Chapter Seven: Turkish Thanksgiving

Ever since 1621, Americans have been celebrating Thanksgiving. What better way to celebrate our ability to exploit colored peoples than to gorge ourselves on the fruits of their labors? Beats me. Every year, Thanksgiving for my family usually means going to an aunt, uncle, or grandmother's house for typical gluttony. But the Thanksgiving of eighth grade year was different. I sought to expand my horizons.

Upon an invite, I asked if I could have Thanksgiving with Kerem's family this year. I was pleasantly surprised when both my mother and father obliged. I was excited to meet someone else's extended family, something I'd never really done. Kerem and I had grown into really good friends, and I felt this was the culmination of our friendship.

After quite a bit of effort spent trying to button my thirty inch pants around my thirty three inch waist, I was off to Kerem's adorned in some decent semi-formal attire. My mom dropped me off at Kerem's row home, asserting she'd be there to pick me up later.

I was under the impression that this Thanksgiving was going to be a simple gathering at Kerem's. Maybe a few of his relatives in the area would drop by. However, the plan was for me to tag along with Kerem's family and attend a relatively larger party at Kerem's aunt's house. It was roughly a twenty minute drive, nothing major. Actually, I was excited to meet even more of Kerem's relatives.

As soon as we arrived, I could tell things were going to be good. As I waded through Kerem's affable olive-skinned relatives I was delighted at how they embraced me. Despite the fact that I was one of only two white people there, I encountered smiling faces and engaging conversations universally. Plus, there was an abundance of succulent American and Turkish dishes. My already constricted tummy would have to wait for freedom. Kerem and I had even brought our skateboards. We got in a few good hours of hardcore ollies and extreme power slides.

By the end of the night, I was overcome with an encompassing feeling of joy - great food, great people, and I even got to skate some. We headed back to Kerem's house, and as expected, it was time for my mom to come pick me up.

"How was Thanksgiving with Kerem's family?"

"It was real fun. We spent most of the time at his aunt's house, though. I met a lot of his relatives, they were really nice."

"Wait, you went to his aunt's house? You didn't tell me you were going there."

"I didn't think it was a big deal, we just went there and came back."

"Why didn't you tell me you were going to his aunt's house! You lied to me!"

"I didn't think it mattered! It was just his aunt's house! What's the big deal?"

"It does matter! You lied to me! You never told me you went to his aunt's house!"

"Why's it such a big deal?!?! It was just his aunt's house!"

"BECAUSE I SAID SO! I'M YOUR MOTHER! AND YOU LIED TO ME!"

I couldn't comprehend her anger. I had a lingering feeling all through that day that my mom would see traveling to Kerem's aunt's house as fishy. I never acted on it. I didn't see the need to. My mistake, apparently it was a pretty big issue to my mom.

I was incredibly irate. I explained to my mom that she was beyond logic at this point. How could she be so upset over something so trivial? There was literally no objectionable point to me going to and from Kerem's aunt's house. Yet another yelling match over something completely avoidable. Fantastic. My mother and I both went to bed that night with bitter hearts; both of us stubbornly bent on the idea that we were each in the right.

The next morning, she recanted. I think my dad may have talked to her about her outburst, as well. She admitted she had stepped over the line. So what if I had gone to Kerem's aunt's house without explicitly telling her? I wasn't intentionally deceiving her, or trying to hide anything mischievous. We made up, timidly hugging.

And so things went back to business as usual. I didn't know at the time, or I just wasn't read to accept, that business as usual would include incidents like this on the regular for years to come.

Chapter One: My Entrance

Dear Internet,

My name is Andrew G. and I'm 17 years old. I live in socioeconomically sheltered Northern Virginia, and I regularly attend high school. I get pretty good grades, and I fancy myself as an intelligent, able, and strapping lad. I enjoy the company of women, wine, and weed. Also, I pride myself on the fact that I have pretty few illusions about what the 'real world' is.

But I have a problem. There is a hellish creature, devoid of any capacity to think or feel, that lurks on the nightmare edge of my consciousness, perpetually keeping me in a prison of negativity.

My mother.

For the foreseeable future, this Blog will be my account of living with Patricia G. I don't want to spoil the fun and spill all of my stories and Oedipal emotional upwellings in one post. The best part is that this story still ain't done. I've got a little over five months until I graduate, a little over six until my eighteenth birthday, and a little over seven until I officially move out.

So, let's play some Tetris, motherfuckers. I guess I'll start with the first ever traumatic experience, when I learned that my mom might not hold completely healthy unconditional love for me.

I was in the sixth grade: chubby, impressionable, and eager to have some fun. It was my second year taking Gifted/Talented classes at a new elementary school, and my social network was understandably meager. My after-school activities usually included taking the bus home, eating, and absorbing the glory that was Cartoon Network. I was also pretty new to the idea that people could develop and explore hobbies outside of vegetating and getting fatter.

Mitch, the kid who sat across from me (and later good friend), successfully pitched the idea that I should come down one of these Wednesday evenings and join his Boy Scout troop. The Boy Scouts seemed less depressing than sitting around watching Mid-September days blend into Autumn.

After spending all of the fifth grade living at a separate apartment, my parents had 'reconciled' their issues, and my Dad was back in the house. I figured joining the Boy Scouts would be an easy sell to Mom and Dad. What self-respecting middle class parent would ever deny their child an opportunity to join this emblematic, American Hitler Youth? (Ha, ha)

"Mom, I want to join the Boy Scouts. My new friend Mitch told me about it, they meet up every Wednesday at the school, and, and..."

"No."

"Why not? Please mom, it's the Boy Scouts."

"No. Don't you remember the time we tried to sign you up for football, and you cried the whole time?"

"Well, yeah. But this is the Boy Scouts!"

"What has gotten into you? It's those new G/T kids isn't it?!? You want to try all these new things! You're changing! I BET YOU'RE ON DRUGS!"

Text will never convey the extent of my heartbreak. I burst out crying because I just didn't know where this rage-filled outburst came from. For the next two hours my mom grilled me. I crumbled in front of her onslaught. Everything she said was wrong, but it still stung. I was peppered with questions: What's wrong with me? Where do I get my drugs? Who are these new friends?
This was the first time in my life I had felt seriously threatened by my mom. I recall the tears continued, while the rest of that night is an emotional blur in my memory.

In the morning, my mom approached me bearing hugs and sorrys. And so I returned the sentiments. Because she's my mom, and that's how I'm supposed to feel, and that's what I'm supposed to do.

A few weeks later, my Dad actually took me to a Boy Scout meeting. But it wasn't at Mitch's troop. Or anyone else I knew for that matter. Whether it was the stigma my mom created, or something else, it kind of sucked and I never went back.