Every year when Thanksgiving approaches I get this "thing" in my throat?a kind of pain, as if I swallowed a tennis ball or a whole sweet potato. My glands start to wobble and my legs grow plump; my neck elongates and my head starts to swivel. I feel as if my death is right around the corner. I have nightmares of being sliced up on a Thursday. Like a bird that can't fly, I feel powerless, completely unable to free myself from the impending doom of Thanksgiving.
I've had this problem my whole life. I've seen doctors, shrinks, hypnotists, and turkey whisperers, but all to no avail.
At first I tried to blame my childhood, and especially my parents. I had some real rough experiences growing up. Once November began my mom would start calling me her little "b. ball" and make me wear yellow netting. She fed me nothing but sticks of butter, and put a fluorescent light in my bedroom that never turned off. The light kept me from sleeping and made me hungry. I would grow twice as fast as I did in other months, my legs expanding and my breast becoming full and meaty. All of that growing caused terrible shooting pains in my gizzard. One year I even woke up on Thanksgiving to find my mother basting me.
My brother would run around the house yelling "Ian's a turkey?Ian's an ugly bird?Ian's a bird and he still can't fly?I'm gonna' carve you and eat you!" My brother is a realist who would never make things up or let his imagination get the best of him. As such, my parents felt he was totally fit to play with carving utensils, so his taunts were, no surprise, realistic.
My family caused me to turn inward for the emotional support I needed for survival. In my mind I created my own imaginary turkey-family. Imaginary turkey-families are far more accepting than human families. I had an imaginary turkey mom, Butter, and an imaginary turkey dad, Trot. I had no imaginary turkey brother. There are no imaginary turkey brothers, except the ones that we imagine carving and eating. Turkeys are not cannibals, but they do eat their brothers.
In sixth grade I had a soccer tournament on Thanksgiving. While running around somewhat confused and flapping my arms (I was never very good at soccer) somebody kicked the spotted ball right into my rear. I had to go to the hospital. The doctor told me I had broken my wishbone. I hadn't even made a wish.
I've never really understood who or what I am. "Obvi," I'm not a turkey, though there is probably some poultry in the gene pool. It is not a deep pool; there is no need for lifeguards in the pool of my genes. I will admit that I thought I was a Turk until eighth grade. Then, well, I started thinking it again in tenth grade, and then finally stopped again last year.
I guess what I'm saying is, while all of us should be thankful on Thanksgiving, some of us have pretty legitimate reasons to not be. For every thankful American there is a mommy turkey crying in a Butter Ball warehouse. Her tears taste like butter and shine like the sun as they reflect the ultraviolet lights above her. Some of us are more in tune with mommy's tears than others. For those of us that feel mommy's pain?those of us who feel that humans are not so different from overweight, sleep deprived birds that can't fly?Thanksgiving is a very emotional time.