Thanksgiving (Without the Thanks)

WELL, WE'RE glad that Thanksgiving is over. So much tension, just under the surface, which occasionally roared above the special lace tablecloth. “You’re carving a beautiful turkey, Aunt Edna. It’s too bad you cut the heart out of democracy when you voted for that buffoon. Could I have some more sweet potatoes, please?”

Or: “That’s the best pecan pie I’ve ever eaten, Sis. It helps take out the bitter taste of your voting to plunge this nation into a dark abyss of fear. Ooh, is that whipped cream!?”

It was probably okay in some households. Muslim Americans had no problems passing the green beans without mumbled criticisms of a relative’s recent vote. Jewish families, confident in their relative political unanimity, doubtless had a tension-free celebration. And most families of color could enjoy each other with minimal strain. (“Cousin Bob, bringing something from Chipotle is not appropriate for the Thanksgiving potluck. But you’re family, so it’s okay. Now let’s give thanks to God, who was totally not paying attention on Nov. 8.”)

WHITE EVANGELICALS had the toughest time, especially in families with mixed marriages (“You married a Catholic, but I still love you, and maybe even her, at some point in the future.”), and the inevitable presence of relatives with divergent political views.

Saying grace was the hardest part of the meal, when liberal family members peeked accusingly at their cousins, whose eyes were closed in pious gratitude that their guns were safe and that energy companies can finally mine the coal under our national parks. They were also giving thanks for more excessive military spending, cutting taxes for the rich, and turning over women’s reproductive rights to the authority of aged white men on Capitol Hill, as is their constitutional right. At least, this is what the progressives assumed their kinfolk were praying for. You can’t really tell, of course, because most people’s eyes were closed, a classic mistake at family gatherings when you’ve got to mentally calculate if there’ll be enough white meat for seconds. Or if you should save room for dessert. (Kidding. This is America. We’ll have it all.)

VISITING THE relatives is almost always a test of civility when politics is introduced into the conversation. Every year we promise ourselves not to bring it up, to instead focus on the young children, to inquire about recent household improvements, and to talk at length with the aging relatives. But then grandpa says he heard on Fox & Friends that poor people shouldn’t have refrigerators and that President Obama met with a pirate (actual F&F items), outrages that must be addressed and forcefully corrected. And all that before you even take off your coat.

But it’s Thanksgiving, or Christmas, or maybe a hastily-planned wedding for a young couple told by their church to rely on abstinence only (but they forgot), and this is your family. Yes, these are people with whom you would never associate under normal circumstances, except for that nasty accident of your birth.

So, for the sake of harmony, you don’t mention that both your daughters woke up sobbing on Nov. 9. You don’t point out that formerly disgraced politicians are now being considered for major cabinet positions, including Newt Gingrich, who I feel would better serve the nation as a department-store Santa. You don’t speak loudly and with incredulity in your brother’s living room that Rudy Giuliani, who could be our next secretary of state, just announced with a straight face—albeit a face that looks like a hastily carved pumpkin—that he changed his status on Facebook to “Best Friendsies” with Vladimir Putin.

Nor do you mention that Sarah Palin is being considered for Secretary of the Interior, something they would wholeheartedly endorse without a hint of full-body shuddering.

Nope. When they go low, you go high, preferably by standing on a footstool and loudly reminding these Bible-believing Christians who see everything as “God’s will”—including finding a good parking spot at the gun show—that in the previous two presidential elections, they finally had the candidate they’d been praying for: a Bible-believing, born-again, church-going Christian. And they didn’t vote for him.

And in this latest election, instead of supporting a hard-working woman raised on traditional Methodist values, they voted enthusiastically for—wait for it—the least qualified person ever to run for the presidency.

But you don’t do that. Because they’re family, and they’re calling you in for dinner. And it smells really good.