune begins to play, slightly squeaking like the sounds of an old jewelry box, the kind beholden to a ballerina. As the melody unfolds, the brass zoo animals that greet pedestrians as they enter and exit the zoo begin to dance in a mechanical circle, as if animating for the very first time.
As a child, I was entranced by their performance, begging my parents to wait, even for a just a few more minutes, so I could watch them jive around. But the clock strikes 4:01 p.m. and the minute passes. It’s over. As if it never happened in the first place.
I collect pine cones as I walk. They’re scattered all over the grass. Sometimes, if I see a particularly shapely cone, I’ll hop a fence or veer a little off course so I can grab it before it gets crushed under the weight of another man’s boot. I figure that if I collect enough, I can use it to create a centerpiece or some kind of decor for Leila’s home. A small gesture to say, Thank you for putting up with me over the past six months. Will you except this autumnal offering as an apology?
Once I place enough in my purse, I notice several of the cones are crawling with tiny critters. I sigh and consider dumping them all out. But a few seconds later, I opt instead to just bring them home with me. Who knows? Maybe they’ll prefer Chinatown to the Upper East Side.
I make my way back downtown and up the stairs of Leila’s walk-up. I barely make it up two flights before I pause to listen. There’s a sound murmuring from a couple floors up; it sounds like Iranian music, the kind my parents would play for us when I was a kid. The inflections of the singers’ voices bounce off the walls of the stairwell and fill my chest with warmth, fullness. I run the rest of the steps and burst into the apartment.
Leila is standing in the middle of her kitchen with Willow. They’re both cloaked in their matching art history–themed aprons and covered in a white powder I hope to God is flour.
Behind them is a never-ending buffet of American foods: yams, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie. There’s even a massive turkey, which appears to be accompanied by none other than fesenjoon, my favorite khoresht.
I feel my eyes begin to well up with tears. It’s a Middle Eastern American Thanksgiving hybrid, the first of its kind. And it’s beautiful.
“Lei…” My voice trails off as I try to articulate how I’m feeling.
At the sound of her name, Leila looks up from concentrating on her stuffing and breaks out into a ginormous grin. Willow puts her arm around her and gives her a kiss on the cheek.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” Leila yells, running toward me and pulling me tightly into her chest. “I know this isn’t really our thing, but I figured that after the past few months, we could both use a little celebrating.”
“I also helped convince her,” Willow adds, pulling me in for a hug as well. “You know she isn’t really all that into tradition, are you, babe?”
They peck quickly, and my heart sings with adoration for my little unconventional family.
“My only complaint is that there’s no way we’re going to be able to eat all this food.”
I take in the feast that they’ve prepared. There’s barely enough room in the apartment for it! Leila’s had to open all the windows to let the heat out and has covered each and every surface, from the coffee table to the entryway vanity, in treats. If it weren’t for the pungent smell of Chinese cooking, I’m sure I would have sniffed it from the sidewalk.
“Maybe we can donate the leftovers to a soup kitchen or a shelter?”
“Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Leila says, a flicker of mischief in her eyes. I watch as her gaze moves from coy to confused as she spots the dents in my purse. “What have you got there?”
“This?” I suddenly feeling like a total loser. Leila spent this entire day cooking for me, and I thought a couple of pine cones could make up for what a massive bonehead I’ve been. “I went for a walk in Central Park, and, um, thought it might be nice to collect some pine cones. I thought I could make, like, a festive decoration for the apartment and present it to you as a gift. You know, since I’ve been such a pain in your ass over the past few months.”
Leila pokes around in my bag and pulls out the cones. Amused, she begins arranging them in different shapes on the kitchen counter.
“They’re perfect!” she says. “We’ll make them into little centerpieces for the food. Just like the Pilgrims!”
“I think you might need a little history refresher there,” Willow says. “Our weird, wonky Thanksgiving will pay tribute to the Indigenous. We’ll all say a prayer before eating our dinner. And include a moment of silence in their honor.”
Leila nods in agreement.
Then the doorbell rings. I look up, surprised.
“Did you order takeout or Postmates wine or something?”
Willow shakes her head, and Leila shrugs. Confused, I go to open the door.
“Happy Thanksgiving!!!” Saffron shrieks, handing me a bottle of sparkling cider. Their partner, a skinny, pale, band person dressed in a baseball cap and New Balance sneakers, trails behind them.
I stand still, in shock.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were mad at me!”
“Your sister called and invited me to Thanksgiving, silly.” They help themself into the kitchen and start looking for glasses. “I wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to experience a real Iranian American holiday now, was I?”
I inch toward Saffron as they pull out the cork of their cider and begin passing around drinks. They move with so much enthusiasm and charisma, I can’t help but smile. Their partner nestles into the couch, pulls out their phone, and begins watching soccer. I shuffle forward until I’m close enough to whisper.
