Why I Hate Thanksgiving: On Colonialism and Cranberries
Designed by Sophia Schafer-Wharton ’26
Dearest gentle reader,
(The indomitable Co-Editor in Chief of The Barefoot Times, Harper Gowen ’26, recently introduced this columnist to the addictive, formulaic realm of pastels that is Bridgerton, and now I can’t stop watching. Someone please send help and crumpets.)
It’s the most pitiful time of the year.
Now, before any offended readers go breaking down my door, I would like to clarify two things. First, “Unsolicited Musings and the Like” is a column where I express personal opinion as opposed to fact—though these two concepts do frequently overlap, as you will observe if you continue reading. And secondly, unless I have recently sold my soul to Satan in return for publicity (which I don’t believe has occurred), nobody will be reading this column anyway. Thus, any readers’ opinions on holiday cheer shall remain unchallenged, and I will have an operable door.
But to return to my thesis: as you may have gathered from the title of this entry, I despise Thanksgiving. And as I have been given a platform to rail against injustice (said platform being this little-known column), I will begin my tenure not by analyzing the disastrous results of the recent election, but with a scathing takedown of my least favorite holiday of the year.
Why do you loathe Thanksgiving so profoundly, Lucy? I’m glad you asked; here’s a list.
First and foremost, I do not condone a holiday that celebrates the legacy of genocide. The idea of observing a day during which we are grateful for what we have is a lovely one. However, the Eurocentric mythology of Thanksgiving serves to glorify white colonizers who decimated thousands of Indigenous nations, forced survivors into cultural conformity, and continue to devalue the existence and contributions of Indigenous people in what we today call “America.” Though I write this column with humorous intent in mind, I do not intend to joke about the all-too-visceral legacy of white supremacy within American sociopolitics.
The First Thanksgiving was celebrated in Plymouth, Massachusetts in 1621 (National Archives Museum). Folks, that was on the other side of the country more than 400 years ago. I have been to Plymouth, and I can assure any readers that there is nothing special about this particular locale, unless one has a craving for subpar fried cod or wishes to see an over-appreciated rock. And in regards to the whole 400-years-ago thing—come on, people, this is ridiculous. Some white guys chowed down on unseasoned turkey a few centuries ago, and suddenly we’re decorating our houses with styrofoam pumpkins, wearing excessive amounts of plaid, and putting Grape Nuts in the stuffing? We need newer holidays.
Tangentially related to the fact that it is currently 2024, I am here with a public service announcement. We have spices now. There is a wonderful world of coriander and ancho chiles, Szechuan peppercorns and nigella seeds, currently at the disposal of today’s designated Thanksgiving chef. However, indulging in traditional Thanksgiving fare simply means ingesting a truly exorbitant amount of salt to make up for overall blandness—and I adore salt; I once vowed to drink the ocean. Anyway, I don’t see the logic in reverting to the American culinary practices of several centuries ago. In fact, as a woman, let’s steer clear of all practices from several centuries ago—I enjoy being literate.
Small talk is actual torture, and anyone who thinks otherwise has an unnaturally thick skin and a high tolerance for cheek-pinching. Considering the current American political landscape, it seems wishful thinking that a large family gathering, comprised of many people with varying life experiences, will end without a disownment. For readers concerned about how to handle their upcoming familial soirees, I offer the following tips:
If someone brings up politics, ask them to tell you their childhood stories instead. This way, you are spared from listening to problematic stereotypifications of “woke liberals” and long-winded rants on the price of gas. And if you are in my family, you may discover that your great-grandmother had two secret husbands before your great-grandfather. Actually, if you are in my family, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you with this article.
If one despises turkey with the same passion that I do, I suggest following my approach of lying to my grandparents’ friends and claiming that I follow a strict vegetarian diet. I was able to weasel my way out of eating some room-temperature, germ-infested bird carcass by claiming that “I could not condone the various cruelties of the meat industry.” This approach works even better if you are actually a vegetarian.
Under no circumstances should you make any remarks about future plans (college, career, etc.). Your relatives will leap on you like hyenas who smell fresh meat, demanding to know if you’re applying early decision to MIT or if you’ve ruled out working at a hedge fund. I find it plausible that there is some unhappy rocket scientist out there who wanted to major in comparative literature but was afraid of disappointing her family after making rash proclamations about her love for space engineering at some disastrous Thanksgiving dinner in 1999.
Thanksgiving decorations are probably the ugliest things in the world. No further comment.
Dearest gentle reader, I hope I have provided a sufficient summary of my contempt for Thanksgiving. However, I will end this Unsolicited Musings entry on a somewhat positive note. I do have plans for celebrating Thanksgiving on my own terms in a few years’ time when I have an apartment and a like-minded social circle with a similar distaste for mashed squash. I dream of a meal of matzo ball soup and karaage, Ethiopian collard greens and mushroom risotto, paella and pickled onions, and not a single cranberry in sight (except, of course, for the melodious voice of Dolores O’Riordan).
Until then, you’ll have to put up with me griping about our cherished American holiday traditions. But I hope you have a nice Thanksgiving this year, anyway.
See you next time.