My family is not one to argue at Thanksgiving, surprisingly. If we’re arguing, it’s not about the things that families usually argue about. We’ve had arguments about how to spell words, how stories actually went, and things like that. My family unit is usually small for Thanksgiving – no big tent outside with five plastic tables with tablecloths on it – just one table with both of the leaves inserted and a lot of Fiestaware from my grandmother’s house. I feel like a lot of people despise Thanksgiving for obvious reasons, but I have never felt that resentment towards my family. Everyone lives down the road: just a call away. I set the scene this way because I love my family, but sometimes conversations can turn sour, even for the most unconventional Thanksgivings.

This particular conversation turned sour almost immediately. Sitting across from me is my non-Fiestaware-bearing grandmother, Nana, who went to beauty school and later went to medical school to become an Anesthesiologist. She still works too – just limited hours. We are so vastly different in both demeanor and outlook – her current demeanor is diminished by the glass of Thanksgiving wine she is sporting. I am drinking water after finishing our dreaded yearly 5K and then making a good portion of the food that was sitting on the table, emitting steam.

Nana and my grandfather, Poppy, have always been the odd couple to me. Nana is an outspoken wine grandmother. She has a lot on her mind and watches MSNBC a lot. We have a lot of conversations where we butt-heads. Poppy is reserved, but insightful. He never finished college, he left the last semester for reasons that I still don’t understand. He will have very complicated and thoughtful conversations with me when it is just the two of us. If Nana is there, I barely hear anything from him.

It’s not that Nana hasn’t been supportive, but the tone of the “you need to like what you do, but also make sure you’re making money” that throws me off every time. The entire family has historically been worried about money – if Gigi was here, she would have said something along that vein as well in agreement. I can’t say I don’t understand where they’re coming from – if I was planning on living in West Virginia for the rest of my life, I’d be worried for myself too as a creative. I guess that’s where I am conflicted.

I love Nana, I just sometimes find myself in moments of pent-up anger that someone with a generation between us doesn’t understand my passions. She really does love me, and everything she says is in a positive light. She means all of it from a sincere place in her heart, even if it might not translate that way over to me. This is something I would like to remind myself of during the holiday season when I am spending more time with them. I also need to remind myself not to be resentful of things that my family might say to me generally, as I really will never know how much time I have left with them. However, she does think that I will be the next big writer for Saturday Night Live – and that was something I was offended by.

These hands, 

Stretched 

Broken 

Cracked, 

Filled with the liberty to create, 

Filled with a desire. 

Desire that burns. 

A desire that traces to every single vein, 

connecting to my heart 

pulsing rhythmic word. 

Changing thought to art. 

Changing soul to hymn. 

These hands entice me,  

These hands have changed me. 

From air to sound drifting in the wind. 

From withering to blossoming.

From sin to virtue. 

Carved with a delicacy that identifies me. 

These hands, Sacred, Cracked, Yet Beautiful, never fail to captivate me.

Untitled Poem by Me*

My first memory of Wooster is vague. The fog-induced rain and petrichor glaze over the image of walking in the middle of Beall. I wasn’t nervous or tinged with excitement, just numb, and I had already spent the past three months arguing with my family over my decision not to run track and field at the collegiate level. Ultimately, Wooster was the only school I applied to without posting recruitment videos, and they didn’t require SAT or ACT scores. 

What I do remember, was that the weather and soggy leaves mudding under my feet were fitting for someone who had given up and settled. As a first-generation student, the goal of college is to avoid self-expression and surmount all the struggles your parents had. My parents were not going into debt and taking out loans so I could find myself. Conversely, the only thing I intended to find was a law degree. 

Individualism was a gift and privilege not entitled to me. 

I remember planting my feet on the broken bits of concrete while sitting on the curb of the street. I had been leafing through the sodden pages of a study abroad packet while my parents grabbed the car. In all honesty, the condensation that escaped my lips was more enticing than attending college. I liked that I could control how shallow it was, the size of fog slowly inflating then disappearing into nothing amongst the foreground of passing cars. 

Individualism was a gift and privilege not entitled to me. 

I cried the first day I spent alone in my dormitory. I sent my family away early. I grieved for freedom lost since high school, where mistakes were innocent and didn’t result in the the loss of scholarships and my future. I grieved the idea that I would have to become an adult in a matter of months, and consistently justify my major. I grieved that those around me are weeded out by autonomy, while I am forced to stay in one place like a stagnant pond. 

In a way, not much has changed in my perspective. By sophomore year I had three jobs, participated in numerous organizations, concreted a life plan, and maintained my GPA. 

I still find individualism a luxury, but also a by-product of growing up.

It wasn’t defined or hallmarked with a warm smile after years of suffering when the credits rolled.  

I just realized one day that I had changed immeasurably.

Individualism was a gift and privilege not meant for me.

I used to be eager for the holidays to arrive. Family, good food, presents, and no worries. Now I’ve grown. The three hour drive seems to draw out, my stomach hurts after the rich food, I’m too old for presents, and the world seems to grow darker by each day. My family is still family… But you know how it goes. Casual hateful comments grow tiresome after explaining time and time again that “no you can’t say men are better than women” and “no I don’t want to drive in your truck that has confederate and Trump flags hanging off the back” and “no the election was not stolen” and “no trans people are not pedophiles”. It makes sense when you realize that isolated town is 99.9% white, and the only church in town is Catholic. 

When my family asks me “how’s school going? What are you majoring in again?” I tend to change my answer from person to person. For my bigoted uncle, something in agriculture. To my slightly less bigoted cousin, sustainable agriculture. To my sweet as pie aunt married to the bigoted uncle, environmental studies. For my 11 year old cousin with her innocence yet preserved, environmental humanities. She reminds me of how I used be. She gorges on sweets and grasshopper milkshakes that my grandpa makes. Rips open her piles of presents with gusto and poses for the paparazzi of cameras flashing at her. I am an environmentalist for her, and for the generations that come after me.

In the end it doesn’t matter the answer I tell them. They will forget, and the next time, we’ll have the exact same conversation. 

“How’s school going?”

“Good.”