The fate of our plates... what ever happened to the village?

It's almost Thanksgiving and I'm reflecting on all the ways society is failing. My main dissatisfaction is lack of communuty, it's the fragmented mutual respect we all should have. Being at the dinner table not in alignment with the expectations of your post grad life, weight, major, relationship status, children, lack of children, fashion, sexuality, hobbies, job, hair, personality and more. Remember that iconic scene in Gossip Girl where Jason Derulo is playing in the background for a really long time and everyone eventually gets up because somebody said some thing scoff-able somebody said something that left the whole table, in disbelief, flabbergasted, and then utterly exposed . 

Do you know what it's like to be naked with a 7 pound turkey in front of you? I’d assume so. There is this concept of cousins, aunts, uncles, parents, siblings, grandparents and family friends that supposedly give a fuck about you. People sit, cut up, chop up the same meal they had before their first panic attack, chew up some nutrients and then swallow their integrity. People become Oscar worthy for a few hours and then go home to realize that meal is the last thing that would ever satiate anybody. It's in times like these where I hear people express their mutual dread, that I question if anyone's ever had soul food. Maybe we have all been ingesting poison but are conditioned to think it is palatable, although your body deserves better. I know that you know you never deserve to be treated like shit, right? I know you know it's actually that restaurant 2 miles away it looks shiny and you’ve always preferred chicken, you’d really throwback a dinner at Carbone, the line up of food trucks outside Bobst are more appetizing to you or you went vegan years ago and Thanksgiving is not your holiday anyway because it's a fucking lie. I'm just saying, I think there's a village we talk about and it is beyond performative. Screw a man in a white tee, jeans, wearing a tote bag sipping some matcha. “The Village” gives the single dangly cross earring, the “hey girly” DM, the mean girl who's a nurse with a bible verse in her bio, and the rich teenagers secret stash of well, everything. I’d say that the village contains a type of deceit that is truly unanticipated since matcha man never had me. The kicker, this deceit is not the shit you would stumble upon in the crotch of some half cooked lowkey still frozen turkey. The village, makes you see how somebody's contact in your phone doesn't actually mean you could ever talk to them. It certainly doesn't mean they've earned a phone call from you because they think the phone works both ways. Villages exist, but they're not to be declared by self-proclaimed villagers they're cherrypicked by you.

Peoples intolerance for the annual surprise stuffing, the yearly humuliation ritual who has one of those faces concieved Friendsgiving, the baby of our dreams! Friendsgiving is that kid who actually gives your life purpose. Friendsgiving the golden child that makes you rethink birth control, chuck the trojans and say fuck this is where it's at. Your nerves will settle down you sit and eat, and talk, with people who didn't vote against you, people who are interested in what you have going on excited too. People who don't trivialize your goals and scrutinize your partner or dismiss your ideas. People who hear you talk, notice the spark in your eye and try their best to keep it there. 

I'm a picky eater and I've always been but I've noticed if I'm spending time with someone who I care about, if they made it known that they care about me, the food doesn't taste as bad even if I would never grab it going about my day. Sometimes I slowly chomp away at the plastic on my plate, unknowingly. I lose my appetite, because my hunger exists not in my stomach but in pursuit of connection, learning more about them, answering their questions, and sharing advice. When I think of a villager I envision awareness, authenticity and support. I don't know your holiday plans but I hope your on the recieving end of that. I also wanted to share a poem I wrote and book recommendation All About Love written by Bell Hooks. Whoever you are regardless of where you're going goodluck at your table.

- https://oceanofpdf.com/authors/bell-hooks/pdf-epub-all-about-love-new-visions-download-81982773024/ 

A WAKE FOR THE WOKE ON THANKSGIVING

Where is your feeling? 

The warmth? 

Has it vanished or spotted the traumatized?

Am I cold? 

Are they telling me how cold I am?

How evil must I be?

Maybe your heart is with your eyes. 

Seeing the children playing four corners with bombs. 

Watching them get skinny by accident.

Watching them smile while managing to play soccer on rubble with their mom. 

Watching them lose their years.

Maybe your heart is in your eyes soothing the tears

after witnessing the cries of those little girls. 

Little girls being forced to find out that they possess strength

to fight despite their minds and bodies being at war, 

everyday and all night.

They don't even get to dream.

While nobody talks about their draft. 

We see our own nightmares be the life they are subjected to 

and people have the audacity to ask us where our sorrow is. 

Where our pity cuddles if not with the deserving.

Not knowing a moment of security. 

Today they want to test if you're confident in your purity.

Where your heart is.  

Who you are. 

Are you competent?

Your heart should be bold enough to warm

at the idea of releasing monsters who claim you're cold.

Your heart is parallel parked on Empathy Avenue

sitting between awareness and indifference. 

Proudly.

Loudly.

Some will claim unhinged.

Sitting outside.

Waiting for a feast you wish would feed the people your mourning.

Waiting till they run out of ammunition. 

Waiting until they develop a conscience. 

May the forgotten finally feel paradise.