A Thanksgiving Fast

Thanksgiving is a complicated holiday –

historically, culturally and, often,

in the loving, painful stretching

forced upon families that celebrate.

For me, its complexities are magnified,

in my personal here-and-now,

by my distance from it.

The great-granddaughter of white immigrants,

it did seem, to me, a grand premise:

            arrive,

            be welcomed,

            work hard,

            make it.

And my beautiful, hard-working family celebrated with gusto:

all the thanks-giving, all the food, all the family.

Thanksgiving at Aunt Jo´s, by the river,

was one of my favorite days

of the whole year.

But this year, there will be no turkey;

only a can of cranberry sauce I found at the supermarket.

It will be my Thanksgiving fast.

In my nostalgia, Barest of Hearts, help me to remember those

            that may not enter,

            that are not welcomed,

            that cannot work,

            that do not make it.

As I share this guiso de fideo

with my beautiful, new Family,

gifted to me in Your Wisdom and Mercy,

remind me of those for whom this holiday means:

            stolen land,

            broken promises,

            marginalization and discrimination,

            scattered, slaughtered family.

As I eat my cranberry sauce, alone,

because it is, after all,

a very peculiar and acquired taste,

let me raise my water glass to those whose families

            cannot gather together,

            cause pain rather than joy,

            reject and traumatize,

            or do not exist at all.

And tomorrow,

while the very worst of my culture,

“capitalism at its best”,

is on display across the country,

allow me to be

            open,

            welcoming,

            aware,

            loving.

Teach me true Gratitude,

that rejoices equally in abundance and in want,

that opens my ears and loosen my tongue

with the mud and saliva of the Truth,

that Gives Thanks

and gives back.