A Thanksgiving Prayer
by William S. Burroughs

To John Dillinger, in hope he is still alive.
Thanksgiving Day, November 28, 1986.

Thanks for the wild turkey and the passenger pigeons, destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts.

Thanks for a continent to despoil and poison.

Thanks for Indians to provide a modicum of challenge and danger.

Thanks for vast herds of bison to kill and skin leaving the carcasses to rot.

Thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes.

Thanks for the American dream, to vulgarize and to falsify until the bare lies shine through.

Thanks for the KKK.

For nigger-killin' lawmen, feelin' their notches.

For decent church-goin' women, with their mean, pinched, bitter, evil faces.

Thanks for "Kill a Queer for Christ" stickers.

Thanks for laboratory AIDS.

Thanks for Prohibition and the war against drugs.

Thanks for a country where nobody's allowed to mind their own business.

Thanks for a nation of finks.

Yes, thanks for all the memories-- all right let's see your arms!

You always were a headache and you always were a bore.

Thanks for the last and greatest betrayal of the last and greatest of human dreams.

While growing up, I participated in much of the mythical pomp of Thanksgiving. Thankfully, if I ever participated in any pageants, my memory has lost the record. In the earlier grades of elementary school, we traced a hand, then colored in the fingers as feathers, and thumb as a head and neck. Voila, a turkey! We also created paper "Pilgrim", and "Indian" hats (amazingly enough, those "Indians" had a name... the Wampanoag).

As I aged, Thanksgiving was just an excuse to get out of school for a couple of days, and help my mother in the kitchen. It was just another opportunity for Mom to work herself to the bone while the men of our family sat in the living room watching American football. I grew to loathe that form of male bonding. It meant that the TV would be on most of the day (possibly the Redskins vs. the Chiefs), and that none of the men could be bothered to do anything. Being a vicarious alpha male was much more important than interaction with the rest of the family.

Up to a certain age, at least some of us would play board or card games. That was always fun, and something I miss about spending the day with my family. Thankfully, Gramma had shaken off her Fundamentalist upbringing and had become quite the card player. I suspect she might have beaten Vegas odds.

We indulged in many of the stereotypical foods: roast turkey, dressing (Mom's oyster or chestnut dressings were great!), mashed (ours were really whipped) potatoes, candied yams with marshmallow topping (I can't think of a worse way to insult the noble yam), green beans in that slimy mushroom-soup glop with fried onion bits on top (A green bean, mushrooms, and onions travesty.), and fruit salad with tiny marshmallows and some sort of froofy dressing. Happiness could just as easily been unadorned mandarin orange slices, pineapple chunks, etc...

Gramma always created her melt-in-your mouth noodles (complete with chicken livers, hearts, etc...). I also couldn't get enough of that jellied cranberry out of a can. You know you're easily amused when you get excited at the thought of taking a bite of jellied cranberry, chewing and swallowing, then drinking some cold water. Oooh, what a sensation! Almost as good as peppermint.

She also baked the most amazing rolls, and would bring a pumpkin and/or apple pie. A relish tray full of olives, black and green (It was a revelation in later years to taste the myriad of olives from around the world.), tiny sweet gherkins, tart dill pickles, and my mom's homemade bread-and-butter pickles also adorned the table. I'm a smorgasbord eater. Give me small portions of a large variety of foods, and I'm happy. Big holiday feasts always gave the opportunity to indulge gourmet gourmand tendencies.

Not long after I moved away and discovered the true history of Thanksgiving, I loathed celebrating the day. Now that I was on my own, I could get away with just one winter holiday trek to Ohio. Since Christmas was a week ahead of Mom's birthday, I usually grimaced through that day instead of Thanksgiving.

It wasn't all bad, but as I aged, my awareness of painful family dynamics grew. It was difficult to sit by and watch every man in the house sit on his arse while my mother slaved in the kitchen. She generally worked a full-time job, as well as having primary responsibility for raising four children. Also, as my youngest brother grew, he became more violent and difficult to be near.

Some years after I left home, I sat alone. Friends grudgingly trekked off to their own dysfunctional family follies, and returned with lots of leftovers and a few more emotional scars. I tried to gather people together for alternative events where emotional scarring was not allowed, but duty always seemed to win out over happiness. While I'm not keen on the mythology surrounding the day, it was hard to sit home alone when most everyone else was off celebrating.

Something I loved about my mother was that she often took other people into our family celebrations. I try not to think of all the "friends" over the years who somehow thought it was acceptable to happily burble on about whatever event they'd just experienced while I had sat home alone. At a certain point in my life, I decided that some of these folks weren't friends, and cut contact.

Since I've been cohabiting with erasmus, I've visited his mother and her partner in New York two or three times for Thanksgiving. They are both MCC ministers, and always sponsor a big potluck for their congregation. This is the closest (other than the Day of Mourning speak-out, march, and social) that I've come to being comfortable on this day in years.

I don't know the history of each person attending. There's a high percentage of BLTG, disabled and poor people. What I love about this potluck is that it is inclusive. I feel a real sense of community, which is something I'm sorely lacking.