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My Family Is a Lot of Fun on Thanksgiving
Scenes from last year’s Turkey Day
“I am a brother. I am a son. I am the giblets.” This is what I whispered to myself before napkins were tossed on the table in surrender.
Thanksgiving dinner conversation had turned into the kind of silly thought game I imagine families played long ago, before computers or television or vaccines. Back when America was, allegedly, great and no one talked about politics or religion in mixed or familiar company because everyone agreed that talking about politics or religion was vulgar and best left to rude people who weren’t polite enough to suffer persecution and discrimination in silence and, if possible, far from sight.
Up until this part of the meal, I had been making lots of eye contact and expressing complete thoughts, and otherwise participating in sustained social interaction. I am a brother. I am a son. I am a fully functional human being.
We tried, at first, to go around the table and, one by one, give thanks. A little ritual before passing the casseroles. That is, after all, the point of the holiday. That is the whole reason the dinner exists. Mom spoke for all of us, thanking the usual suspects. The Fantastic Four: Family. Friends. Food. Family, again? Fun? Um, Fresca? There is a fourth “F.” I forget what it is. The boyfriend tried…
