Getting Over Thanksgiving

When I was a kid, I loved Thanksgiving. Several important events marked the day. First, my family and I would watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in the morning, my mom interrupting her viewing to regularly baste the turkey. Next, we’d watch Miracle on 34^th Street, the film that used to follow the parade broadcast that has now been replaced by the National Dog Show. Then, football would take over the airwaves and my dad would settle into his recliner for a long stay. Mom would call us for dinner in the afternoon (sometimes it was just my mom, dad, and brother; other times, extended family were included at the table). After dinner, we’d all find a place to let our stomachs distend, some on the couch, Dad back in his recliner, and we’d wait for It’s A Wonderful Life to appear on NBC in the evening.

In all, it was a nice day. When I think of those days, I remember feeling crisp morning frost, smelling turkey in the oven, and listening to the parade. It was a day that engaged all my senses, especially those of taste. Turkey itself wasn’t all that interesting to me, but gravy erupting from mashed potato volcanoes suited me just fine. And I loved fondling the ridges in the cranberry jelly that was freshly plopped from the can.

The first time I spent Thanksgiving away from home, I was in London, studying literature. The program I was enrolled in offered its American students Thanksgiving dinner as a treat to keep us from being homesick, but it was a pretty bland affair. Potatoes were replaced by parsnips and pumpkin pie wasn’t even on the menu. Luckily for me, my English grandmother had introduced me to plum pudding as a kid or I wouldn’t have had a clue what that flaming mass of raisin loaf was all about.

Another Thanksgiving away from home also stands out. In graduate school, I visited a friend in Tucson for the holiday. She took me to the Saguaro National Park where I learned that I am allergic to saguaro cacti. Several doses of Benadryl later, my friend took me to a colleague’s home for our Thanksgiving meal. A little dopey on antihistamines, I thoroughly enjoyed my first Thanksgiving in shorts. I’d never experienced a warm Thanksgiving, and it was nice to eat outdoors without long underwear and a parka. After dinner, we all piled into the living room to watch the annual (at the time) Thanksgiving episode of Friends. After 30 minutes of hilarity, our host decided to switch gears and treat us to the adult film channel. Because…..Thanksgiving is a time to be thankful for porn? I’m still puzzled over the host’s decision, but whatever. It wasn’t my house.

Since then, I’ve spent most of my Thanksgivings away from home, and I’ve come away from each one feeling a little empty and sad. Sure, I’ve had hosts who were gracious with their time, space, and food, but the feeling just isn’t the same. I’ve even tried volunteering at a local church which serves a community Thanksgiving dinner, but I left there more depressed than ever.

I’ve spent a considerable amount of time wondering why Thanksgiving has me feeling so low, and I think there are a few reasons.

First, now that I’m older, I have pretty mixed feelings about the role of the American Indian in our country’s history. Celebrating a day that was the beginning of the end for many indigenous peoples feels pretty uncomfortable. I’ve always enjoyed the television show Northern Exposure’s take on the day. In Sicily, Alaska on Thanksgiving, native Alaskans throw tomatoes at the white people. And the white people take it as a compliment, calling out, “Thanks!” and offering up big smiles. This seems like a healthy way to acknowledge that what happened in our past still informs us now, and we’ve come to some kind of happy medium with our discomfort.

Second, I’m a vegetarian, so the main dish, turkey, is of no importance to me. Of course I’ve celebrated Thanksgiving where turkey was nowhere in sight; in fact, last year’s meal featured bear meat. It does feel pretty weird how jacked everyone seems to get about turkeys this time of year, and I’ve read all kinds of horror stories about how turkeys are bred now to have larger breasts, preventing the males from naturally mating with the females, in some cases. To me, it’s just another sign that the American public is obsessed with breast size.

Third, my husband is Austrian and did not grow up with the tradition of Thanksgiving, so he’s pretty blasé about the occasion. We’ve attended a few festive, turkey-ed up affairs, and I think he enjoyed himself, but he wasn’t wetting his pants over it. I showed him a few of my favorite Thanksgiving flicks, Hannah and her Sisters, Dutch, and Home for the Holidays, and while he laughed at the appropriate places, I could tell he could take it or leave it.

At first, I thought my aversion to Thanksgiving as an adult was a reaction to not seeing my family on the day. And that’s probably a huge part of the day’s overall sadness for me, but I don’t feel similarly about Christmas. I haven’t spent Christmas with my family for years, and we’re all okay about that. When my brother and I graduated from college, Christmas changed, and we all had to learn to make new traditions. At first, we tried tweaking the old traditions, then we threw out the old traditions to try something new, and now, my family is in a good place where the spirit of Christmas isn’t celebrated so much on the day as it is every time we are fortunate enough to spend time together in person. Basically, we all had to do some emotional homework to get over what we thought was sacred about Christmas day.

I miss my family during Thanksgiving, but I mostly I miss what can never be replaced or re-enacted. Thanksgiving will never smell, taste, or sound like it did when I was a kid, and I think, after many years, I’m finally ready to give up trying to reignite those feelings.

So this year, I’ll stop pretending. I’ll stop pretending I’m fine that Thanksgiving will never be the same as it was when I was a kid.

So what will I do instead? I’ll definitely take a few moments on the day to give thanks for my many blessings, and we’ll Skype my family to say hello, but I’ll give in to the feelings of sadness and homesickness, letting it wash over me until, like Christmas day, I get over it.