Author: Corrina Lee

Thanksgiving has always been a holiday with a dubious history. You start at the foundation: the simple and heart-warming story of two cultures coming together to celebrate and give thanks. I remember cartoons of Pilgrims and their buckled hats and shoes sitting next to Wampanoag Indians in feathered headdresses. Then, layers of complexity. I learned that the hats did not have buckles and that the Wampanoag did not traditionally wear headdresses. I learned that Thanksgiving was an isolated moment suspended in a long history of violence that ended with one culture almost destroyed by the other. From there, the spirit of Thanksgiving has been appropriated for various causes from briefly uniting a nation divided by a Civil War to boosting holiday sales during the Great Depression. Thanksgiving has never been as all white, small town American idyllic as a Norman Rockwell painting would suggest. It is shades of grey and blood with a splash of commercialism.

Perhaps then the perfect Thanksgiving story is not the first one of Pilgrims and Native Americans sitting around a table. It is not even the story of today, the one of parades and football games and giant, over-fed turkeys. The perfect Thanksgiving story is one set in the distant future. Written by George Saunders, The Semplica- Girl Diaries tells the story of one American family struggling to keep up appearances. Like any father, the main character wants the best for his two daughters. He wants them to believe anything is possible. He wants them to live without the financial limitations that comes with his middle-class job. But at the same time, he exhorts the teachings of Thanksgiving, to be grateful for what you already have. Saunders presents two sides of America that are constantly at odds. Yet, both are quintessential to our history, inevitably tied together. The myth of Thanksgiving cannot be separated from the pursuit of constant expansion and Manifest Destiny. They are part of the same hazy American dream, one that we seem to be constantly pursuing without even realizing what it means. The protagonist of The Semplica-Girl Diaries, at first, doesn’t seem to realize the depths of his indoctrination. Perhaps that is the scariest thing. The way that we are told stories as children about the way life works, and how that story persists no matter what we are taught afterwards. That is why the Thanksgiving story remains so powerful. It reminds us of simpler times where differences could be resolved, at least for a day, with a few plates of mussels and some mashed-up corn. It allows us to ignore the war that came afterwards, the messiness of conflict. It gives us some semblance of redemption for past sins and perhaps forgiveness for future ones. We give thanks for what we have on one day, and return to our old pursuit of bigger and better on the very next day. It is no accident that Black Friday evolved as a secondary Thanksgiving tradition. As much as we would like to believe that we are grateful for what we have, there is also an instinctual urge for more. Like the father in the story, I am not sure that I can let go of that horizon that always seems to promise more. I was steeped in the belief that I could do more if I just reached a little further. That seems to be a hunger that not even endless platefuls of turkey and mashed potatoes could satisfy.

I am walking to class again. It is the middle of November and by now, I know the route well. It is a carefully planned path, borne of the experience of the last two months. Perhaps it is too well planned, because I am craving Starbucks and have set no time aside to stand in line for an overpriced hot chocolate. Instead, I had left the library with exactly ten minutes to spare for my journey across campus. By the time I approach the Diag, my time in the library has already become a blurry memory. Had I accomplished anything? I decide the answer has to be ‘Yes’, if only for my sanity. Of course, I am not the only person walking through the Diag on this wintery day. But I ignore the other people around me. It is the time that matters. I should have five minutes left. Still, I sidestep a pair of blonde girls. Their voices wash over me as I hurry past. They are walking too slowly for my impatient mind. Maybe they are going to the coffee shop to continue their conversation. Maybe they could buy that imaginary hot chocolate. Soon, I can’t even hear their words anymore and their existence seems to fade just as easily. Entire people gone, evaporating into the chilly air behind me. Our worlds intersected for the briefest moment and then separated just as quickly. Perhaps we all exist on the periphery of someone else’s world. Anonymous faces, barely even recognized, quickly forgotten. There are so many people at the University of Michigan and simply not enough time. For some people, we take the time, slow our steps, and talk. But for most, we only make tiny impacts on each other, slightly altering the paths of the people around us. We walk towards each other. We walk behind each other. We pass by.

I wonder if I have passed by these other people before. After all, I have taken this path so many times. They probably have a routine too. This is my path and theirs. Some of them might even be going to the same class, to the same crowded lecture hall. I am approaching my destination now. Someone opens the door for me and the warm air is weighing down on me, squeezing the cold from my bones. I say, ‘Thank you’, without meeting his eyes. I am not sure it is even a ‘him’. All I can see is the classroom and the ninety minutes of eternity awaiting me there. Then, my mind stretches beyond even that, to the evening ahead. I decide that I will make myself some hot chocolate then. And I have already forgotten the walk. Perhaps I will remember again, next week when I take the same path.

