Best Thanksgiving Ever

Yes, this is late and it’s now closer to Christmas than my favorite holiday, but I may have had my best Thanksgiving, if not ever, at least in a long while. 

What made this one special was a long conversation with my granddaughter, Bex (aka Rebecca, Becca). She’s 12. Not that we used to have long, philosophical talks or anything, but since her Dad now works from home (good for him, the family, just all around good) our (joyful) grandparenting duties have diminished. And she’s 12. She is, as is normal and healthy, establishing her independence and autonomy and doesn’t need us like she used to. That, too, is good, good for her, good for her family, just all around good.

Well, maybe not as good for me because I’ve missed her, I’ve missed the closeness of the relationship we developed in her earlier years. True anecdote: One day, when she was 3 or 4 and we were down in Florida on our annual vacation, I was in the pool with her (tough duty). Another child her age came down the steps and I heard, “Hi, I’m Becca, and this is my best friend, Grandpa.” Best.Day.Ever.

Understand, I am not complaining. She’s growing up like she’s supposed to. She’s a smart, funny, talented, creative, kind young woman, as self-aware and self-confident as you have any right to expect from any 12 year old. I know I can be proud and sort of sad at the same time and it’s all okay. But I’ve missed her.

Our Thanksgiving table was less crowded this year, a smaller group, and I wandered back to my office where she had retreated for some alone time. Alone time is important for almost everyone, but especially in our family. Anyway, I sat down and we talked for at least a half hour. That’s a long time. Did I mention she’s 12? 

I asked her about her Diabetes (T1D). Is it a big deal to her? Apparently not. Her 3-year “Diaversary” is coming up; does she think about it? Not really. It would seem I’ve made more of a deal about the disease than she does. My small acts to raise awareness are seemingly more important to me than her. She doesn’t need me to get a T1D “Hope” Tattoo. Not that she minds, but I need to recognize that occasionally painting my fingernails in T1D’s blue & grey isn’t really about her, at least not her personally. 
For her the disease is just a fact of life, an undesirable one, to be sure, but just one part of her day-to-day existence that she has accepted and incorporated. She doesn’t need a reminder or to have her awareness raised; it’s just her life. I still bought her a t-shirt anyway.

Middle School pretty much sucks, pretty much for everyone. No sane adult would ever repeat adolescence. And hers sucks way less than most; she’s protected and most of her classmates have been together for getting close to 10 years now. I have never seen a group of kids who “play together” better than this crew. They are seldom if ever intentionally mean to anyone and are almost always at least kind and considerate to each other.

Still, as we talked, a few tears were shed. (I’ve always seemed to have the ability to generate tears from adolescent females. It’s a gift.) Unintentional hurts still hurt, even when you know the hurt was unintentional. Even with a group of peers that you know like and respect you, there can be a feeling of loneliness. That’s normal, that’s okay, but it’s still adolescence and it still sucks.

I even started to walk away once when I felt I’d spent as much time as she wanted, but, instead, she re-jumped the conversation and I got bonus time, like reaching a certain score on a video game. (Okay, Boomer, I admit I was going to say, “pinball game.”) I tried to listen more than I talked (not always a great strength for me), but promised her that if she ever needed to talk without me making noise in response, I could do that. She laughed. Still, I shared that I had my own Rules o’ Life on my blog and mentioned one or two to her.

When I got a text the next day asking for the link, while it didn’t match the pool story, it did warm my soul. It will not be easy for me, but I will resist the urge to follow up unless she broaches the subject. Just asking is enough. Just asking Grandma to take her shopping after school is enough. 

I told her she had made this The.Best.Thanksgiving.Ever. She’s 12. We hugged, long and hard, and my heart was full.

Thanksgiving & White Privilege

Many years ago, as part of a consciousness-awareness-raising workshop or in-service, I was introduced to the concept of “White Privilege.” I didn’t find either the workshop or term offensive. I’ve known for a long time I was a child of privilege. The SAT tests I took in the ‘60s were written for kids just like me, white, middle class, the progeny of striving parents (both first generation HS graduates, btw). It’s not the only reason I did well, but it was an advantage I had that was not universally shared, including by a significant percentage of white kids.

Neither did I take it personally or get defensive, though some of my colleagues were resistant and did feel attacked. However, I did reject the projected guilt that seemed to be expected by the presenters. It was no more my fault that I had been the beneficiary of so many advantages than it was the fault of the vast majority of kids I taught, both black and white, that they weren’t. Slavery and its pernicious, continuing aftermath was neither my fault nor reversible. I had long ago recognized that not everyone starts from the same place, that where you end up in this marathon of life is, at least in part, determined by where you start on the course (and, yes, sadly, less but still all too often, the color of your skin), and you have no control over those factors. 

But no one starts at the finish line (and I would pity them if they did; without struggle there is no growth). Maybe I did only have to run a half-marathon over fairly smooth roads instead of a 39.3 with innumerable hills, hurdles, obstacles, and even land mines (in the case of some of my Bosnian students, not a mere figurative reference). I tip my hat to those whose course was longer and more rugged than mine, but I still have to run my race, which is still not finished. 

It’s why I’m so proud of so many of my former students, because I know how tough their race was, and, in some cases, continues to be. It was a continuing frustration for many Hancock staff trying to counterbalance the self-imposed low expectations of too many of our kids, kids who openly said, “Hey, what do you expect, I’m from Lemay.” And for the majority who have succeeded or are still working to succeed, I can understand why some of them, in spite of everything, don’t feel “privileged,” and struggle to recognize what that is supposed to mean in relation to their life experiences.*

Recognizing privilege, at whatever level it exists – or doesn’t exist – is neither an excuse nor cause for celebration. Those who won or lost the genetic and/or socioeconomic lotteries are still responsible for their lives. But we all need to recognize that no matter how many obstacles we may have faced, others have faced more, and while it’s no excuse, it might just be at least a partial explanation, and true empathy mitigates a lot of anger and resentment.

But privilege is so much more than economic opportunity. I never have to worry about being looked at suspiciously when I walk into a store because of my race. I never have to worry about poor or no service at a restaurant because of my race. I never have to worry about getting pulled over by the police because I don’t “fit” in the neighborhood. The list goes on and on, the privilege, if you will, that I get simply by being white. That key component CANNOT, MUST NOT, be ignored.

So this Thanksgiving, like so many I’ve celebrated over the past decades, I choose to recognize my many blessings, with no resentment for those who may have had even more advantages, and empathy for the oh-so-many who had fewer, hope that I’ve done what I could to give back and share my blessings with those who have had a much more challenging race to run, and resolve to continue to do as much as I can, for as many as I can, as long as I can.

Here’s hoping that all who read this find their own blessings this Thanksgiving Day. Peace and love.

    * When I first posted this piece, two years ago, a number of my formers suggested (kindly, respectfully, but not in so many words) that I was perhaps being condescending, that for any number of reasons, but often to the credit of their parents, they did not feel underprivileged, and, although I notice now that I did not use that exact term, I understand that the word (or its implication) has a negative connotation; what I meant to suggest is that privilege, like prejudice, is a continuum, not solely an either/or proposition. At whatever level of privilege each of us started, it is our obligation to recognize that there are many who have had a more challenging story to live; they deserve not our sympathy, but our empathy. 

    Incidentally, IMO there are no adequate synonyms for empathy, which is why I kept repeating it.