Thanksgiving Escapism

As the final leaves of autumn cling to their branches in fierce determination and November inches to a close, I take the time to rest, enjoy quiet moments with my family, and embrace all of the joys the year has brought me. Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, so much so that I celebrate it twice: once in September when Mabon fills my home with the rich scents of baking bread and roasting butternut squash, then again in November as the American tradition claims the last week before December.

Being a (newly minted) practicing witch, I find myself caught in a strange liminal zone. Samhain (Halloween) marked the Witch’s New Year, but our modern calendars won’t roll over for another two months. Add that to the heavy density of holidays that force many of us to treat the entire month of December like a vacation, and it starts to feel like the year ends every month in the final quarter. But in some ways, I think this suits autumn. The world is ending all around us in bits and pieces, only to be reborn as we keep pushing onward. It is during this time of year that we realize how mortal we are, and how many of our big priorities are built on shaky ground and misunderstandings. As we strip away the old paint and sand down the lives we’ve handcrafted, we start to find new value underneath, and we learn what’s really important to us.

This week, as I look back on the winding path I’ve followed not only this year, but in every year of my life leading up to this moment, I find myself rereading old drafts and short stories. I know for many Thanksgiving is not a time of gratitude, but of fear and anxiety, stress made worse by family members who refuse to see eye to eye. I’ve always wanted to take those hardships and find a way to ignite a flickering flame of hope and joy inside them. I think happiness forged directly in spite of pain is some of the most powerful joys we can experience.

The following four page short story dives into that sensation. So, whether you are grateful for loved ones surrounding you, or grateful Thanksgiving dinner is only once a year, I hope you’ll accept this offering of vindictive joy. If nothing else, let it be wish fulfillment.

Stay strong. I for one am grateful you are here.

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Photo by Jed Owen on Unsplash

Thanks Given

When all the guests are settled at the table, and your mother-in-law has cut the turkey, and Susan and Jillian have helped her distribute the meat and cranberry sauce and other messy, warm, delicious foods that you and your sister Catherine slaved over for hours in you late father’s, now Catherine’s tiny kitchen — then, you can take a sip of the wine in your glass and hope it settles you. It won’t, of course, not before Susan insists on saying grace and your daughter Emily expresses a rare moment of obedience and folds her hands together to thank the lord neither of you have thought about in years. You’re a second too late in steeple-ing your hands, distracted by your thoughts, and your mother-in-law notices with sharp, hawk eyes.

Emily throws in a “Let’s eat!” while the last breaths of “Amen” are in the air, and you flash her your own hawk eyes for forgetting her manners, because now the whole table thinks you’ve raised a barbarian, and she’s embarrassing you. Not that you need any help on that front. Jillian reminds you all in her sweet pastor’s daughter voice — the same pastor who, you’d like to say, has never had more than one chip from AA and who’s always had more than one bed to slink into — that it’s tradition to go around the table and give thanks for something before you eat. Emily rolls her eyes and smiles around a mouthful of turkey. You flash silent warnings and pleas at her, and then take a longer sip of your wine, traditions be damned.

Jillian is thankful for the blessed year she’s had and her adorable niece and nephew. The little boy beside Susan stares sullenly at his heaping plate, but keeps his hands in his lap. Emily has her elbows on the table. Susan’s husband, Brent, is thankful for his family and ruffles the tiny brown head of hair. He’s also thankful the Eagles aren’t in the Super Bowl because it means he can eat at the table instead of in the living room. He’s joking, and you all laugh as politeness requires. The little boy, Beau, is thankful that the pilgrims and the Indians — Native Americans, sweetie — Naive Americans shared their food today.

You look at Emily while Susan thanks every person she’s ever met - by name. Your daughter was once a sweet little girl with hands folded in her lap and blonde curls pinned back with a tasteful barrette. Not so long ago, she repeated what she’d learned by heart was the correct response — to be thankful for the existence of Thanksgiving, because children can’t be trusted to be thankful on their own or else they’ll be thankful for toys or thankful they were allowed to come to Thanksgiving even when they were grounded. Right now Emily should be thankful she’s allowed at the table with her bright blue hair and her multiple ear piercings. It’s not that you don’t approve, but you can feel the rest of the table whispering about it with their eyes, wondering if this is a result of a lack of discipline and if Henry should have a firmer hand in raising your daughter. But Emily is an adult by all technicality, and she insists on proving how little she cares about the tension you call familial bonds.

