Thanksgiving in a Bubble

 

There's good news for turkeys this year. Lots of pardons in the works, I hear. And lots of birdless Thanksgiving menus, as we gather in our small bubbles and forego traditions, the ones we like and the ones we don't. 

For as long as I can remember, my family has gathered somewhere in Connecticut for Thanksgiving. Happily, the births and marriages have outpaced the deaths and divorces, and the walls in my cousins' dining room have appeared to inch ever closer to the edges of the growing table. The staples remain, with an annual fluctuation in side dishes and activities. The fried pickles, once a novelty, have become permanent. I can barely remember when we didn't spend hours watching the tortured progress, most of us from inside, of the deep fried turkey. The morning after run with my cousin is a thing of the past, as is the Friday shopping spree in a local boutique. The morning after indigestion is eternal.

I suppose we should be thankful for small favors this year. The weary travelers won't have to be weary. The exhausted hosts won't have to be exhausted -- or at least they will share the burden. We have all managed to survive 2020, so far, far flung as we are across the country and, yes, across the globe. We will still talk loudly over each other this year, but on a Zoom call. When we are together, there is no mute button. 

There will likely be no turkey in my Thanksgiving bubble, though I am certain there will be lots of calories. I am bargaining with cousins for my favorite recipes, recipes that, apparently, are kept secret simply because the keepers don't wish to reveal the heart clogging ingredients that make them so good. My cousins did send me a frozen version of my favorite Thanksgiving treat, and I have been warned that I must share with my bubble. How well they know me, after all these years. 

Pandemic Thanksgiving, I suppose, will remind us of all that should make us thankful. That the usual suspects are well, and that we are able to toast each other from our satellite bubbles. That somehow, despite wildly divergent time zones and nap times (including mine, as my cousin pointed out), we will still be together. That my almost 90 year old mother is figuring out Zoom. That my favorite delicacies await, in the freezer. That at a time when pardons are becoming all the rage, turkeys will be the beneficiaries. 

That we will, hopefully, convene next year in person, if only for a day, and share war stories from a blissfully distant 2020. 

Days of Reckoning

    I tried hard, at first, to turn off the news, but I couldn't do it. It's as if it had become my cross to bear, my penance for settling happily into my insulated corner of the universe, refusing to believe there were so many "others" out there. I flipped channels, checked on Twitter, responded to the incessant beeps from friends texting their despair. As if sharing it would somehow make it go away. 

    In the wee hours, when the news broke of Biden eking ahead in Wisconsin, I finally closed my eyes. Briefly anyway. I hung on to the encouraging words of pundits, comforted myself with my firmly held notion that Biden's campaign crew had been making all sorts of good decisions, and this would be okay. I even hold out hope, now, that Biden can win, but my despair is palpable. Millions of Americans cast a vote for a cruel, corrupt, criminal, and incompetent poor excuse for a human who had devoted the past four years to revealing himself (to anyone who hadn't noticed) as a cruel, corrupt, criminal, and incompetent poor excuse for a human. 

    The finger pointing has begun. The pollsters screwed up. We didn't pick an exciting candidate. Biden said a stupid thing at the last debate. We forgot about the Cubans. Well, sure the pollsters screwed up, but that didn't cause the mess; it only enhanced the crushing disappointment. It's why I'm such a big fan of low expectations. An exciting candidate? Because progressives were too bored to vote for our only alternative to fascism? Shame on them, if that's true. Biden said a stupid thing? Has he incited violence, given the nod to gun-toting American terrorists, caged children, denied climate change, disparaged the entire medical profession, lied about, well, everything? And we knew damn well what the Cubans were thinking. We didn't forget; we just brushed aside. They are, after all, brown people, and we assumed they would know better.

    I woke up yesterday feeling optimistic. It was a beautiful day, I had finally convinced my conscientiously objecting Republican friend that he needed to cast his vote, even if it wouldn't matter in Illinois. I remembered my theory that RBG had chosen to leave us on the eve of the Jewish High Holidays so she could guide us from a heavenly bench. I put on my brand new Kamala-esque Chucks and even had a spring in my step.

    The counting continues and we just don't know. We don't know when we'll know. But what we do know is that an astounding number of people who live in the clearly inaptly named shining city on a hill cast their precious votes for, well, a cruel, corrupt, criminal, and incompetent poor excuse for a human who had devoted the past four years to revealing himself as a cruel, corrupt, criminal, and incompetent poor excuse for a human. 

    We have our work cut out for us. The problem isn't the pollsters or Joe or fracking or even our forgetting about the Cubans, though that's the closest. It's about the messaging. We knew what message the Cubans were being fed, and we left it alone. And we've known what messages all the folks are being fed out there, outside our bubbles, by propaganda spreading news empires that have cornered those far-flung markets. While we were sleeping. Or seeking self-affirmation. Or calling people stupid and racist and greedy. I'm as guilty as anybody. 

    The work starts now, even if Biden pulls through. There's a whole country, out there and right here, that needs fixing.