“To the extent possible, keep the indoor gatherings as small as you possibly can,” Fauci wearily entreated the ABC audience. “We all know how difficult that is,” he acknowledged, ”because this is such a beautiful traditional holiday, but by making that sacrifice, you’re going to prevent people from getting infected.”
You can watch the full interview below.
Fauci also noted that “a sacrifice now could save lives and make the future much brighter as we get through this.” But as article after interview after Twitter thread reveals just how reluctant and indifferent people are to making that sacrifice, I thought I’d share what such a sacrifice looks like.
It’s no secret that I lost a cherished aunt to the virus in April, and then my adopted grandmother in August. I’ve watched the virus spread throughout my extremely large family tree to the tune of nearly 20 cases. Yet some of my family members are still traveling, and large get-togethers are still happening even as most of my people recoil at the idea, opting instead for smaller groupings that comply with Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) recommendations to avoid indoor gatherings of more than 10 people.
My chosen feast was definitely a tiny one, and we struggled to build our menu and assign dishes; there was no justifying, say, having candied yams and sweet potato casserole on a table with so few diners. My signature dressing got voted off the island in favor of the stuffing everyone (but me) loves. Nobody agreed with me that we needed ham and turkey, but I found a small victory when my aggressive campaign for a cousin’s fresh green bean casserole won out over the traditional canned version. In the end, loving compromise reigned supreme, and as a menu solidified, task delegations were made.
Then I got hurt. Badly. I trekked to my doctor’s office, to the imaging machines, to the blood draw lab, to the pharmacy. I endured intense rounds of physical therapy. Of course each of these medical professionals were taking every safety precaution, and I feel it’s unlikely I’ve been exposed as I write this. My fellow feasters knew about all of this, and they were more concerned about my health than anything. But as I added yet another doctor’s appointment to my wall calendar last week, I realized that by the time Thanksgiving came around, I would have been at healthcare facilities a dazzling nine times in the preceding 13 days. On top of that, a cherished young person had descended upon my home in the midst of it all, and I did not turn them away.
As someone who grew up in abject poverty, homelessness, and hunger, frequently isolated from my extended family due to estrangement cultivated by my birth parent, I have deep-seated trauma connected with gift-giving occasions like Christmas or birthdays, because I rarely got to celebrate them, and it was even rarer that I got gifts. At such celebrations, I reveled in the company and the food. The Thanksgiving feast—outside the whitewashed “history” and truth of Native American genocide—is, to me, the best kind of celebration: It’s about food, and it’s about friends and family, which are my favorite things beside my dog.
I’ve hosted Friendsgiving myriad times and volunteered to feed others. Everyone wants everyone to have a full belly on Thanksgiving; many of the meals Young Jessica enjoyed on Thanksgivings gone by came in takeout containers, courtesy of a local church or charity that wouldn’t help my family on any other day. I also appreciate the value of gratitude that is woven into this day of binge-eating. Gratitude is an important part of my value system as someone who escaped the conditions of my youth.
But I do go on, even though you know where I'm going.
I was staring at my wall calendar last week when I realized I could potentially be a walking COVID-19 vector. I thought of the guest list, and the elderly loved ones on it. Oh, and that cancer survivor. And I burst into tears, because I knew what I had to do to keep them safe.
It took me two days to get up the nerve to tell our holiday hostess that I had to remove myself from the guest list. I ultimately did it with a cowardly text, because I feared she’d push back and insist I come, and I’d crumble. But she didn’t: A day later, as we spoke in her driveway, she actually thanked me for taking the stance ... so she didn’t have to ask.
And so I will be entirely alone on Thanksgiving Day for the first time since my teens. Well, my dog will be there.
I’m trying to make the best of it, and I had the advantage of time. I got my honey-baked ham. I’ve prepped my signature dressing, as well as the sweet potato casserole I prefer. I get a can of whole-berry cranberry sauce to myself and I don’t have to even look at that jiggly kind with lines. There are multiple Zoom calls scheduled among my massive family to connect our tiny celebrations (mine is the smallest); folks also will be bringing me plates to my door.
I know the right thing can be done because dammit, I’m doing it, but we’ll never know if I could have feasted with family safely. We’ll never know if I’ve isolated for nothing. But as Fauci said way back in March, “(W)e should be overly aggressive and get criticized for overreacting." He also noted that if we’d handled things right back then, “(w)e'll be thankful that we're overreacting."
As this day of gratitude looms, I’m thankful for the chance to overreact, even as people dismiss Dr. Fauci’s guidance.
And so, in these final hours before this holiday that’s just going to launch another surge upon the surge upon surge we’re currently in, I have just one request for you, dear reader, with Dr. Fauci in mind.
Stay the fuck home, and be grateful. It’s not too late to change your plans.
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