“So are you coming this year?”
“No.”
“But, why not J, everyone wants to see you. Grandma’s even coming this year.”
“You know why I’m not coming, Ma. You act like you don’t know, but you do.”

I need to get off the phone. I feel my temper flaring up, in that strange way. The way that will end in me calling my sweet, menopausal mother a jackass. I think it regularly, and would hate to actually say it, but today, she’s asking- begging- for it.

It’s the time of the year that I supposed could be analogous to my “time of the month.” Thanksgiving. Yep, it’s approaching again, and I feel like I felt the year before, and the year before that. That this is a stupid holiday. I mean, it’s not even a “holiday.” It’s always been my understanding that the word “holiday” is a contraction of “holy day.” So what exactly was holy about the raping of natives, and stealing land, and lying to doe-eyed children every year in school who really think their cardboard cut-out of a cornucopia is just like the ones the “pilgrims” and “indians” “shared”. And then, if they’re anything like me, they will grow up believing this day is holy, until one day their own family, lays them on a platter, and tears at their limbs, and complains about how dry they are, and how the chicken and ham are much better, and who really likes turkey anyway! And then, they, like I, will have to shout, “I just wanna be a writer!”

“and Joe is coming. You remember you’re cousin Joe right?”

“Of course.”

“Well he and his wife are gonna drive down from Jersey. Maybe you can catch a ride with them. Those greyhound people get crazy this time of the year. They drive like animals…”

“Ma…”

“…no they drive like New Yorkers,

“Ma…”

“…and Germans, sometimes when I see a New York tag in the left lane I just pray to Jesus, that it aint a German New Yorker, and thank the Lord that my son wasn’t born there, and that he ain’t really a New Yorker, and…

“Ma!”

“What! I’m just saying I’m glad you ain’t get your license there, that’s all.”

“No. I’m not coming. Period. I can’t take the judgment. I’m sorry.”

I’m really not sorry. And I know she wants me to come, and is sad that I’m refusing, but she’s never had to feel the flames of hell burning through the wicker of a dining room chair, while her family interrogate her about her life choices.

Two years ago, my first year in New York, I went home for Thanksgiving. I knew the word had gotten out that I moved to New York to pursue a career in writing, and that people were itching to hear how I was doing, and how life was in the cliché “big city.” It’s almost like my mother has a slight case of Tourette’s, at least when it comes to my life. Her own business she hides deeper than the five-dollar bill she keeps in her bra, “just in case you gotta pay a toll somewhere.”

But I was okay with everyone knowing. I was proud of it. Sure, I was somewhere between cabby, and deli sandwich guy as far as status was concerned, but I was happy, and I was independent. This was my choice, and though I hadn’t written a word yet, I was standing on my own two. And that was more than any of them ever expected.

When I got to the house, I could smell the turkey, stuffing, and the bittersweet aroma of collards. My mother hugged me tight, and complained about the smell of the bus, by instantly correlating to the “stinky city.” But I was home, and it felt good, mostly because I knew that this house was no longer the one I lived in.

The family all filed in, and my brother and I set the table like always, while my father, dressed in a military jacket, and aviator sunglasses, smoked a cigar on the porch.

Everyone was there. My sister who had just graduated from high school, her new boyfriend, who I believe might’ve been gay. I mean, he had to have been to date my sister. Either that or blind.

My grandmother, who at this time, was showing slight signs of senility, was all smiles, and draped in a pretty pink dress. Her husband, my grandfather, was there in full onesy pajama. Nothing’s wrong with him medically, he just likes to be comfortable when he eats. He refuses to sit and have a meal with clothes on. He says his stomach shouldn’t have to compete with a waistband, so he cant do pants, and he cant wear a shirt without pants, and so forth and so on.

My aunt Bud was there. Her real name was Rosebud, but we all call her Aunt Bud, as opposed to the more traditional “Aunt Rose”. She’ s the funny one. My aunt Jan was also there. Aunt Jan is cool, but she never really says too much. It was almost like there is always something on her mind. I can relate.

Puddin’ was there. I don’t really know who Puddin really is, and why she is always around. She’s just Puddin’.

My little cousin Danielle was there. She was about six. If I had one guaranteed supporter in this house, she would be it.

Cherie and Kondra were both there. They are my age, and are as restless as me. I was excited to see them because we always got along.

Some of my folks from South Carolina had come as well. Talan, who was just an all around good guy was there, and greeted me as he always does, with a hug, and a punch in the arm. Cousin Joe also came from South Carolina. This is before he was married and living in Newark. Joe used to always try to get me to “hook him up.” But, well, my invisible girlfriend didn’t have many sisters.

So the gang was all there, and so was I.

To be continued…