The Day of Dread and the Meal That Changed Everything

My mom slaps a chore list on the kitchen table, and my brother and I begin to read through it to see which chores have our names next to them. I have to sweep, dust, straighten the bookshelves, restack the newspapers next to the fireplace, clean the guest bathroom, and clean my room. My brother has to vacuum and clean his room. I protest as usual, “Why do I have more chores than Todd? It's not fair!”

“Vacuuming is very difficult, and he knows how to take the vacuum apart when it gets clogged,” my mom answers. I start my chores with a chip on my shoulder while my mom is cooking.

“Stay out of the kitchen, no fighting, and don't bug me. I need you both to cooperate because Bill and Jeanie, grandma and grandpa are coming over, and we have a lot to get done.”

I hate it when Bill and Jeanie come over. Bill is always mean to Jeanie. My grandparents always bring my mom’s brother who is crazy and scary. My dad makes fun of my uncle and won't call him by his real name, but calls him Aardvark instead because he has a big nose. My dad says my uncle is a mental case and went crazy in the Vietnam War. He lives with my grandparents in their basement and just mumbles and never smiles.

As I sweep the floor, I think about what a terrible day it will be. After my chores, I go to my room and don't know where to begin. There’s stuff everywhere, and I have nowhere to put anything. I go back downstairs and hear the TV on. My dad is watching a parade while my mom keeps popping in and out as my dad yells, “Harriet, you gotta see this!” I sit on the couch next to my dad.

“Did you clean your room? You couldn't have cleaned your room that fast. You can't watch the parade until your room is clean.” My mother points upstairs with a serious and mean look on her face.

I sit on the floor of my room, miserable. I don't know how to clean it. I don't know what to do with everything. There are toys and crayons and records and regular clothes and dress-up clothes and even my brother’s stuff. I pick up a big pile of my brother’s things and fling them into his room knowing I’ll get it later.

I suffer through the next few hours trying to clean my room. I manage to put some crayons back in the box, put all the clothes on my floor into the laundry room, and shove everything else under my bed or dresser.

My mom comes up to inspect, and I can tell she isn't pleased.

“Hurry and put a nice dress on. Everyone will be here soon.” When I come downstairs, my brother is already down there talking with my grandma. Bill and my grandpa are sitting on the couch with my dad, and football is on full blast. My mom has a mixer in her hand and is mixing up some mashed potatoes. I see dishes on the counter wrapped in tinfoil, and the “kids table” is out. I hate sitting at the kids table.

Any time my brother or I talk or laugh or even start to have fun, Bill screams at us from the family room because he’s watching the game. If we walk in front of the TV or try to come sit on the couch, he or my dad yell at us and point to the kitchen and order us to get out.

Football blares all afternoon while we wait to eat. My mom, grandma, and Jeanie finish cooking everything and heating up the tinfoil dishes. My brother and I set the tables. Six adults at the adult table and me, my brother, and my mom’s crazy brother at the “kids table”. I hate eating with my uncle. He is gross and chews with his mouth open.

I sit across from my brother, trying not to look at my uncle or Bill, who has become crankier and louder as the beer cans have piled up around him. He drinks Budweiser, and my dad drinks Heineken. My dad doesn't drink as many beers as Bill, and whenever he pours the bottle into a glass, he calls for me and asks me if I want to drink the foam. I don't think it tastes very good, but I pretend to love it so that my dad will keep asking me.

My mom brings me a plate, and I look at all the heaps of food and wonder how on earth I will get myself to eat it. I don't like most of the food on my plate. I know that Jeanie is a terrible cook, so I try to figure out which are the things she brought.

The green beans with the cheese sauce aren't bad or the mashed potatoes with gravy or the salad. But everything else is awful! I hate the orange potatoes with the marshmallows, and the red jello with canned fruit inside that is melting into my dry slab of turkey. Now even my mashed potatoes are defiled and turning reddish pink.

Bill is getting louder and louder, and my mom looks uncomfortable and embarrassed. Jeanie is silent and mad or sad or something. I don't want to eat and don't want to help clean up and don’t want to have dessert. I just want everyone to leave and for it to all be over. As I stare at my full plate of pink, runny food, I’m nauseated at the thought of having to eat it.

This is why I absolutely hate Thanksgiving.

