Giving Thanks

A hunt for normalcy after years of silence.

Thanksgiving was a sacred holiday for me growing up. For some it is an excuse to eat more calories than you ever would before. For others, it is a time to reconnect with distant relatives. Millions across the country tune into the NFL to watch whatever teams are featured during the afternoon. My family used the holiday for all of those reasons and many more. Every other year marked the convergence of dozens of family members. There were plenty of foldable tables and chairs, and never enough walking room. For over a decade, the growing number of family members would travel hundreds of miles to spend just a few nights in a cramped house, surrounded by loved ones (and having fierce rivalries created by Trivial Pursuit).

As the years went by, and more people moved further away, the number of attendees dwindled. I always in the same city, so attendance seemed natural. As my own years passed by, however, even my attachment began to dim. In 2017 I found myself a handful of years removed from the last time I joined a big Thanksgiving dinner. In fact, though I was only 20 or 30 minutes away, contact with my immediate family was rare. I spent months without talking to my dad. I texted back and forth with my mother, but I don’t talk her ear off like I used to. I had never been incredibly close with my sisters, but they quickly turned to ghosts when it came to communication. Then there was my nephew, Mason. I lived with him from the day he was born, but around Thanksgiving 2017 I hadn’t seen him nearly as much as I used to.

I love my family, and spending time with them in any fashion shouldn’t be as difficult as I sometimes make it. Mason had grown so much since the last time I saw him. I was invited with the reset of my family to my aunt and uncle’s house. There place became the new convergence center after my grandparents passed away four years ago.

I was worried.

I was worried that Mason forgot who I was. That my family would be too disappointed in my past absences to appreciate my presence. These thoughts and worries swirled around my mind for hours before I got picked up. Before I got in the car I wasn’t sure if Mason would ignore me or stare at me in confusion. Then, something precious happened.

I was being silly, but I felt the love. I almost forgot that I was going to see people I hadn’t seen in years, or that I hadn’t been surrounded by this many family members for even longer.

Then, there was the football — I had my Detroit Lions jersey on under my coat. Sports were always present at family gatherings, one way or another. When so many other things and people were finite, sports were a constant.

Once my fears began to shrink, I relaxed and smelled the turkey.

The turkey was only part of the show, but whenever it entered the stage, it took over. Whether in a large group or small one, by uncle would always carve the turkey, and his son, my cousin, would get a few extra pieces of skin. Even simple acts over the years became symbolic of one thing or another. Asking someone to pass the white meat was like making a declaration of hunger, and they were your only means of survival.

Before any of that could begin, though, we prayed. Prayer was always deeply meditative, and it connected us all in a way that nothing else could.

I was older and more mature, so I prepared myself in case I was asked to say grace. Fortunately for my nerves my uncle took the reigns. I hadn’t felt entirely comfortable yet, but instinct kicked in and I immediately reached out both of my hands to the people next to me.

Everything was coming back to me — this was natural.

Even after prayer, I still somewhat felt like a guest in a strangers home instead of a family member. I could be offered things that I wasn’t able to partake in before, like alcohol.

In previous years, my choices were limited to pop, water, and milk — there was always sparkling wine, but I could never understand the appeal.

Now, though, the entire cabinet was open to me.

No one in my family quite knew how well acquainted with alcohol I became over the past year. Before I was just a high school kid who had a few sips of wine ever New Year’s. At this point, however, I know the difference between a good and bad whiskey, how to make the perfect margarita, and how many shots of vodka I can stomach before I made a fool of myself (the answer is yet to be determined).

Accepting a glass of wine seemed natural to me, but it felt odd in a situation which had been unchanging for so many years.

Dinner went as usual, and as much as I may have felt like a stranger on the inside, I was just as goofy and conversational as I always had been on the outside. I didn’t know if I wanted to present myself in a new and sophisticated way, or try and be who they always knew me as.

I had never really had a conversation with my cousin Abby before, but when she asked me about the wine it felt more like one adult talking to another.

“How do you like it, Mark?”

“It’s wonderful,” I replied.

She smiled, and I felt normal.

Then there was the football game. Dinner was always quick for those of us who wanted to yell at a television screen as our team disappointed us year after year.

That was also one of the constant ties my immediate family had with my extended family. You see, us Peless’ have had a very different go of it than my mom’s brothers and sisters. It recently set in that perhaps my family felt like outsiders as well, just for different reasons. Despite that, Honolulu blue could be found around every corner. From the outside you wouldn’t be able to recognize the tension between social class or personal grudges.

The afternoon was relaxing for most of my family — you could tell by the outstretched arms alone.

I became less and less concerned with my personal disposition as the afternoon went on. I was never asked about college, or what my future plans were — only how I was doing. I was part of the family again, and it didn’t matter where I came from or where I was going.

I noticed Mason sitting on my dad’s lap, eyelids drooping, and eyes fixed on the TV set. My younger cousins would occasionally toss him a foam football, and he’d eagerly throw it back.

It dawned on me. This could be his normal. This weird holiday, one which is usually an excuse for overindulgence meant something great to me not because of the things which surrounded it. It meant something to me because I was with people I loved. That is a constant truth. Circumstances may change, but family is forever.

Mason’s family is not the typical one. His dad is far away from the picture, and my sister, parents, and I have tried to fill the gap.

In a small moment, I was sitting next to Mason, chatting about the game. I was part of something.

I was part of his normal.

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