Our lives planned ahead. Our steps pre-destined. I only exist in the possible future.  You only exist in my past. The present is forgotten as we walk towards something else. We pass by others as time passes us by.

Sometimes I wish I could take words back. But no matter how much I try and grab at them, it is a hopeless cause. The words have crystallized, changing from mere thought to reality. Sometimes, I can feel it in the air. The awkwardness that follows wrong words is unmistakable. The sudden silence. The desperation to fill the emptiness with anything else at all. For me, it has always seemed strange that everyone complains about the difficulty of writing essays when speaking is exponentially more difficult. At least, when you are writing, there is a way to erase the offending words from existence. It allows for an infinite amount of time to search for the right phrase, for the perfect way to express one’s true feelings. I am always in a hurry when I am speaking with someone else. I worry that the other person, whether they are sitting across the table or listening on the phone thousands of miles away will lose interest before the sentence can stumble its way out of my mouth. Even then, someone might misunderstand my meaning. So, I speak out of fear.

Maybe that is why there are so many useless words cluttering our ears and minds. Instinctively, we want to communicate, yet surmounting the barrier efficiently is still an unsolved puzzle. Conversations happen every second, but so many are fleeting and forgettable. It is good that there is still a way to record our thoughts so that we may return to them and change them. That is why I continue to write. Not just to create flowery sentences or to impress others, but to clear my mind, to give it a clean start every week. I give my ideas permanence instead of just letting them flow out of my mouth. I pick words carefully so that they may carry my thoughts outside of myself. Speaking and writing are our tools, but we don’t often treat them that way. We replace words with emojis, limit them to 140 characters, skim over words, instead of reading more carefully. We do this to our detriment, for these are the only pathways to understanding that we have. Otherwise, we are doomed to be isolated forever, stuck in the same thoughts that we have always had.

The threat has only grown larger as time has gone on. We can message people at the touch of a button. We order pizza and stay in our respective homes instead of going out to eat. Conversations grow ever shorter and less meaningful. Sometimes, I believe in it too. I wish that I could take all my words back and stay silent. But the words are not the problem. It is how we are using them. We should not be speaking or writing out of fear, but out of necessity. Then, we trust that people are actually listening.

Autumn begins with a slight breeze, barely even noticeable. It begins with a shiver on the way to class. People start walking quickly through the Diag, eager to move toward the building full of artificially warm air. There is a palpable smell of cinnamon donuts and apple cider in Mason Hall as clubs start to change their wares, like the green foliage transforming red and yellow, drifting down on the wind. Everything is the same, but different. People wear new clothes and new faces. Faces of resignation perhaps because it is approaching two full months of homework, papers, and exams, but also, hope for the coming holidays. There is talk of Halloween, Thanksgiving, and even Christmas. People don’t want to see time passing, but it engulfs them all the same. This is a University campus, after all. There is nothing to do, but change and grow into people we would barely recognize. Those young high school seniors who dutifully wrote their college essays, who took their AP classes so seriously, are strangers to us. All that matters is the here and now, a celebration of the present, because we know it can’t last long. Everything is changing, so we salute that, yelling into the cold air until our lungs give out. Thousands of voices raised as a football trembles between the quarterback and the wide receiver’s outstretched hands over the end zone. We yell because the world can’t ignore us any longer. We are not children to be pushed aside. We are not teenagers to be prodded into place. We are who we are, but not yet, who we are going to be. It is a rare comradery that we’ve all found here at the University of Michigan. Wolverines, young and old, gathered together in one place for a shared purpose. Somehow, despite being on thousands of individual tracks, there is a sense of togetherness. We are all sharing the same experience in different shades. Someday we will have a collective memory, too, of this time. It will be a time to look back on fondly, the foundation of many comforting memories when we get a little lonely or disappointed. It is also a time that we can return to as alumni proudly marching down the football field as a new student section filled with fresh faces cheer us on. This is the place of so many hopeful endeavors and profound failures. And when we are inevitably unsuccessful, there is someone to lean on and a person willing to listen. There is no way to summarize the Michigan experience for it is always changing, like the people who live here. We may decide to leave, but we choose to leave a part of us here behind. Perhaps someday someone else will sit down in our favorite spot in the Hatcher library and they won’t even know that the seat was already filled by a remnant of our former selves. Everything ends. But then there is a slight breeze, a chill in the air, and it begins all over again.

