Page 14 of Not About That Life
Five
Having Thanksgiving at a rich white family’s house is so interesting.
You see, I’m used to paper plates you have to double-stack because your cousin didn’t want to spend the extra money on the good Chinet ones so she got those cheap shits from the 99 cents store; the ones that you have to hold a certain way or the juice from the collard greens will also seep into the cornbread.
I’m used to my plate to look like I hadn’t eaten all damn year because it was piled on with candied yams, baked macaroni and cheese, black eyed peas, a little jambalaya, and oxtails in addition to the turkey and ham I put on there.
I’m used to sitting around living rooms, family rooms, and sometimes even outside in the backyard that were converted into makeshift dining areas with the folding chairs and plastic table coverings.
I’m used to getting our sodas and ice from the same coolers, not worrying about germs or cooties because we’re all kinfolk and that’s how we do.
I’m used to grabbing a slice of sweet potato pie and saving it for later right next to my plate because I know if I were go back for it later, it would be gone and I was going to be hella pissed at myself for not being quick enoughandmy family for being so damn greedy.
I’m used to kiki-ing with my cousins about the latest happenings on various black gossip blogs, discussing social matters, and hearing my uncles talk about whatever is going as they play a game of bones in the garage.
I’m used to getting my fill of Thanksgiving and then walking down the street on Crenshaw with my cousins as we watch a mild-mannered gentleman politely turn up his car volume as he blasts “Fuck Tha Police” right next to a squad car.
That’s what I’m used to.
Now these fancy white people in their fancy Caucasian home are serving Thanksgiving (okay, do Brits even celebrate this holiday?) on thegood plateswith thegood glasses,they’re discussing the latest gossip fromPeoplemagazine and I’m sitting here wondering what in the hell just happened?
Everyone has taken their places and a small part of me is looking around to see where are the coolers full of soda that represents every color in the rainbow (let’s not act like you never had grape soda at Thanksgiving now), some Ohio Players in the background in one room, while the other room has either a basketball or football game on.
Instead, I see extra polite manners, people dressed in what I would consider their Sunday best, and is that Beethoven I hear?
Oh Domi…we’re not in Baldwin Hills anymore. We’re beyond the Sunken Place.
We’re knee-deep in a Pumpkin Spice Latte convention.
“Isn’t this so lovely?” Adrienne pulls up a chair beside me and smiles. Amazing how my sister has just about completed the transformation into Stepford Wife without missing a beat. “Oh, just look at this china!” She gently picks up the plate and examines it. “I wonder if it’s bone or porcelain? Hmmm…I think it’s bone.”
“And what the hell?” I mutter under my breath as I turn towards her.
“What?” Adrienne slightly shrugs. “You don’t think it’s bone?”
“What are you doing?” I ask her. “A bitch gets a little money and she suddenly forgets she’s black?”
“No, this bitch gets a little money and realizes she doesn’t want to scare these white ladies at the table who can’t tell the difference between Beyoncé and Rihanna because they think all black people look alike and they don’t understand what Black Lives Matter mean because they feel All Lives Matter but they are the most comfortable with an incompetent white man being the president of the United States even if he votes against their interests while they gladly and unashamedly cultural appropriate by sayingyassssand Bye, Felicia! even though they probably couldn’t tell you why Craig got fired on his day off.” Adrienne blinks and smiles at me.
I take her lead and examine the plate. “Yeah, you’re right I do think it’s bone.”
“Yeah, I think so as well.” Adrienne nods.
I look around and I don’t see the Ferguson men anymore. They probably escaped in Ian’s Jaguar and left me and Adrienne to fend for ourselves. “Where are the men?”
“Oh, they’re going to bring the dishes out,” Emma chimes in with a slight wobble. She’s not drunk yet but she’s almost there. I have a feeling she can’t stand the atmosphere, neither. “Usually all of the women do it but it’s a big deal since this is Ian’s first Thanksgiving with the family in several years.”
A pang of guilt washes over me. I know how close Ian is with his family, yet he preferred to spend Thanksgiving with mine, despite all of the dysfunction. He’s always made it a point to spend the Christmas holiday with the Fergusons, no matter what.
“Well, maybe now he’s here the food might be better,” their cousin, Oscar Ferguson, replied, as he sipped his cognac. He was a bit older with dark hair and green eyes, and rather tall. He had a pretentious air about him, though I feel that’s more of how he appears to be than what he actually is. Fake Spice. “Because last year’s Thanksgiving was a bit of a disaster.”
Last year at Thanksgiving, I introduced Ian to the Soul Train line. We went down the line to “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough.” I have a feeling that’s not going to happen tonight. “What happened last year?”
“Oh, dinner started at nine, because somebody didn’t know what the hell she was doing in the kitchen.” Emma casually rolled her head (or did it roll on its own due to the liquor?) towards the stepmother, Elise, who sat near the head of the table.
She was a peroxide-blonde perfection with the best plastic surgery Anthony’s money could buy. I’m almost positive if she were on a sinking ship and there were no life vests left, she would be okay because those two big-ass flotation devices she calls tits will keep her afloat.
I carefully studied Elise’s face and could count the number of plastic surgeries she’s had, beginning with her too-inflated lips. All that money spent on looking like a black woman and still can’t get anywhere close to God’s creation. Beautiful.
