Grade 12 Creative Writing Portfolio

       We have all had one of those sporadic “family” functions crowded with random people we never even knew we were supposed to call “family” at all (and if you have yet to encounter one, get ready, because it’s coming.) There’s not just a few people at said “party”, but tens, dozens, hundreds of them swarming around, leaving no route for escape. Absolutely nothing is known about these people, besides the fact that they may or may not share nothing more than a pint of blood with you. So-and-so is a cousin of the other one and these ones hate those ones and that one is wandering around asking “so, which one of you is my real father?” These are the family functions where you must find a corner and hope that no one notices you, because if seen, you will die. Any eye contact will result in execution by firing squad, as you’re shot with every generic greeting in the book: “Oh, woooow, you’re so BIG now! I haven’t seen you since you were THIS tall!” accompanied by a fairly weak leveling of a hand some two feet off the ground; or my favorite, “How’s school?” Pardon me, lady, but who are you again? And no matter how much you beg your mother to “skip this one,” there’s no getting around it.

          I’d been to my aunt’s house plenty of times before. It’s big and white with a cluttered yard on the side instead of the back and has one of those ponds with fish that no one ever sees. Plastic chairs wrestle for open spots on the grass and little twinkling lights dangle above the yard year-round. It felt like home away from home. Despite the fact that I could never sing along to the loud reggaeton music nor pull off the Caribbean dance moves, I always looked forward to being there. But now it was getting colder, and I was getting older, and had no desire to dance around looking like a fool anymore. I was 11 and I was cool. Yes, I had been here before, but it was different this Thanksgiving.

           I shuffled through the front door trailing my father, bracing myself for the cluster of people (hopefully not) awaiting my arrival. Luckily, no one was paying attention to us; bodies were digging through the mounds of food and struggling to find enough elbow room to shovel it into their mouths. It was hard to make out who I knew in the sea of foreigners. I followed my dad, grimacing as I imagined that around each corner lay a boobie-trap (or worse, a group of people I’d have to converse with.) But there was no one. Every which way I turned was just another pair of legs attached to a loud, unfamiliar mouth. I was already frustrated and exhausted by the whole thing. Minutes went by, and I had yet to see anyone that I knew. I thought that maybe, just maybe, they all got the flu and couldn’t make it, or they’d made their appearances and left already, or their mothers let them stay home. I was relieved to have evaded the stress of a family function all too soon, when suddenly, through the rumble of accents, I heard my aunt’s booming Creole. Time slowed down for a second as I felt my hair start to sizzle under the spotlight. But- but how? "RAAAAY-CHEL! COME IN HEE-YA BABEH I MUSSEE YOU!" So it begins.

            The next few minutes consisted of your typical family party scenarios; me, drifting from chair to chair, being kissed on the cheek by people I didn’t know, faking an awkward smile as to suggest “I can completely understand what you’re saying,” and attempting to slide out of the dining room only to be pulled back in by another unknown, uninteresting relative. People shouted things like ouv’ly goute and kouman ou ye ti bebe in my face, leaving me stressed and sweating. What the hell is an ouv’ly goute and why are you yelling it at me? I felt trapped inside a foreign soap opera, and I was starring as the lead role. I couldn’t take one more second of it, and it had only been 30 minutes since I stepped inside. I had other things to do, people to see, I simply didn’t have time to be here anymore. I charged through the crowd and into the living room, where I found a spot in the corner of the couch and curled up pouting. My dad had left me to go enjoy himself, but would peek in every couple minutes to question if I was hungry or if I was okay. “Oh, no, I’m not hungry yet. I’ll eat in a little bit.” Truth was, I wanted to vomit all over the floor. I’d stretch a smile long enough for him to see I was doing fine, only for him to leave me alone again with the murmur of the television and the other stragglers, either drunk, stuffed, or both.

         At that point, I’d had enough of Thanksgiving. I was tired of trying to decipher a language I didn’t know. I was tired of putting so much effort into looking like I cared to be there. I was tired of answering the same question over and over, “How aow you, dahhling?” I’m good, dammit! I just wanted to go home, where I could retreat into my room and bask in my ambiance after a small, quite boring, Thanksgiving with my mother's side of the family. I didn’t want to make friends with the other kids here, I didn’t want to assimilate into the party and laugh along with everyone. I wanted to leave. After a few hours of watching the same car dealership commercials, (sorry Ernie, but I wasn’t gonna “come on dooown”), I was getting tired of the television too. Having been so depressed the majority of the night, I hadn’t even gotten up to get some food. What the heck, it’s the national day of eating in America. I decided to go make me a plate.

         I’d never spent Thanksgiving away from my mother and her traditional cooking, so when I snuck into the kitchen, I was once again, overwhelmed by all the choices. And they weren’t your average American Thanksgiving foods, but alien meats and sauces. The hell is this? I didn’t want to risk asking someone what that brown mush over there or yellow cream over here were, so I went straight for the only thing I could identify: lasagna. I filled my plate with as much that would fit and ran straight back to claim my seat on the couch, as if there was a line to get it or something. I gorged as fast as possible so no one would see me giving up my rebel status, and decided, Mmm, this is good, let me go get just a little bit more. After the 3rd plate, that was it. I was so stuffed I had to lay down, only to fall asleep and miss out on the rest of the trainwreck of a function. I was awoken by my father, the light beaming into my eyes, the party all over. Finally! Hasta la vista suckers!

       All-in-all, I was a real brat- that’s what my mom always said, anyways. But my mom wasn’t there to witness this Thanksgiving, so she couldn’t say a thing about it, and I didn’t have to think anything of it. I was the coolest of the cool, the real deal, the bee’s knees- I was 11, and I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to. All I knew was that they had ruined my night and that was that. The two hours I spent slumped over the toilet, vomiting red chunks had nothing to  do with my stubbornness, or my failure to experience the celebration for myself. They had nothing to do with my neglecting of my family, or the fact that it was my decision to spend Thanksgiving staring at the faint glow of a television screen. And they certainly had nothing to do with my objection to eating Thanksgiving dinner with the family that invited me into their home with all intentions of making me feel comfortable. Nothing. Nothing at all.