Mother of Disposable Sons

I am hosting Thanksgiving this year, at my home, like a grown up.

I slowly drove up to the Farmer's Market.  Yes, the DeKalb County Farmer's Market, on the day before Thanksgiving.  I knew it was a mistake and resigned myself to my punishment. 

I read over the morning news and then felt awkward when I read Facebook.
A black friend posted:  "Jury of nine whites and three blacks, it only took nine to dismiss."  I don't usually call her a 'black friend'.  I normally call her Renee.  But I knew right now I was only a white person to her.  
I crawled under my chair when a 'white friend' posted a Chris Rock video that mocked how "not to get your ass kicked".  It entailed not breaking the law and not acting like a thug, as if that is the reason why black men are incarcerated or killed.  Chris Rock can say whatever he wants, but I was appalled to see a 'white friend' that I normally call Bridget, share the video a day after, you know, what happened.
A 'black friend' posted a story about a 'white' neighbor that chased down a 'black' person for stealing something off of his porch.  "We must educate our children!" the 'black' friend preached, a day after, you know, what happened.  Because, yeah really, 'education' is the problem. 
A 'white friend' that I normally call Brenda posted a meme of a looter with a caption that read:  "Steal a belt".  What a take away.  That really sums it all up.   And, a day after it happened. 
A 'black friend' that I normally call Dina put up a one line statement:  "I am the mother of disposable sons".

A man walked threw the Market with a pile of pizzas in his arms.  He definitely had the right idea.  

I watched the immigrants that staff the Farmer's Market move and shake and socialize with each other.  A variety of languages shot out of their mouths, Arabic, Amharic, etc.  I could only imagine what their thin bodies and narrow limbs thought of our gluttonous holiday.

"Ask yourself, people, ask yourself!  Where is the eggnog?" a women chanted by the dairy section of Kroger.   

I walked out, heaving my cart onto the grass and leaving it there, only to see a pizza ad under my windshield wiper.

"Next year," I thought, "next year."