Maybe we weren’t right, but we tried.
It was Thanksgiving 2018, and some friends and I had crammed around the table in a Phinney Ridge apartment. We had all the Seattle essentials: one Amazon dude, gluten-free stuffing, someone who went to Burning Man the previous summer, and an elderly rescue cat with extensive health conditions who kept jumping on the table.
We knew that celebrating Thanksgiving was capital P problematic. But we wanted what everyone wants—to do the right thing, and for it to be easy. We wanted to eat scalloped potatoes and catch up on a year’s worth of everyone’s gossip. But we also wanted to feel like
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