23 November 2011

Giving Thanks

Last year, just as in years' past, the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade was on television while the family was in the kitchen prepping for the main event.  The girls would float in and out of the family room, pausing in front of the screen to take in the sight of marching bands, super sized floats, and the scores of cartoon characters inflated high in the sky over the crowds.  I, too, would check some things out when I heard the broadcasters mentioned a name or group that I was particularly interested in seeing.  Somehow, between setting the table, shuffling pots and pans, and trying to sneak off with a book for a hot minute, I happened to catch the Rockettes the same time that Morgan and Coever did their pass by the TV.

Growing up, my grandmother used to tell me that she was the first Black Rockette way back in the day.  There wasn't any evidence to back up her claim.  There weren't any flyers, there weren't any photographs tucked into a worn photo album.  There wasn't anyone who could corroborate her story.  She just repeated it every year, especially around the holidays when the Rockettes were more visible during the parade and their holiday extravaganza at Radio City.  She was almost Pavlovian in her reaction.  Rockette's on TV? Here comes Gram, "I remember when I was Rockette, doing all those high kicks. "

For years, I believed her.  Then with the cynicism that comes with early adulthood, I jumped onto Google one year to find out who indeed the first Black Rockette truly was.  Her name is Jennifer Jones and she made her debut in 1988.  Was I depressed at learning the truth? No, I was kind of proud. Gram had been consistently bestowing a gift on me year after year.  Sure, she wasn't the first, but that didn't mean that I couldn't be if I wanted to.  Whatever I wanted to be, I could.

Last year, when the girls and I caught the Rockette's doing their performance, I thought about Gram. I thought about her maintaining her status as "the first Black Rockette".  When those ladies lined up to do their iconic line kick, I found myself tearing up.   My throat grew thick with missing my gram, and the temptation to just whisper to the girls, "You know, your Great-Gram was a Rockette."

I didn't tell them, of course. What with their access to Google and all things digital, they'd quickly figure things out.  I did tell them the story of how their Great-Gram Eleanor told me she had been a Rockette.  I tell them of how she had a department store's worth of perfumes on her dresser, how she always said, "Hey, doll!" when she answered the phone.  I tell them that even though she passed away when Morgan was just a baby and that Coever never met her, she loves, loves, loves them dearly, and always will. I tell them how lucky I am to have had an adult relationship with my grandparents and how lucky they are, too.

This day, and always, I'm thankful for my family and my friends. I am thankful for the roof over my head, the clothes on my back, and the food in my belly. I am thankful for opening my eyes every morning, for walking on my own two feet.  I'm thankful for the people whose lives I've touched and whose lives have touched mine. I am thankful for the people whom I have never met, but work to ensure my safety and the safety of my family, friends and neighbors.  I'm thankful for all the things that I take for granted the other 364 days of the year and I'm thankful for all of the things that I often complain about as well.  Sometimes, I need a national holiday to remind me.  

Or a Rockette's high kick in the pants. 

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!

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