Dear Uncle Samuel,
A friend from church to whom you offered her advice regarding a family difficulty suggested I write to you.
For the last ten years, my extended family has celebrated Thanksgiving in our home. Upwards of thirty people attend these gatherings, a number my house readily accommodates. During these occasions, we consume large amounts of food and drink, fuss over newborns and toddlers, and catch up on family news. After the meal, we flop into the sofas and chairs of the living room to nap, visit, and watch football.
Last year our Thanksgiving Day festivities occurred just after the election of President Trump. To put the case mildly, our normally convivial Thanksgiving dinner turned into a debacle.
A friend from church to whom you offered her advice regarding a family difficulty suggested I write to you.
For the last ten years, my extended family has celebrated Thanksgiving in our home. Upwards of thirty people attend these gatherings, a number my house readily accommodates. During these occasions, we consume large amounts of food and drink, fuss over newborns and toddlers, and catch up on family news. After the meal, we flop into the sofas and chairs of the living room to nap, visit, and watch football.
Last year our Thanksgiving Day festivities occurred just after the election of President Trump. To put the case mildly, our normally convivial Thanksgiving dinner turned into a debacle.
About half of my relatives pitch their tents in the Progressive camp, Hilary Clinton supporters then in deep shock and mourning over the loss of their candidate. The other half are staunch Conservatives, most of whom entered into the Thanksgiving celebration in celebratory spirits. (In the case of a few on both sides of the divide, those spirits included a healthy dose of Jim Bean on the rocks, beer, or various wines).
The first explosions came just before the meal when, as we usually do, we gathered in a circle, clasped hands, and told everyone what we were thankful for. All was going swimmingly until my nephew Ben, age fifteen, said he was thankful Donald Trump had won the presidency. Several in the circle glared at him, and when it was her turn, Ben’s cousin Andrea, one year his elder, stated in a trembling voice that she was too devastated by the election to be thankful for anything. I should have anticipated the gathering storm even then, but I was too busy beaming my appreciation at three-year-old Jack, who said he was thankful for “all the smells,” meaning the aroma of turkey and pies emanating from the kitchen.
Once we were eating, Dad asked his son-in-law Jim, husband to my sister Katie, why he was wearing a black armband. “I’m in mourning,” Jim replied. “I’m grieving the loss of our nation to Donald Trump.”
Dad, who is Grandpa to the younger crew gathered at these festivities, laughed. “Anybody but Hilary is fine by me.”
Before Jim could reply, my niece Sandra was shaking a turkey leg at her grandfather, spattering the tablecloth with grease and bits of meat. “Donald Trump is a f**king bastard,” she said. “A f**king disgrace to our country.” (I should add that Sandra has attended a public university these past three years, where such passion and language pass for debate). Deenie, my husband’s youngest sister and mother of Jack, asked Sandra to watch her language—there were children present—to which Sandra replied “I bet you voted for that fascist bastard too!”
Sandra’s mother started to correct her daughter’s language, but then Uncle Roy, the only blue-collar member of our group—he works as an auto mechanic at Roy’s Used Cars and Auto Repair—raised his hands. “You see these hands?” he said. “These are the hands of a worker. And Donald Trump is going to look out for workers. Hilary Clinton is looking out for the screw-ups.”
“Screw-ups like me, you mean?” Sandra said. When my niece becomes angry, a blush rises from her neck to her cheeks. Except for the tattoo of a rose on her throat, Sandra was the color of a fire engine.
“Only if you’re a screw-up.” Uncle Billy Bob swallowed another bite of turkey. “Which you are, if you voted for that twisted crook.”
That’s when all hell broke loose. At first, the arguments back and forth across the table were conducted in reasonable, if unnaturally, shrill tones, but then these became shouts so loud that the two babies began crying and little Jack—he’s sensitive—put his head to the table, covered his ears, and began weeping.
Aunt Josie, my brother’s wife and mother of Sandra, started crying too, not because of the table warfare but because she was suffering from what Bonner, her husband, called PESS (post election stress syndrome.) Bradley, my mom’s brother, wears a hearing aid, misunderstood Bonner’s comment, and said, “Well, piss on you too,” which caused Sandra to hurl one of the crescent rolls at him. Sandra played softball in high school and lifts weights four days a week, and the roll hit Bradley squarely between the eyes with a loud thwack! Though he caught himself before falling to the floor, Bart is a large man and his near tumble jiggled the table, which spilled Grandma’s full plate of food into her lap.
Then everyone was on their feet at the same time, shouting at one another, waving their arms, and making threats, with the exception of Grandpa, who was helping Grandma—the gravy had mildly scalded her thighs. Despite my entreaties and those of my husband, everyone began gathering up the food and drinks they had brought, glowering at one another, cursing, throwing on their coats, and heading for the door.
Now for my problem: Thanksgiving is three weeks away. No one has mentioned the event, and several members of our extended family haven’t spoken to one another for a year.
What should I do? Should I keep Thanksgiving a private affair this year with only immediate family in attendance? Or should I invite everyone and see who comes to the door?
Sincerely,
Anxious in Asheville
Dear Anxious in Asheville,
Thank you for your note.
Politics and religion are topics best avoided in such company. This dictum is especially true today, when for so many politics and religion are one and the same entity.
Several options are available.
You might do as you suggest and celebrate Thanksgiving with the immediate family. Such an event would mean less work for you and certainly less apprehension. This is the safest and most peaceful route.
Unfortunately, that choice might make permanent the barbed wire and walls now separating your family.
Should you wish to help dismantle these barricades, let me suggest that you immediately write a note to each family involved. Handwrite the notes—you may use a master copy for all of them—and go over the following:
First, point out politely that though last Thanksgiving was a family disaster, you want to see everyone at the table. You might hint at a chance for reconciliation.