“I’ve been such a selfish bitch,” I tell them.
“I know.” They turn around and kiss the top of my forehead.
“And a bad friend.”
“I know.”
“I ended things with Cal.”
They look up at me then, concerned. “Okay, I didn’t know that. Good. He was a sack of shit.”
“I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”
“Let’s not focus on regret. There’s no amount of regret that can change the past. It’s Thanksgiving and we’re together, for fucks sake! Let’s focus on being thankful in the present.”
We clink glasses, link arms, and chug our ciders, before Leila announces that the food is ready. She and Willow have arranged everything buffet style, so participants can help themselves to whatever they’d like from a series of different spots throughout the apartment, including above the toilet and on top of Leila’s bedroom dresser.
As we’re shoveling food onto our plates, I teach Saffron about the basic principles of taarof. It’s a concept of civility that doesn’t directly translate to English, but the crux of it is this: You must offer someone something three times, and they must decline all three times before you accept their no verbatim. On the receiving end, you must turn down said offer three times before saying what you really mean. It’s like a dance, or a game of chicken—the first person to blink has to endure the suffocating hospitality of the other.
I had to save Saffron several times from being forced to eat way, way too much mashed potatoes.
Once we’re all seated on Leila’s couch—aka, my bed—we go around and perform Sepasgozarim, or Sepas for short, a round-robin of blessings that entails telling a short story from the past year, listing all that you’re grateful for, and saying a short prayer. Leila goes first. She shares that she’s most grateful to have found a new job from which she is able to derive purpose, one she looks forward to waking up and going to every morning. She also adds that her lowest point this year was when she was most afraid of losing the apartment and blesses all who helped her to make ends meet during that difficult period. I tear up listening to her talk about asking neighboring restaurants if she could take their leftover food that they would normally throw out, to eat for dinner. I had no idea it had ever gotten that bad. I guess I never really stopped to ask, but I wish I could go back and listen.
Willow goes next. She says she’s grateful to have met Leila, who opened her eyes to a world of spontaneity, adventure, and inspiration that had been closed off to her because of her rigid work ethic. (Willow has a rigid work ethic? Wow, I really should have made more of an effort to get to know her better. I guess I’ve been too focused on Vinyl to spend time with her one-on-one.) She blesses her new family, our family, for welcoming her with open arms and teaching her all about a brand-new culture she knew so little about. Her speech ends with her kissing Leila’s hand and whispering, “I love you.”
Something about the specific shade of red that Leila’s face turns tells me this is her first time hearing it—perhaps ever.
Saffron follows suit. They talk about how grateful they are to still have a job after everything that’s happened at SPP over the past six months. Then they go off on a tangent, thanking their partner for agreeing to skip their family’s Thanksgiving to be with them instead. Apparently, Saffron’s mother’s side of the family has banned them from spending holidays at home because they believe their gender identity conflicts with Catholicism and are too concerned the entire house will either burn in hell or be burned down in real time by Satan. So Saffron has been spending holidays with their chosen family for the past five years instead.
I had no clue their relationship with half their family was still so strained. We spent so much time talking about the Vinyl family that I guess their own never came up. As I sink into the couch, listening, I think about all I still don’t know about Saffron. Everything I still want to find out, all the questions I have yet to ask, all the stories I’m dying to hear—if they’ll let me.
And then it’s my turn. I think long and hard about my own Sepas.
I’m obviously grateful for Leila, for putting a roof over my head and a bed to crawl into when my anxiety is keeping me up at night and haunting each shadow in the walls.
I couldn’t have gotten through the past few months without Saffron, who talked me through so many decisions, both good and bad. Who literally found me sprawled out in a closet and brought me back to consciousness. Who literally saved my life.
As the words of my blessing begin to pour out of me, I realize there’s still one person left to thank, for every opportunity I’ve been given. The person who took a chance on me, who helped me to force my foot in the door. I wouldn’t be a published columnist right now—C. Bates wouldn’t even exist—if not for her. I have to face it: She made my dreams come true, even if the reality of that dream looked more like a nightmare.
Now she’s in hiding. Her phone is turned off, and her email passwords have been changed. Meanwhile, the rumor mill continues to circulate daily headlines—she’s committed suicide. No, she’s run away and moved to Australia! Actually, I heard a pretty convincing tale that she’d been the target of an intervention and forced to attend a rehabilitative retreat in Arizona, the kind that lasts a month and requires completely cutting yourself off from the outside world.
I laugh, thinking of Loretta in a robe and slippers instead of combat boots, her white roots peeking out beneath her firecracker-red hair.
Then it hits me: I know what I have to do.
“Guys, I need to run out, but I promise I’ll be back by dessert,” I tell the table. “There’s somewhere I need to be.”