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Black folks should have a complicated relationship with Thanksgiving.
Of course, many of us are keenly aware that the meal being celebrated is nothing but the beginning of a European invasion that ends with the death, land dispossession, and relocation of millions of native people. But the chi’ren ain’t taught that at school…so I guess we not ready to have that conversation.
Yet, one thing beloved about Black folks is that we specialize in taking something rooted in racism and filling it with undeniable Blackness. We did it with the word “n***a.” We took the scraps that slaveholders left us and made soul food. And we did it again with Thanksgiving.
The food (there may be chitterlings, which is merely intestines of pigs. And we pronounce it “chitlins” ), the music (the late Frankie Beverly with a sprinkling of Anita Baker if you’re doing it right) and the traditions of Black Thanksgiving (the long ass prayer that the matriarch gives before dinner is served) are sacred.
Contrary to non-Black ideas about what it means to be Black, we, as a people, do not all like the same things. Our preferences vary according to region and socioeconomic class, and our traditions oftentimes differ. Some folks eat pecan pie, not sweet potato pie.
Others deep fry the turkey instead of cooking it in the oven. Yet, there are three things about this holiday on which most of us agree. (And if you don’t, you probably put sugar in your grits.)
There are descendants of slaves that were once respected who had the audacity to announce that they preferred Frank’s RedHot. It forever changed how Black folks viewed of their legitimacy. As far as we know, they are the reason why Donald Trump’s numbers went up with Black folks. There are others who like Crystal’s, and, real talk, those are the kind of people who still drink Hennessy while the rest of us have moved on to actual good brown liquors. Louisiana is the official hot sauce of Black History Month. Anything else is just uncivilized.
You know good and damn well that the dinner is supposed to happen at 3 p.m., but it won’t really start until 8:45 p.m. Or, as our grandmothers used to say, the meal happens on Colored People’s Time. This is something you’ll find happens at most Black gatherings. Our folk have historically had a causal relationship with time. Funerals are supposed to happen at 11, but don’t start until 11:30. Weddings are scheduled for 4, but the bride doesn’t walk down the aisle until 4:45.
Don’t worry. You’ll eat. It just might be tomorrow.
Spades is an African American tradition that dates back to Kunta Kinte teaching Kizzy how to walk jacks and George, her son, ultimately having to pull out a Roscoe (what we call a high-caliber gun in the South) because someone accused her of cheating at a Juneteeth cookout. Legend has it that a man was stabbed in rural Tennessee because he was caught cheating in a game of spades. It is said that no one ever played with, nor spoke to, him again.
Spades is serious business. And it is the official game of Black Greek Letter Organizations everywhere...except Iota Phi Theta. We have heard they existed, but no one has ever actually seen one of their members.
I’m not sure if Black folks can put dominoes down on a table quietly. I’ve tried, but I’m not sure it can be done. And even if such a thing were possible, it feels disrespectful to the ancestors to do it. If you can’t play spades, you better learn how to play dominoes...otherwise folks might make you sit at the kid’s table.
He might wear sandles and have extremely ashy ankles. He might have a nappy beard and an affinity for the color purple. He might even say “you know, the Honorable Elijah Muhammad says in ‘Eat to Live…’” when you reach for the ham.
We all have that cousin, and he will try to drop knowledge on you about how unhealthy the food you’re about to eat happens to be. Just ignore him and let him know we eating swine today.
While these are things you will find at most Black gatherings to celebrate this holiday, there is one thing you won’t find: a person willing to admit they voted for the Orange Dude who’s about to move into the White House.
If they admitted it, Madea would probably not let them eat the pecan pie…and they will have deserved it.
Straight From 
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