Welp, it’s that time of year again, the time where we conveniently forget about how our ancestors killed a bunch of people give thanks for what we have. I never used to care about Thanksgiving. I only liked getting to dress up as a Native American in grade school, which at the time felt like I was honoring my people. Then, as an adult, I took a DNA test and realized I’m genetically much more pilgrim. Of course every white family from Kentucky is convinced they have indigenous ancestry, which is why we thought costumes like this were a good idea.
Sketchy history of the holiday aside, Thanksgiving wasn’t really a thing I cared about as a child, aside from my retrospectively racist costume choices. I never liked turkey unless it’s drowned in ketchup. I never liked stuffing or cranberry sauce or any of the other traditional fixings. I still don’t like football, despite the Lions and Taylor Swift trying their damnedest to make me care about it this year. And to be honest, going to see family wasn’t really all that to me. I didn’t have any kid relatives save for a few cousins, but they were younger than me and kind of tight-knit with each other. What I’m saying is I would have rather been at home playing Pokémon or something.
My family doesn’t meet for Thanksgiving like we used to, and it’s kind of a shame, because now I’m finally at an age where I would actually appreciate it. My coworkers are all Arab-American, and I often listen with envy as they discuss their families. In their culture, family comes before everything else, and siblings and even cousins stay close well into adulthood. Our family used to be like that, but ever since my grandmother passed away several years ago, we kind of…fractured. I’m very close with my parents, probably closer than most adults are with their parents, but it all falls apart if you go out any further than that. I call my sister maybe twice a year, I haven’t talked to my brother in ages, and my cousins and I will “like” each other’s statuses once in a while. That’s about it, though.
On holidays like Thanksgiving, I feel like I’m missing something. I visit my wife’s family, and I love them to death, but part of me misses the loud, rowdy Southern charm my biological family had. I remember everyone sitting in Grandma’s living room cracking jokes and talking shit, back when I was too young to fully embrace what was happening. I regret taking those days for granted, but I was just a child then. I didn’t know that kind of thing didn’t last forever. I thought we’d be celebrating holidays in Grandma’s house with all my aunts and uncles and cousins until the day I died. It’s all over now — my cousin watching NASCAR in the middle bedroom, my grandma cooking lard-drenched but delicious homecooked meals, my uncle eating the nasty cheeseball he brought for Christmas every year. It’s nothing more than memories.
I know chosen family is a huge deal, especially in the queer circles I’m a part of, but I feel like I’ll always be missing out on something by not being close to my blood family. It’s not too late; things can change. Maybe I just need to be the one to initiate it. Maybe I need to call my sister more. Maybe I need to make amends with my brother. Maybe I should meet with my cousins IRL someday. I can’t make things the way they were when I was a kid, but I can start something new.
If you happen to be close to your blood relatives, never take that for granted. It’s such a gift to have a close relationship with the family you were born into. And if you’re like me and not as close to your family, I hope you find your chosen family to spend days like these with. Be thankful for the people you have in your life and the time you spend together, because someday, it may be little more than a distant memory.
JESSA JOYCE 