Amy, your mother-in-law, is thankful you can all be together like this, because back in her day, something something and a veiled jab at you. Emily smiles wider than the rest, and you get the horrible sinking in your stomach that always comes when she flashes her teeth like that. ‘Please,’ you beg her with your eyes, ‘leave it alone. Just be polite.’ But she gives you that ‘Don’t worry, Mom, I’ve got this,’ look that tells you she’s going to do just the opposite.

You take another hard sip of the wine and hope everyone’s too distracted by Amy’s “What a shame Henry isn’t here, but I am thankful he’s working again after the accident,” to notice. The accident was a drunken fall down the stairs that nearly broke his neck, making him thankful he isn’t paralyzed. You still haven’t decided how to feel about it.

Catherine is thankful that both families can be together like this. You and her are the only ones left on your side, and it’s so wonderful that everyone can bond over the children that unite your bloodlines. Catherine is perhaps the only earnest person in the room, but you can’t help thinking she’ll be less happy about the children once yours opens its mouth.

Emily is thankful, too, that everyone can be together like this in a setting of love and that no matter what, family ties will hold you all together. (She’s lying through her almost-white teeth, and you’re torn between telling her to brush more often and to stop whatever it is she’s about to say.) In fact — she stands — she has an announcement she’d like to make to the family.

You want to glare her into silence, but you stop. Her hand trembles where she lifts her first family wine glass. You remember why you’re here. You’re her mother, and though you fret over her choices, God be damned if you won’t defend her from whatever, and whomever, you can. If she wants to tell everyone what she’s done, then you’ll support her, whether you like it or not. So you smile at her. You see the flicker of pleased surprise in her blue eyes and know you’ve done the right thing.

“I have a girlfriend.”

This is not what you were prepared for.

Susan gasps in horror, Jillian tears up and then sobs. Brent looks uncomfortable and little Beau is confused as his mother gives Emily the filthiest look imaginable and covers her son’s ears. Amy is silent, fiery judgement, glaring at both you and your daughter.

Catherine glances around the table, not sure what to say, while Emily looks proud of herself. That is, until she turns to you, eyes searching for a reaction, and finds you simply lost in the unexpectedness of it all. You don’t know what your face looks like, but you see uncertainty, fear, and then hurt filter through your daughter’s eyes, and it sets off something within you, rebooting your maternal instincts as she says, “Mom?”

“I thought you were going to talk about school,” you say. Emily’s expression becomes guarded.

“You said not to.”

Your heart breaks and you can’t help saying, “I didn’t expect you to listen to me,” as you reach a hand out to take your daughter’s. You’ve been unfair, you realize. Too stressed by the reuniting of people you can hardly stand and projecting that frustration on the person who matters most. With a soft smile and a gentle squeeze to the hand as an apology, you ask her, “What’s her name?”

“What?”

“Your girlfriend. What’s her name?”

Emily smiles, but Amy jumps in before she can answer you. “It’s that university you chose for her,” she says as if the truth were passed unto her from on high. “I warned you it was too liberal. First it’s a liberal school, then it’s a music degree, and now look at what you’ve done to her. She’s got blue hair and lesbianism!”

You snort, then laugh, just a little. Lesbianism. You stand up beside your daughter and wave at your sister Catherine, who waves back, still looking confused, but smiling. You promise to meet her on Sunday for tea.

“Just so you know,” Emily says to Amy, curling her hand tight around yours, “I dropped out of college. I’m joining a band.”

And there it is, but as Amy turns purple and Susan tries to murder you both with her eyes, you find you can’t even be frustrated with your daughter for upsetting the snowflake-fragile peace. At least not right now, as she stands up to the woman in a way you never could. You feel a warm flush of pride in her for that.

On the way out of the house, as the family gossip starts even before you’ve left their sights, you ask Emily, “What do you think? McDonald's, or Burger King?”