Around this time of year, eyewitnesses to childhood me recall how adamant I was that holidays be celebrated the “right” way, meaning whatever I learned from my white, US-American-focused school curriculum. My less ceremonially-inclined family was subjected to my seasonal whims of what should be: painting turkey handprints for Thanksgiving, dying eggs for Easter, even (and I cringe at this memory) reciting historical speeches on the Fourth of July. Even non-national holidays weren’t safe from my critical gaze. On my mom’s birthday (I was around five years old), I cried in shock that she wasn’t going to have a birthday cake with candles. With us children so upset, she made “herself” a pound cake with a bundt mold. There’s a photo of us gathered around the cake where I am greatly satisfied with the large red pillar candle (the only one in the house) lit in the center.

There was one area of celebrations where I didn’t solely adopt US-American culture: the meals served for the holidays. Yes, I was strangely enamored with box stuffing, and requested the “traditional” mashed potatoes and turkey. But just as traditional at our table were Ghanaian classics: rice, savory tomato stew, and roasted plantains. A cautious attempt at cranberry sauce sat side by side with the more reliable smoky chili sauce, shito. Deviled eggs received a kick of spices. This fusion was so normal to me, that it wasn’t until observing Thanksgiving with others that I realized, “Something is missing.” I gained a new curiosity for how multicultural and immigrant families assembled spreads for reunion cookouts in parks, birthdays, and holidays new to them.

Now that I set the menu for my own gatherings, I look to include dishes that: capture my diasporic interests, dance with flavor and texture, and feature recipes I’ve learned from friends. One recent addition reflects all the above: sobolo, a ruby red drink indigenous to Africa (sobolo is its Ghanaian name; it’s also known as zobo in Nigeria, bissap in Senegal, and sorrel in the Caribbean). The tangy beverage is created by steeping dried buds of the hibiscus plant with your choice of spices (ginger, cloves, cinnamon, grains of selim, pimiento), adding sweetener and a citrus note (orange, pineapple), and storing it in the fridge until flavors deepen. As I learned the history of this refreshing beverage, its significance at my table only grew.

Before the 1500s, Africans used hibiscus drinks for medicinal purposes, and when they were kidnapped from their homes and transported to the Americas, the flower’s seeds journeyed too. Hibiscus took root in plantations across Latin America, the Caribbean, and the southern United States. Amidst the brutality of life, enslaved Africans used sobolo and similar red drinks during celebrations. In fact, after enslaved black Texans learned in 1865 that they had been legally free for two years, red beverages and foods became associated with Juneteenth, a celebration of emancipation (however partial) from oppression. So imagine my delight as I again found sobolo as the drink jamaica in Honduras—a mark that my people came here, remembered, and created. How fitting that on my journey I would find a drink that stretches between the places where I have been and want to be.

As I grow, I wonder how much my childhood insistence on US-American customs was an attempt to recreate a seemingly idyllic Norman Rockwell painting of a large family gathering, which for a host of reasons we never got right. While the contents of my plate have changed, the hunger to find people to share it with hasn’t. Instead I am keenly aware of the need for inclusive feast days, where there aren’t assumptions about what family looks like. Where we don’t let the desire to recreate traditions prevent us from seeing each other. Where those who won’t be at “home” for whatever reason (by choice, immigration status, health, loss, lack of acceptance, etc) are not wandering outcasts explaining themselves, but rather finding a safe place to land.

When holidays don’t reflect our full selves, I hope we embrace the power to create our own feast days that marvel at the stories, relationships, and resiliencies gathered both on and around the table.

Comfort Sampong

Comfort Sampong’s heart is sparked by fried plantains, tropical foliage and the stories of women thriving and creating a way out of no way. She graduated in 2018 with majors in economics and international development. Now she lives in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, where she works on English communications for the Association for a More Just Society, a Honduran non-profit fighting for justice and peace.