I Hate Thanksgiving

It's that time of year again. A time to take a few moments and give thanks for everything you have that Somalian children don't. Just slow down for a minute and appreciate everything in your life that makes living in the "Land of the Free" a glorious thing: universal healthcare, true social equality and upward mobility of the lower and middle classes,

And other things you find in the trash

You just can't beat that. But what is this holiday we call thanksgiving all about? I was thinking about this earlier today on line at the Duane Reade, and as coincidence would have it the answer dawned, as if by providence, when I stepped up to pay. The rotund urban gentlewoman at the register asked me if I would kindly make a donation to fight diabetes. I informed her that I would have to regrettably decline, even, I fear, to the detriment of support for her future malady, and demurred at her obviously well-informed judgement. She made a point to exclaim: "But Mr. it's only a dollar," to which I replied, "no thanks." But she was as persistent as the fungus on my left foot and made an effort to play on my more altruistic sensibilities. With bile audibly rushing up her windpipe, she barked, "not even on Thanksgiving?" Now here I admit, dear reader, that I was touched. Touched and, not to mention, disgusted.

Not that disgusted.

Not the least for which to think that this inner-city bovine really cared for a cause she has yet to be a victim of, or that she might in fact believe the money goes to where her managers attest, but at the very least because it seems she thought she knew what the Thanksgiving spirit was all about. Once again I was obliged to inform her that, sadly, after purchasing a $12 pack of smokes and a $7 holiday-sized bag of peanut M&Ms, I had but $1 remaining with which to wipe my ass, and that, as an American, that is a privilege I both reserve and relish. I had to conclude, by her incredulous expression, that she was the wiser, more enlightened one, of us two; even if- or just because- she is a mother of two.

"If there's one thing my 16 years have taught me it's, like, temperance, or whatever?"

But and so, this experience caused me to pause. For I too thought that I knew what it was all about. As I awoke this morning and made my pre-work preparations I gave my silent thanks, as I do just about every Monday morning, for all these things that make my life worth living, these things that prove, insurmountably, that I live in a great country. In my thanks I thought of how lucky I am, we all are, to be a part of a world in which everything we dream is possible (if not probable); a world in which a little planning, hard work, and four years at Bard will garner such sweet lifelong rewards as all the hormone-enhanced turkey you can eat at outdoor heifer-contests, which curiously look a lot like a family reunion, an openly jury-rigged political system, which masquerades as something I've never heard of called "Democracy," and 99% of all the poverty, which - I have to admit - feels pretty good to be in the majority for once. There is truly nothing like being an American and free.

If you haven't heard, the nightlife is a blast!

So the question is: why exactly do we do this thing each year where we sit down with our heretofore neglected extended families and celebrate a holiday which basically brands Americans as self-righteous imperialists? If I am understanding the history books correctly (which, by the way, my children are absolutely forbidden to read), Thanksgiving is an event where the settlers ordered the head-honcho Natives to prostrate themselves before their conquerors and lay down a feast so they could thank them for exchanging all their valuables for pox-blankets, giving up their women for raping and their villages for pillaging and, finally, for letting the English straight-up move in on their turf and take all and everything else worth taking. And in exchange the Natives were presented with buckshot and golden roasted Turkeys:

"Taste the humanity."

It must have been a monumental celebration. Probably similar to the one I have with my family, except we get our turkeys ready-made from Costco and after-hours Pictionary invariably turns into an unmediated family therapy session. But on that original day they must have had some real fun and, no doubt, fewer forays into grandma's coke-fueled past indiscretions. I imagine that original conversation went something like this:

ENGLISH: "Jeez guys thank you so much for throwing down your tomahawks, signing the treaty and cooking us this bitchin' dinner. We really were pretty damn hungry, as you know, because most of us are conquistadors with no experience in farming. I have to say we were like this close to sailing back home."
NATIVES: "Aw, you fellas are some jokers. I mean it's either that or get slaughtered, right? I mean come on!"
ENGLISH: "No we mean it guys, all joking aside, this is real solid of you all to be such good sports as you've been. Our great great grandchildren are really going to appreciate this moment when they're tearing down your natural paradise in order to erect a society almost exactly like the one they'll be revolting against."
NATIVES: "Hey what comes around goes around. And you can quote us on that."
ENGLISH: "You know, you guys are class acts, seriously! Tell you what, when this is all over and there's barely any of you left, we will totally apologize for all this, and mark my words, when the Reservation life has got you down, come to us and we will talk to you about something called casinos."

"#Check out this Mexican hottie rocking Ed Hardy."

What breaks my brains is the idea of the evolution of a celebration. I am no philosopher, philanthropist (see above) or philatelist, but I am just wondering: how did we get from a 1620's Plymouth to a 2000's Macy's Day parade. Isn't there some kind of crucial disconnect there? Something just doesn't seem wholesome:

"This gout is fucking killing me!"

I bet there is more to the holiday than what I have described. And I am dead certain there is more to it than we find, each year, at the bottom of a bottle of Absolut and a family-sized box of bon-bons. But in the end, though, I guess it doesn't really matter what you believe. It doesn't matter if you know anything about the origins of your celebration, the unspoken cause of your revelry or the message you are sending your kids when they accidentally read the inscription below the picture in that non-creationist textbook they are expressly forbidden to read. And it most definitely doesn't matter if a cretin looks down on you for not being a humanitarian on the anniversary of the first war crime in the history of the "Land of the Free." As long as your USD's get where they are going. Stay tuned for my yearly Black Friday death-toll announcement in your local papers.