Thanksgiving & Black Friday: A Tale Of Two Americas

Turkey, NFL, and family drama. It’s the most American of holidays. We brave invasive TSA pat-downs to brave invasive aunt interrogations. Families pose a little too forced in maybe a little too bright sweaters for the holiday picture. Siblings smile knowingly at each other in between sips as the odd uncle starts to ramble.

Mothers and daughters watch SpongeBob Squarepants float by in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Fathers and sons chuckle at the Detroit Lions’ secondary and John Madden turducken references. And we all take a long, wistful look at the “Wizard of Oz” during commercials.

In elementary school, we cut hand-shaped turkeys out of autumnal colored carton paper and globbed them to popsicle sticks. We dreaded “cornucopia” on spelling tests. Our teachers recounted how Squanto taught the Plymouth pilgrims to catch eel and plant squash. And we happily gobbled the sugary stories down with candy corn until we had to read Howard Zinn in high school.

Thanksgiving is America’s TV time-out. A four day, highly-caloric respite for the country to lick its collective wounds after another rough-and-tumble year. It’s a long weekend to reflect on not we lost but to give thanks for what we still have.

We need it. Save for gold investors, Steve Jobs, and the perma-tan (John Boehner and the Jersey Shore cast), it’s been a dreary 2010 for most Americans. The recession is over only to economists. Unemployment is stuck at 9.6%. 40% of Americans no longer believe marriage is necessary, according to a Time Magazine poll.

364.5 days ago Tiger Woods was the most beloved athlete on Earth. But since that late Thanksgiving night, he’s lost control of his SUV, aura, endorsements, driving accuracy, marriage, full-custody of the kids, every golf tournament he’s played, and #1 player in the world ranking. 364.5 days later Tiger is shell of himself who talks more about making macaroni with the kids then Jack Nicklaus’ 18 Majors.

President Barack Obama could only quip, “it feels pretty good to stop at least one shellacking this November” as he pardoned turkeys Apple and Cider Wednesday. It didn’t used to be this way. Time was the President announced Thanksgiving each year. There was no real rhyme or reason to it. Thomas Jefferson never declared a Thanksgiving. The more festive James Madison decided on two Thanksgivings one year. And neither was in autumn. It wasn’t until 1863 when Abraham Lincoln hammered down the last Thursday each November as a national holiday.

And so Thanksgiving was until President Franklin D. Roosevelt tried to tinker with it. The year was 1939. The Great Depression turned ten years old. Monopoly was the blockbuster game. Glossy Camel ads glamorized smoking in between Thanksgiving courses.

November that year had five Thursdays. So, FDR figured, why not make a week of it? He reasoned Thanksgiving could be a marketing bonanza to downtrodden merchants and tried to push it up a week.

Republicans were not as appreciative, however. It was confusing, they demurred, and an affront to Lincoln. So for one bizarre Thanksgiving, our parents and grandparents were split. Liberals observed “Democratic Thanksgiving” or “Franksgiving” on November 23. Conservatives enjoyed “Republican Thanksgiving” a week later. And some plumper opportunists celebrated both. Congress finally intervened and declared Lincoln had it right. Thanksgiving would be celebrated on the last Thursday in November. End of discussion.

Abraham Lincoln also started the presidential pardon of a turkey after his quirky son befriended one. But the pardon was in name alone. The turkey would not actually be spared until President George H. W. Bush, spawning decades of awkward presidential photo-ops. Especially for his son.

My family has had its own Thanksgiving traditions. It used to go something like this: My dad would win the Atlanta Marathon. He’d give his post-race interview. Then we’d pile into the car for the chocolate-fueled, Doors-soundtracked four-hour-drive to the grandparents’ in Asheville, North Carolina.

There’s no more Atlanta Marathon. The grandparents moved to Santa Fe. So now we celebrate Nontraditional Traditional Thanksgiving in the North Georgia hinterlands. It’s much faster. A no fuss, no muss affair headlined by steaks, shrimp, and cranberry sauce from Costco. (The cranberry sauce doesn’t particularly mix with anything. My younger brother just really, really likes cranberry sauce.) We treat the dog to his favorite peanut butter cookies for his birthday. We invariably eat too much apple pie, pass out to James Bond movies, and wake up to tragic Black Friday headlines.

There have been three Black Friday fatalities since 2008 alone. In 2008, a Long Island temporary Wal-Mart employee was trampled to death by an unruly, impatient mob of customers who shattered through the front doors at 4:55 AM. Police officers who attempted to resuscitate the worker were also stampeded in the fracas. A few counties over, a Valley Stream woman suffered a gashed leg from another Wal-Mart stampede. The woman completed her shopping before seeking medical attention and filing a police report, an officer said.

The New York Times dubbed Black Friday “a carnival of capitalism”. Time Magazine called it “a full-contact sport”. CBS described it as “the Super Bowl of shopping.” But there are no winners here. If Thanksgiving brings out the best in Americans, Black Friday brings out our worst. Heartfelt toasts and prayers wear off with the tryptophan. By 5 AM, cranky shopaholics bust in Wal-Mart sliding glass doors and stampede employees all in the name of 20% off discounts. Their appetite for mashed potatoes and stuffing exceeded only by their insatiable hunger for Wiis, Kindles, and Made In China-stamped toys. It is the annual sleep-deprived bloodsport of American mass consumerism. A no-holds-barred wrestling match coming Friday to a Toys R Us near you.

Worst of all, it doesn’t have to be. Sleep in this Friday. Order online. Wal-Mart is offering free shipping. No one has ever died placing an Amazon order. And this Thanksgiving, remember to be grateful. Not just for the food. Or the day off. But for the uncomfortable family moments, too. Treasure the longest long weekend of the year. Remember the “I remember when you were this big” greetings and that the snide, backhanded comments are their way of showing love. Remember years from now, you’ll look back and laugh. And be nice. Because years from now that eccentric aunt or uncle could be you.