Growing Up is Constantly Throwing Me for a Loop

Home was wonderful. What can I say? There is no substitute for family and friends that are like family.

My flights home were uneventful- although there was one man who was outfitted pretty incredibly- cowboy boots, sunglasses and a shirt from the Angola Prison Rodeo. He laughed a lot.

And of course there was the airport news- and the ridiculous Death of a Salesman at the Wal-Mart. (Way to go, consumerism.)

Anyway.

Here we are.

My essay for class tomorrow:

This year I gave my students an assignment to write about their Thanksgivings. One of them challenged me back to write about mine. So as I sit in my parent’s living room in Washington, I think about my life in New Orleans, my family here, and the string of Thanksgivings that has led to this one.
Thankgiving used to be: huge family gatherings in San Diego, scrappy football games in the front yard and making sculptures out of food at the kids’ table. There are sixteen of us O’Sullivan cousins on my mom’s side, and with aunts and uncles, the grand total of guests at Grandma’s house hovers around thirty-two. As a kid, my cousins and I spent the majority of Thanksgivings running around, hiding from the horrendous fate of having to help with the dishes of a meal made to feed so many people. We would escape behind bushes, around corners, and occasionally, into the living room where many of the dads and uncles would be laying around watching football, their bellies and eyes heavy from turkey and wine. We would sink into the couches beside or behind them, casting nervous glances toward the kitchen door, where moms, aunts, and Grandma talked in loud voices about things we didn’t understand.
In college, Thanksgiving became time to catch up with old high-school friends. It was chatty-evenings around kitchen counter-tops discussing politics, jobs, jokes, and opportunity. We had chubby cheeks and a stupid faith in our own invincibility.
Since then, the turkey’s most feared holiday has continued to change. (Upon writing that, I wonder- is it Thanksgiving that is changing- or is it me? Everything together, I suppose.) My little sister is in college now, as are some of the children I used to babysit. My best friend from seventh grade works in an art gallery and goes home every night to her own condo in the town we always talked about getting away from. She has a mortgage. A couple other high school friends have kids.
Coming home I definitely don’t feel like a grown-up. My mom still does most of the cooking and I offer to help with the easiest things (cutting carrots, mashing potatoes). But my sister’s late-nights and constant texting make me realize I’m no longer a kid. She’s talking about tests coming up for theater, French, and psychology, and I am wondering how I can convince my own students that their hard work now will pay off later.
I run into people I haven’t seen for years and they ask me about New Orleans. They raise their eyebrows in surprise while I explain second-lines, boudin, Mardi-Gras, and crawfish fields. They ask how different the school I teach in is from the schools I went to growing up. It is hard to say succinctly.

“Is it safe?” They ask.
A few weeks ago someone was shot six times just a few blocks from my house, but I don’t tell them that. They already worry enough as it is. I worry too- but not so much for me. I worry about my students, who are used to things like that. I worry that they don’t believe me when I tell them how special they are, and how their stories would knock the socks off people all over, if only they would only write them down.
So this Thanksgiving, I am trying to make up a lesson to get my students excited about writing, and my mom is sautéing sausage and candying pecans, while my sister texts her friends in front of the fire that my dad built. Another mile marked. So much is different today from years ago, but it is comforting to know that some things will never change. We will eat turkey, and potatoes, and three types of cranberry sauce, and after dinner, my sister and I will try our best to get out of doing the dishes.

It needs some revising- but that's part of the point. What writing (project/relationship/life?) isn't a work-in-progress? Am I getting too earnest? Probably. I blame the time-zone change.

Three weeks until Christmas break. I am working on a series of lessons leading up to watching the film Wall-E.