I hate Thanksgiving. I mean, I really, really hate Thanksgiving," a Durham hairdresser snarled while running her bony, hawkish talons through my hair.
"Only in America would there ever be a holiday that celebrates and justifies obesity and excessiveness. AND I! ESPECIALLY! HATE! FAT! PEOPLE!"
Gosh. I was just a college freshman and a wide-eyed dreamer with unfortunate split ends. All I needed was a haircut-and perhaps a complimentary lollipop-before going home to my family for Thanksgiving.
But instead of making small talk, I had somehow become a mute prisoner in a faux leather chair. Held hostage by sharp, silvery shears and the gripping fear that pissing off this hairdresser would undoubtedly yield a far, far worse fate than the split ends I had walked in with, I cocked my head as discreetly as I could toward a frozen audience of curious observers and tried my best to convey a distress signal akin to "Sweet Baby Jesus, please save me."
Wondering how my simple question of "So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?" had deteriorated into a torrent of anti-American insults, I surreptitiously lifted my eyes to check whether or not she was even casting a reflection in the mirror hanging before us, knowing full and well that vampires, communists and other such cohorts of evil incarnate rarely cast reflections in glass.
But as I watched her reflection angrily clipping away and bitching about Fat Americans, I knew that she was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, none other than the legendary Succubus of Holiday Cheer.
For the uninitiated, The Succubus of Holiday Cheer is an evil being of lore that gleefully vomits bile all over the things you cherish most just to make you miserable-and also because in its utter social ineptitude, a pity party is the only thing it ever gets invited to.
Despite its namesake, The Succubus of Holiday Cheer doesn't limit itself to the holidays. It loves to hate all things good and pure and delicious. Like Tom Hanks, Duke basketball and beefy red meat.
Although I am a staunch proponent of letting people say almost anything their dark little hearts desire, the Succubus' caustic attack had unforgivably sullied the spirit of a holiday far more emblematic of Americanism than fireworks on the Fourth of July.
Thanksgiving is the last uncontaminated bastion of American fraternity, good will and cheer. There is nothing more exclusively American than turkey, trimmings, football and indigestion, and nothing more exclusively un-American than hating Thanksgiving Day.
And by golly, if you're a freakin' American, that means you know all the words to "Take Me Out to the Ball Game," but only the first line to "The Star-Spangled Banner" and the Pledge of Allegiance. You always stand during the seventh-inning stretch, you drink American beer (and lots of it) and you would never ever burn the American flag.
And above all you celebrate your Thanksgiving Day with all the excessive Americanness you can muster, or until your pants sweat blood and the buttons of your shirt fly across the room with enough force and speed to put your Uncle Erwin's eye out.
Loving America and being thankful for your family, freedom and the life that you've carved out for yourself in this country is what Thanksgiving is all about. And if you can't be kind and tolerant for one day out of the year, then you must hate America.
And you don't hate America, do you?
Boston Cote is a Trinity senior. Her column runs every Friday.
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