Hunger Pains

Thanksgiving in Gary

    The scent of freshly baked sweet potatoes and honey cooked ham filled my nostrils the moment we entered the tiny, three-bedroom house. It was Thanksgiving, the best time of the year (in my opinion) due to the opportunity of spending time with family members that you hadn't seen in days, weeks, months, maybe even years and not having to feel the eyes of strangers as they judged you for filling up your plate for round number two. Having to spend some time with my Grandma Thompson in the home where my father was raised in was a once in a lifetime experience; I wouldn't have another opportunity to enjoy my grandma's cooking. On the outside, the house was painted an eye widening sunflower yellow, there were bushes that guarded the entire house (presenting it with lovely pink and red flowers during spring) and a tiny front yard that fit perfectly around it. But, on the inside, it felt even smaller (the bedrooms not big enough to fit a king-sized bed and its bed frame) and you wondered how in the hell six out of eight children (including the parents) managed to live underneath one roof. The house was beautifully decorated as pictures of family lined up, one by one, along a clear case; my dad in his army uniform, my cousin Kelly in her cap and gown as she graduated high school, my grandmother standing proudly with one hand on her hip and a smile on her face, and a few pictures of my cousins when they were my age. The couch and the small love seat managed to fit perfectly into the already little in size living room, but they were covered in crystal clear plastic. Why, I had no idea, but I could tell you that those hot summer months it was at your own risk if you wanted to take a seat due to the knowledge that your thighs stuck because of the sweat.

The moment we walked through the door, we were greeted with enough hugs and kisses that could fill a cruise ship. The first one to greet us was my grandmother as she held me close to her chest as her arms wrapped around my tiny torso—she smelt like old people and plain soap—as she continuously kissed my forehead. The next wave of greetings involved the bombardment of my aunts who suffocated me with more hugs and kisses; I felt like I was going to drown. Many times, my father had warned us about how big his family was; he had three older brothers, three older sisters and a twin sister who was older than him for a couple of minutes. My dad also had a good handful of nieces and nephews too. My mother was a very big social butterfly; talking to one person for one minute and in another, she was talking to somebody else. But she did so with such grace as she held on to my sister, Ariana, in one arm while using her hip for support and laughing as my grandmother guided us to the staircase that led us to the only large room in the house: the basement. I had no choice except to follow them like I was a lost puppy, but before stepping into the abyss, I watched as my aunts returned to the small yellow colored, steamed filled kitchen to help with the cooking.

It felt a little strange having to be in the same room with my extended family; my stomach tying itself into constant knots and layers of sweat forming in my palms. We've only been living in Indiana for a few short months, but already it felt like I had lived here my entire life (which, at the time, would have only been for five years). As we made our way down to the dark abyss—hearing each step creak and moan one by one as our feet kissed it—and for a quick second, I was able to take a really good look at everyone that had showed up; trying to piece together who was married to who by seeing who's waist they held on to, who were my first cousins (trying to figure out which aunt or uncle did they belong to), and trying to desperately figure out who I would end up talking to when I got older. Just about all my cousins were older than both Ariana and I (we couldn't help it, we were born in the mid to late nineties while everyone else was born in the early, mid, and late eighties...ish). Many of my aunts and uncles were already married, having children, celebrating wedding anniversaries, and going on family vacations. Yet, my parents weren't doing any of that. My parents weren't even close to having a wedding ceremony with my dad in a tuxedo, my mom in a beautiful white wedding dress that she would probably try and pass down to my sister and I, a sermon who would ask them "would you take this person to be your lawfully wedded wife?", and a large reception where there would be all types of food—like pigs in a blanket, but were they actually made out of pigs and were they in blankets?