Thank You, God, For This Food. Amen

Rembert Browne on learning how to be black, one Thanksgiving at a time

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I SHOULDN’T EVEN be talking about this. But here we are. First things first: Black people are not a monolith—it’s reductive and a gross generalization to think in such terms. And with that out of the way, let’s talk about Black Thanksgiving.

The details of this event are admittedly sourced from my own Thanksgiving, a Black Southern celebration featuring four generations of people, dishes, and stories. It’s the only Thanksgiving I can aptly speak of because I’ve only ever been to my own family’s Thanksgiving. And my attendance record is 100 percent, 30 for 30, which is appropriate because there should be a documentary about this glorious annual event that takes place in my mother’s home in Atlanta.

Blackness often invites hyperbole since we have to occasionally stretch the truth, loudly, simply to get acknowledged. The Big Black Southern American Thanksgiving, however—it’s near-impossible to exaggerate what it’s like to attend, to participate. That said, I’ve never described it well. I always post a photo of my annual first plate—The Meatloaf and The Turkey and The Ham and The SevenLayer Salad and The Macaroni and Cheese Alpha (Mom) and The Macaroni and Cheese Beta (a person who has the audacity to compete with my mother’s Velveeta Valhalla) and The Broccoli Casserole and The Yams and The Cranberry Sauce and The Dressing and The Collard Greens and The Roll, with The Giblet Gravy Jackson Pollocked over every contiguous morsel in the messy mound of deliciousness.

Anyone can see what’s on that plate, but describing what it’s like to hold the weighty mass, around all those black women (who in my family outnumber the men 6 to 1), and then commence eating a meal that celebrates in your mouth like Juneteenth, Brown v. Board, and Freaknik in a room of 50 people—it’s not easy.