Second, again politely, suggest that politics and religion, like elbows, should not appear on the table. This is a long-standing rule among many families, my own included.
Mention the importance of family. Politics, especially at such gatherings, should defer to blood.
Finally, close by saying that you hope to see everyone gather for Thanksgiving as usual.
Send the notes and see who responds. By now, Aunt Josie should be cured of PESS, Cousin Bart may have tweaked his hearing aid, and your mother’s thighs are surely mended.
Dispatching this note will allow your conscience to rest easy. You made an effort; you offered harmony; you did your duty. The worst that can come from your invitations is silence.
Sincerely yours,
Uncle Samuel
The first explosions came just before the meal when, as we usually do, we gathered in a circle, clasped hands, and told everyone what we were thankful for. All was going swimmingly until my nephew Ben, age fifteen, said he was thankful Donald Trump had won the presidency. Several in the circle glared at him, and when it was her turn, Ben’s cousin Andrea, one year his elder, stated in a trembling voice that she was too devastated by the election to be thankful for anything. I should have anticipated the gathering storm even then, but I was too busy beaming my appreciation at three-year-old Jack, who said he was thankful for “all the smells,” meaning the aroma of turkey and pies emanating from the kitchen.
Once we were eating, Dad asked his son-in-law Jim, husband to my sister Katie, why he was wearing a black armband. “I’m in mourning,” Jim replied. “I’m grieving the loss of our nation to Donald Trump.”
Dad, who is Grandpa to the younger crew gathered at these festivities, laughed. “Anybody but Hilary is fine by me.”
Before Jim could reply, my niece Sandra was shaking a turkey leg at her grandfather, spattering the tablecloth with grease and bits of meat. “Donald Trump is a f**king bastard,” she said. “A f**king disgrace to our country.” (I should add that Sandra has attended a public university these past three years, where such passion and language pass for debate). Deenie, my husband’s youngest sister and mother of Jack, asked Sandra to watch her language—there were children present—to which Sandra replied “I bet you voted for that fascist bastard too!”
Sandra’s mother started to correct her daughter’s language, but then Uncle Roy, the only blue-collar member of our group—he works as an auto mechanic at Roy’s Used Cars and Auto Repair—raised his hands. “You see these hands?” he said. “These are the hands of a worker. And Donald Trump is going to look out for workers. Hilary Clinton is looking out for the screw-ups.”
“Screw-ups like me, you mean?” Sandra said. When my niece becomes angry, a blush rises from her neck to her cheeks. Except for the tattoo of a rose on her throat, Sandra was the color of a fire engine.
“Only if you’re a screw-up.” Uncle Billy Bob swallowed another bite of turkey. “Which you are, if you voted for that twisted crook.”
That’s when all hell broke loose. At first, the arguments back and forth across the table were conducted in reasonable, if unnaturally, shrill tones, but then these became shouts so loud that the two babies began crying and little Jack—he’s sensitive—put his head to the table, covered his ears, and began weeping.
Aunt Josie, my brother’s wife and mother of Sandra, started crying too, not because of the table warfare but because she was suffering from what Bonner, her husband, called PESS (post election stress syndrome.) Bradley, my mom’s brother, wears a hearing aid, misunderstood Bonner’s comment, and said, “Well, piss on you too,” which caused Sandra to hurl one of the crescent rolls at him. Sandra played softball in high school and lifts weights four days a week, and the roll hit Bradley squarely between the eyes with a loud thwack! Though he caught himself before falling to the floor, Bart is a large man and his near tumble jiggled the table, which spilled Grandma’s full plate of food into her lap.
Then everyone was on their feet at the same time, shouting at one another, waving their arms, and making threats, with the exception of Grandpa, who was helping Grandma—the gravy had mildly scalded her thighs. Despite my entreaties and those of my husband, everyone began gathering up the food and drinks they had brought, glowering at one another, cursing, throwing on their coats, and heading for the door.
Now for my problem: Thanksgiving is three weeks away. No one has mentioned the event, and several members of our extended family haven’t spoken to one another for a year.
What should I do? Should I keep Thanksgiving a private affair this year with only immediate family in attendance? Or should I invite everyone and see who comes to the door?
Sincerely,
Anxious in Asheville
Dear Anxious in Asheville,
Thank you for your note.
Politics and religion are topics best avoided in such company. This dictum is especially true today, when for so many politics and religion are one and the same entity.
Several options are available.
You might do as you suggest and celebrate Thanksgiving with the immediate family. Such an event would mean less work for you and certainly less apprehension. This is the safest and most peaceful route.
Unfortunately, that choice might make permanent the barbed wire and walls now separating your family.
Should you wish to help dismantle these barricades, let me suggest that you immediately write a note to each family involved. Handwrite the notes—you may use a master copy for all of them—and go over the following:
First, point out politely that though last Thanksgiving was a family disaster, you want to see everyone at the table. You might hint at a chance for reconciliation.
Second, again politely, suggest that politics and religion, like elbows, should not appear on the table. This is a long-standing rule among many families, my own included.
Mention the importance of family. Politics, especially at such gatherings, should defer to blood.
Finally, close by saying that you hope to see everyone gather for Thanksgiving as usual.
Send the notes and see who responds. By now, Aunt Josie should be cured of PESS, Cousin Bart may have tweaked his hearing aid, and your mother’s thighs are surely mended.
Dispatching this note will allow your conscience to rest easy. You made an effort; you offered harmony; you did your duty. The worst that can come from your invitations is silence.
Sincerely yours,
Uncle Samuel
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