Rewriting Traditions

For many years, I avoided Thanksgiving, and John and I would order pizza and go to the movies. As the kids grew up, we spent most years on Thanksgiving setting up a table in downtown Queen Creek in a closed liquor store parking lot and brought pozole and tamales for the migrant workers. Our friends Carlos and Barbara came and played the guitar and sang. We gave the men gloves, socks, and hats for the cold mornings ahead of them. I justified skipping Thanksgiving for my good deeds and avoided family gatherings and jello and marshmallows and pink turkey.

As the kids got older, they started wanting to celebrate Thanksgiving and wondered why I hated it so bad. Every time we were invited somewhere, I would grumble and say I didn't want to go.

“I just don't like Thanksgiving food,” I would say.

“No, there's something else. That can't be it,” Dimitra pushed.

Around this time, I was reading a book called Captivating by Stasi Eldredge. It's basically an inner healing book that gets you to look at your childhood wounds and connect them to trigger points you have as an adult. I started to really think about why I hated Thanksgiving. Even the sound of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade or a football game triggers the feeling of dread. Green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, and especially jello, trigger a sinking sick feeling. Thanksgiving to me feels like sadness, loneliness, and the fear of impending doom.

Bill was an alcoholic, and as the night went on, he got more and more angry and yelled at Jeanie, scared my mom, and made everyone uncomfortable. We spent most Thanksgivings with these people who were just my parent’s friends. Bill hated kids and made it known. He said rude, mean things and called us snot-nosed or stupid. And my dad never defended us, put him in his place, or called him out. If Bill made fun of us, my dad sometimes laughed with him.

I wanted my dad to defend me. To tell Bill to stop yelling at us if we made a sound while football was on. I wanted my dad’s protection.

Thanksgiving was a day I felt worthless. I spent the day doing chores, avoiding Bill, and sitting at the kids table, ignored. I started to realize that this childhood pain was still attached to me and reinforced every year I allowed myself to continue to hate Thanksgiving. Avoiding it or complaining, or sinking into the pain all just made everything worse. I had to be determined to make Thanksgiving a fun, enjoyable, and meaningful day with family and friends.

About seven years ago, a friend invited us to his house for Thanksgiving after he announced it was his favorite holiday and he loves this day more than any other day in the year. I told him it was my least favorite day of the year and why. He made it a goal that he would redeem Thanksgiving for me. I could see it really broke his heart that I had such an aversion to the holiday. I agreed we would come and I would do my very best to enjoy it.

It was the first time I felt a hardness in me protest as my will turned to a commitment to enjoy Thanksgiving. It felt like my pride didn't want to allow it. It screamed like Bill and said, “You don't need it. Stay the way you are. There is safety in hating Thanksgiving.”

I felt like I was admitting that I let Bill and jello and the kids table steal at least 40 or more Thanksgivings from me. I had to allow my heart to soften enough to forgive the past and let it go. I had to let God change my mind, and even if my friend served sweet potatoes with brown sugar AND marshmallows, I was going to eat it and enjoy it. I was going to enjoy the family time and big gatherings and let myself be transformed and my mind renewed.

It wasn’t an easy night, but it was a step in the right direction. I pretended to love all the food and ignore that he had a kids table for his kids. I acted like it was a great night and let him think he redeemed Thanksgiving for me. At least there was a dent in my pride.

Each year that followed, Thanksgiving was less painful and almost fun. Each year we celebrated, I thought about Bill and football and jello with canned fruit inside less and less.

A Feast of Gratitude

This year, we celebrated with Jake’s family, and my friends from Ocala came to visit. I made a salad and brought it to Jake’s grandmother’s house. We ate a beautiful meal together, and each of us around the table said what we were thankful for. I loved hearing what everyone said. Dimitra’s pies were delicious, and it was a fun and painless time. It was the first Thanksgiving I didn't think once about Bill. I didn't feel dread or anything negative about the holiday at all. I feel 100% reconciled.

After I returned from Italy about a month ago, I had to start all of my art from scratch. My computer was stolen, along with all of my source material and ideas for paintings. I knew I had to just paint, so I started with two horses because it's what I love. I had no plan and no sources. I just started with a blue background and added a couple of horses.

As I painted, I started to really feel like one of the horses was me and, strangely, the other one felt like my brother. As the painting began to come to life, I heard the word “reconciliation” in my spirit.

A Fresh Start