There is an early moment in the 2006 film, Casino Royale, that I always remember. It is a tiny bit in the first action set piece. James Bond, played by Daniel Craig, is chasing a bombmaker through the streets and then, the skies of an unspecified city in Madagascar. The entire scene is a spectacular introduction to this new portrayal of an iconic character as Craig pushes his physical limits as an actor. He crashes through walls and sprints through buildings. He jumps from cranes and drives a bulldozer. But the moment I always remember is a small one within this sequence. After falling from the roof of a building, Bond spies his adversary sprinting away. All Bond does is doggedly shake his head and continue the chase. It acknowledges Bond’s humanity while celebrating his inhuman determination. It is an acting choice that epitomizes an entire character. All that we come to know about this James Bond is fleetingly presented here. It is these split-second instances that elude first time viewers and make multiple examinations so rewarding.

Not all movies are rewatchable. Some movies simply require too much investment. They concern themselves with heavy topics that push characters to their limits and break them. The audience member is left with an introspective, quiet drive home. Then, there are movies like Casino Royale, that seem to have just enough of everything: a generous pinch of action, a sprinkle of romance, and a few memorable one-liners. There are certainly a few genres that lend themselves best to these standards. Comedies are an easy choice on tired Friday evenings, as well as superhero films. Action movies too, work well, because their plots are easily skipped over while completing some chores. Here, the question of quality must be raised. The fact that some movies can be watched repeatedly does not make them instantly superior. Others would use the word, ‘rewatchable’ as a demotion, an indication of a shallow movie that does not require much attention or intelligence to enjoy. I have never quite reconciled these two feelings, splitting my time between ‘prestige’ offerings and their more enjoyable counterparts. On one hand, I truly believe that Casino Royale is a complex, intricate movie that studies a man whose identity is torn between his job and his personal desires. Yet, I inevitably categorize it differently than a film like Her which I have watched as many times. One of these films got nominated for an Oscar and the other did not.  This suggests that there is also a large amount of public opinion that influences over our personal perceptions of a film or any form of art. We can’t simply judge it by our personal enjoyment of the film or by the majority assessment because often they too often conflict with one another. Neither can be completely conflated with quality either. After all, those small details are missed if something is too difficult to watch again. Perhaps it is most important to keep both qualities in mind no matter what kind of movie you believe yourself to be watching. It can make however many viewings you choose to indulge in richer and more pleasurable.

I, like millions of other people, went to a theater last winter to enjoy La La Land, the joyous musical chronicling the trials and tribulations of a young, aspiring actress and her boyfriend, a young, aspiring jazz musician. And as its name so appropriately describes, the movie takes place in the land of dreams, Hollywood. The film is warm and gauzy. The whole movie is easy on eyes. It is the comforting embrace of two hours of lavenders and burnt oranges fading into an overwhelming navy sky. It is the dancing and singing in the old Hollywood tradition of Rodger Astaire and Ginger Rodgers. It is enough to make a believer out of anyone. I walked out of the theater behind a woman tap dancing her way to the exit. My feet itched to join hers in a sort of delirious happiness. The music had infiltrated our hearts, but so had the lie that such a Hollywood had ever existed.

The film industry has always been self-promotional, constantly tempting us like a mirage. Maybe not everyone that travels to L.A. will succeed. Still, the image persists. The tantalizing possibilities matter more than the lives left by the wayside. Somehow after decades of evidence of sexism and racism, we still believe. It helps that they know, better than anyone else, how to put on a convincing act. It helps that we only see the characters on the screen and ignore the real actors and actresses behind them. The escapism offered by films extend far beyond the popcorn-scented auditoriums. The same suspension of disbelief that allows for the enjoyment of so many movies, allowed for a willful ignorance of what really goes on before the cameras turn on. Brutal reality crashed upon audiences everywhere on October 5, when the New York Times publicized Harvey Weinstein’s decades of sexual harassment. The subsequent two weeks saw numerous other women report similar situations where Weinstein used his significant influence as a successful producer to try and coerce them into sexual favors. Their silence was ensured by a similar fear that they would be driven out of the business if they were to accuse a figure of his stature. It took thirty years. Three decades of countless victims intimidated by the threat of not only one man, but the industry-wide acceptance of his actions. Suffering men like Weinstein who exploit their power is still seen as the necessary price of success. After all, dreams don’t come free.

Hollywood is the ultimate drug, promising a candy-coated future, all the while hiding the same old problems that plagues every other aspect of our society. If La La Land had been truer about its intentions, Mia might have been driven to more desperate measures to achieve her goal of stardom. Instead, she is offered the perfect opportunity without having to sacrifice any of her ideals, like so many her real-life counterparts. These are women who are forced to resort to invisible boyfriends or the awkward, laughing brush off to defend against the unwanted advances of other men. La La Land isn’t the first to colorfully airbrush over reality. It won’t be the last. It is up to us to decide whether to pull the blindfold down again.