assignment #14 - lily gardner: her soggy carrots

My grandmother called me as I sat in the airport to tell me that she finished Rachel Maddow’s book and believed the fossil fuel billionaires were corrupting all politics. I have never been prouder.

My mother is a child trauma therapist, and compassionate human being, almost to fault. My aunt and uncle met working for the INS, Immigration and Naturalization Services. My aunt is a lawyer.

When one drives a long distance for the family that will not descend into the South, it is right to expect a bit of peace, or at least some respect.

I wish she realized that, I do wish I could eat gluten. So does my mother. I’m sure my aunt wishes she trying to stop growing a parasite in her stomach and could eat sugar or carbohydrates. If all your bringing is carrots and homemade bread, what is there to complain about? Avoid the quinoa, if you must.

“I am just a good old Vermont girl,” she says, as if that is the reason she’s radically different from the rest of us. My father was a good old “Kentucky boy,” and he has no problems with dietary accommodations, or nice things, or morality.

We take caucus in the basement, it’s where we keep the wine and the chocolate. It’s also where her step son stays, which feels rebellious in its own right.

My transgender cousin has learned to accept the intentional deadnaming, and not take it personally. It, of course, does not stop her from commenting about his phone usage at the table. My mouth dropped.

She defended the children who were put into cages on our Southern border. She had worked for DACA, I would’ve requested a new agent. My mother requested a new relative.

Now, we do Thanksgiving-leftover luncheons. We see them for a shorter stint.

We all decided not to drink after she had started her first glass, a subtle shaming fuck you. She didn’t eat desert, she didn’t deserve to taste its luxury.

In Massachussets, the good kush is legal. My grandmother is desperately in need of some, baked, preferably. Or infused. She joked she gave us some as a gift, the two of them were appalled as they sat at the opposite end of the table with the only glass of alcohol on the table. They left it, in fear of the government thinking it was an illicit drug. It was CBD lotion, intended to help my aunt manage her cancer pain.

Our Thanksgiving traditions doesn’t include Thanksgiving, she couldn’t stand my discussions of the glorification of American colonization and geniocide, they just include commentary.