I ordered a turkey from the Swarthmore Co-op. The smallest size they sell is 12 pounds. I did this even though there are only three of us for Thanksgiving dinner this year, and the other two don’t like turkey.
I know how lucky I am to be able to celebrate the holiday with my spouse and my daughter; how lucky I am to indulge myself in turkey for one. This being the season of thankfulness, I’m running through my list: I’m thankful that everyone in my immediate family is healthy (although I’m sad I can’t visit with them). I’m thankful for my friends and neighbors, for a reliable income, for good books and television shows, and for my dog.
I’m certainly one of the lucky ones. With energy and luck to match their desperation, my great-grandparents propelled themselves out of the shtetls of Europe to raise their families in Boston and New York. I’m white in a place where that gives me access to much more educational opportunity, clean air, and physical safety than most people of color have. Twenty years ago, my spouse got a great job at a great college in a great community, and I gratefully tagged along.
The stress and sadness of the pandemic only make me more aware of all I have to be thankful for. I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels this way. I like to picture my neighbors sitting at their tables on this holiday, perhaps with fewer of their loved ones than usual, but still thinking about what they’re grateful for. Maybe saying it out loud. If we listen closely, we might hear the murmur of those words rising through the autumn air like the scent of burning leaves.
Having taken some time to be thankful on Thursday, the season swiftly presents us with opportunities to support our local businesses (Small Business Saturday) and to help our less fortunate neighbors (Giving Tuesday) in an extended jubilee of wallet-emptying. I don’t mean to sound glib. This is a singularly important year to observe both these secular festivals.
That businesses are struggling is no secret. In our own community, as across the country, sales are down, lay-offs are common, and many merchants see only a murky way forward — if they see any way at all. As we enter the crucial holiday shopping season, I can’t help but think what our towns will look like if more stores close. Prices may be cheaper elsewhere or online — and some of us are struggling — but we’re likely to see more empty storefronts right here a year from now if we don’t buy local.
As for giving, where to even start? In other years, I’ve cool-headedly divided my charitable support among international, regional, and local nonprofits. I have a couple of local favorites, as I’m sure most people do. I hope many of us can afford to give more than we have in the past. Maybe much more.
I’ve noticed that my younger family members meet this challenge differently than I do. Both my daughters use social media to plug into “mutual aid” networks that connect them to individuals who need particular things: a coat, a laptop, a dehumidifier for a sick child. Money for a deposit on an apartment. Another difference: My kids say “redistribute” rather than “donate,” using language to reflect what I said earlier, that the American system has given some of us more than our fair share.
Built on a myth about how this country came to be, Thanksgiving might be the best occasion of all to remember the inequities that have shaped the world and our place in it. After giving thanks for what we have, perhaps we can ask ourselves what we might do to reshape it.
Rachel Pastan
Editor
