The New Thanksgiving
Rebecca Rine
I have a confession: I don’t like Thanksgiving. I know this declaration is as un-American as
saying I don’t like ponies, apple pie or baseball, but hear me out. My dislike of Thanksgiving is not born of
historical inaccuracies regarding how the Pilgrims took advantage of the
Indians. Although that is a very
important fact to acknowledge, my objection is based more on how nothing about
gorging myself on turkey and side dishes makes me feel like I’m giving
thanks. It makes me merely feel like
taking a nap.
My problem with Thanksgiving is that there is, in fact, very
little thanks being given. Sure, we go
around the table and devote a quick obligatory minute to saying something we’re
thankful for, but often it’s while football is blaring in the background and
we’re checking Facebook to see if Jenny whom we haven’t seen since high school
likes our comical status update.
We spend hours cooking a turkey because that’s what the
Pilgrims ate with the Indians, gosh darn it, so we will do the same. I don’t understand this literal reenactment—the
folks back then also lived outside and didn’t bathe for months, and I’m not about
to do either of those things, so why not stray into new territory and update our
traditions to better foster gratitude? (By
the way, I’m quite certain the Pilgrims didn’t put marshmallows on their yams,
but I digress.)
I want to be a modern-day pioneer and initiate a tradition
that’s a bit more real and gritty. If it’s meant to be a day of giving thanks,
I say let’s do this, and let’s do it big. I would start in my own neighborhood
by knocking on my neighbors’ door. After
learning their names, I would ask them to join me in the street to celebrate
and give thanks, and we would move on to the next house and the next.
People would peek through their blinds wondering where all
the laughter was coming from, and soon they too would join. The mass of positive energy would snowball
into an infectious, vibrant parade of giving thanks. It would be like a musical
where suddenly everyone knows the words and choreography. Snapping and jazz
hands would most definitely find their way into the mix. The ticker on the news
would read, “Dayton does it again—world’s most grateful city!”
It would be a celebration to rival Mardi Gras. People would parade down Far Hills, holding up
enormous signs of things they’re grateful for—“Honk if you love your kids as
much as I do!” or “I didn’t make as much money as I hoped this year, but all of
my needs were met!” I want Thanksgiving to turn from being a passive day of
something lukewarm and underwhelming you receive to a kinetic, super-charged jubilant
celebration for outwardly expressing thanks.
Gandhi once said we should be the change we envision, but I know change is hard, especially
since the change I envision is a little nutty.
What is easy is eating so much
turkey, potatoes and pie we start to sweat.
And maybe that’s why we do it. It’s a preserved tradition that’s been
passed on to us and it’s comfortable, but I also think it’s important to
challenge ourselves to see how we can extend ourselves.
As a parent I do feel an obligation to pass down the old
traditions to my wee ones to remind them where we’ve all come from, but lately
I’ve been feeling a stronger tug to mold them into people who aren’t afraid of
change. I want my kids to be grateful, not just act grateful on a special day because
they’re told they should. I want them to
go out of their comfort zones and not be embarrassed to express gratitude and
utter joy with life and to reach out to others. Unbuckling my belt while
gasping, “Holy cow, why did I eat so much?” is not exactly setting the stage
for this goal.
But you know what?
The other dirty little secret is that I will do none of this. These scenes are fictitious fabrications in
my caffeinated brain. What I will do is
leaf through a cook book, looking for the best sweet potato recipe, wondering
why I’m bothering since I’m the only one who eats them, but then quickly
reminding myself it’s just what we do on Thanksgiving. I will watch the parade on
TV with my kids through sleepy lids. I
will say to myself, “Next year will be different.”
Bio: Rebecca is a freelance writer living in Kettering.
