A Gnarly Frown Thanksgiving

by Molly Smyles, Contributor

Illustration by Naiya Patel-Kapka

My distaste for Thanksgiving, a prominent feeling throughout my adolescence, has stemmed from a myriad of sources at one time or another—hatred for green bean casserole, annoyance with the insatiable American appetite, and, of course, irritation with my relatives—but this year there has been a fundamental shift in my negative feelings toward the holiday. 

Complaints about Thanksgiving tend to follow a common format. The names are different, sure, and the families are of varying sizes, and this person flew and this person drove and this person parked their sorry self right on their living room sofa, but in the end everyone fucking hates at least one of their relatives. Maybe they’re racist, or transphobic, or good old-fashioned narcissistic, but there’s certain to be at least one of them. This is the person who causes you to drag your feet as you walk in the door. This is the person whose hug you unsuccessfully dodge. This is the person you brought up when you tried to convince your mother to let your family stay home last year, only to be met with a “No, we only see these people once or twice a year, and it’s only going to be a couple of hours. Grow up.”

I listened. I grew up, and in doing so, I became the person I don’t want to see at the table. This year, I am the problem because I can never truly go home again.

When I went home for fall break, there was something that felt deeply amiss. I spent a stupid amount of time trying to figure out just what felt so goddamn weird before it finally hit me: I was behaving toward my family the same way I behave toward relatives I don’t like. I was withholding even the most insignificant details about my activities, my friends, and myself. 

What I naively realized is that even the family I deemed safe—my mother, my little sister, and my uncle—can never be involved in my life to the same degree they used to be ever again. The relationships we now have will be pruned away as I continue to spend the majority of my life away from our little universe, becoming a person they do not know. If I can’t trust my mother enough to tell her that I went to a party, how can I expect her to understand that I’m barely certain of my own identity? I can send simple messages into the stars all I want, whispering Hello, are you there?, but there is an astronomical separation I cannot overcome. I’m afraid that in peppering my family with white lies I was unconsciously preparing myself for the day when I am truly a stranger in my own home.

In some sense, going home gnawed at the connection more than starting college did. I fell into a crushing depression shortly after school started, and I began to idealize life at home. There was nothing I wanted more than to return to the protective bubble of my house, with its alluring sense of timelessness and innocence. After actually returning, though, it was far easier to sense what I had gained at Oberlin and to realize that I had conflated torpor with safety. The complete and utter stagnancy I experienced throughout high school was extremely damaging to me, and I hate that I was so close to giving into its persuasions.

I have so much here: friends I adore wholeheartedly; consistent bursts of creative energy after a period of drought; the ability to be openly queer for the first time. Most importantly, I think, is that I’m truly excited about living. How can I ever go back home big-smiled and willing now that I see my time there for what it was?

So even amid the gluttony and the graying creeps in golf sweaters and the sacrifices to the god of CTE, I am, in the end, the real source of this year’s ritual hatred of Thanksgiving. In truth, I do loathe myself for it; it would be so easy to regress into the comfort of inaction, to fall back into my mother’s arms, and to forget college ever happened. In playing that game, though, I would be denying the fact that I am no longer the person I was at home. If there’s anything I’m thankful for this year, it’s that I’ve grown enough to be able to recognize my own growth. Maybe it is the beginning of the end, but I’m still going to have a slice of pie.