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Thanksgiving, 2018

A true story of familial shortcomings

By Prairie JohnsonPublished about a year ago 6 min read
Runner-Up in Holiday Hijinks Challenge
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Thanksgiving, 2018
Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

It begins at the dining room table, around a board game or—most likely—Phase 10. After the turkey is put away. After the bittersweet cranberries are covered with plastic wrap. After the dogs lie fat and sedated on the couch. After crisp TV sounds trickle in from the living room. After Catholic prayers and the wordless gratitude that emerges quickly between bites of food. After cherry pie and cool whip, the illusion of normalcy, that fragile semblance of solidity, begins to erode.

The carpet is rough and familiar and interwoven with short strands of dog hair. The table is glossy and bright, the color of roasted honey, the chairs upright and unforgiving, solid, stable. And then the pungent, gradually inescapable scent of red wine mingles with the air.

I watch as my grandmother’s facial muscles loosen, her jaws hanging open slightly, eyes foggy and a little unfocused, but persistently that deep, piercing blue, watching my hands, waiting for my next play.

She laughs more. At everything. At herself. What she says. Me. Sam. It seems that life is an immense joke to her in those moments: how serious we are, her grandchildren… and in this instance, her daughter as well.

Nanna is across from me, my mother to my left, and Sam to hers. I do not remember what we were playing. I do recall the mounting tension in the room, the taste of metallic fear on my tongue, the growing sense that something was going to occur and I was feeding it.

The game unfolds and I watch Nanna’s lips turn from soft pink to dark purple to brown with every full glass of Franzia, every chocolate-covered something, every “Fuck,” dropped with increasing ferocity. Her words emerge increasingly slurred with every card she places face up on the table, her motions heavy and awkward.

Discomfort pushes itself through my body and out of my mouth, into a soft hum. My mom catches on and hums with me. I do not know what we are singing, something we both know. Words eventually pull themselves out of us and we become louder, more raucous, laughing away the tension as Nanna’s tone grows irritated and she tells us to stop singing, stop singing, stop—

Sam is quiet and focused on the game but I think that they are aware of everything unspoken. I’m laughing with my mom, joking with her, saying over and over, “You can disklike my singing. I don’t mind.” And we both crack up and place cards on the table.

More wine, more blunt swearing; and then she is staring at my mother, her daughter, and there is something in her face, something horrible and indescribable, something inhuman and terrifying, something I do not want to witness, but I do not look away. I remember the currents of conversation that carried her to the point of shouting. Donna, her mother, had died four years ago and mama blamed Nanna for her death, for pulling the plug. Mama was at the hospital for many days, sometimes sleeping overnight, trying to counteract the drugs, stagnation, lack of food and water, trying to give what attention she could to Granny’s body.

She was angry too. She told me. And she told a few of Nanna’s brothers, the ones that listened. She told them that Nanna wanted Granny to die, for all of this to be done, to pull the plug, to move on.

“Now,” Nanna is shouting, “My brothers won’t talk to me. I’ve been disowned because of what you said!”

I watch my mother’s face. It is like observing waves crashing over sand: there is some commotion, but little, as grains shift and slide around; she is the entire beach, unwavering, soft, receptive to the onslaught of raging water.

“You…” my grandma is shaking with rage. Her hands tremble and nothing comes out of her mouth for a moment.

Then, the tsunami reaches the shore. “You were always so naughty!” Spittle flies from her lips. “You… were a terrible child! This—” she turns to me, gesturing at mama “—is the biggest piece of shit you will ever see.”

I can feel heat spreading from my chest into my throat, my face, my head, lacing its brightness through my body like lightning. I stare at this woman that I thought was my grandmother, my safe haven, my rock, unconditional love, a heartbeat in the wilderness.

She is raging on and on at mama, screaming that she was always rotten, always crooked, always—

“How DARE you talk to your DAUGHTER that way!” I yell at the top of my lungs. Everything is rising, rising out of me, spilling out of my mouth, flinging itself off of my tongue—“She is your—” then my voice cracks and tears trace their way down my cheeks. I see her face through the blur of my tears: wide-eyed, watching me, stunned into silence, but detached, as though she is no longer tethered to this world.

“HEY!” Grandpa hurtles into the dining room, stuttering, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything at all!”

“Ok, ok, you’re right,” I blubber, covering my face. And suddenly, everything is shattered.

I can’t see Sam’s face. Mama is still impassive and soft, like flower petals, like spring soil.

Nanna stumbles to her feet and walks to the kitchen to refill her glass.

All of the vicious adrenaline drains from my body and I slump.

This. Is the color of rage. This. Is the impact of pain hurled like hammers into connection. This place… green wallpaper with pink flowers, thick picture frames, blaring TVs, quality hardwood… is no longer safe.

And I… I look at my hands. So small and brown and gentle. I am just like her. I swallow. There is rage in my throat too, swimming just below the calm surface I have learned to display. There is a tongue capable of torture inside of my mouth as well.

At that moment, aged 15, I vowed to never let it sing its poisonous song again, to claim that kind of space, deliver itself with such venom and volume. There was no place for that in my life if I wished to change the world for the better. I could never dream of touching alcohol so casually, and would not trust what it would pull out of me.

I don't know what Thanksgiving is supposed to be; it was not always like this one. It has since, though, become a ritual of weariness. It is a time when alcohol is not only acceptable but expected to run the party, where belligerence is a custom, and resentment is a revered guest to entertain. There was never a mention of the indigenous people we stole from, raped, enslaved, and killed on this land. It was not a time to be humble or accountable, but to unleash our glutton and stuff our vulnerability.

Perhaps yours is a different experience, maybe involving appreciation or reflection on the bounty you partake in.

I hope that it transports you to places of great comfort and peace this year, where there is room for everyone at the table, including yes, anger, and also respect, curiosity, compassion, and gratitude.

heartbreaksocial commentarysad poetry
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About the Creator

Prairie Johnson

If we are going to transform the world, we must begin with ourselves. I write what is inside of me so that you might find what is inside of you.

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Comments (2)

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  • Alison McBainabout a year ago

    Your writing is so beautiful and emotional, Prairie. It's like reading a heartbreaking song, with each image and extended metaphor creating a musical resonance with the reader. Thank you for sharing your moving story. ❤️

  • Hannah Mooreabout a year ago

    I love the receptive, shifting, sands of your mother's face. What a transformative moment that must have been.

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