Gratitude In a Hard Year
This year, I’m thankful for a burly, grumpy, hard-drinking Frenchman.
No, I’m not talking about Gérard Depardieu.
The fictional detective Jules Maigret appears in no less than 75 novels and 28 short stories by Georges Simenon — the most prolific and larger-than-life Belgian writer in history. Simenon claimed he could write a novel in 11 days and that he’d had 10,000 lovers in his 86 years. He died in 1989.
Through the long, dark nights of 2020, I have accompanied Maigret through the back alleys, bars and cafes of Paris and the suspicious villages of the provinces. Together, we’ve consumed heaps of sandwiches and gallons of beer, we’ve smoked a mountain of dark shag pipe tobacco, and we’ve nabbed murderers, con-artists and thieves. Usually with one of the cats asleep on my lap.
For a Buddhist vegetarian from Tennessee who doesn’t drink or smoke, I feel a great affinity with Maigret. I follow him as he pushes through crowded bars and hotels with his broad shoulders and bulk, as he casts aside nerves, anxiety and fear. As he solves things, brings order to some small part of the world.
After a day of 2020, these are the small things I need to set my soul aright. Bravery. Guts. Clear good guys and bad guys. Sure, the novels are products of their time and problematic in their own ways, but they bring pleasure and comfort.
We’re bearing down on a holiday of thanks in a year of chaos. We’re bearing down on a holiday designed for gathering that is destined to be isolated. We’re bearing down on a holiday with a complicated, destructive mythology. We’re bearing down on my favorite day of the year. Thanksgiving.
This day has always one of particular joy for me. Not because of the old pilgrim storyline, not because of America’s horrific relationship with its indigenous people, not because of Black Friday or football or Arlo Guthrie.
Thanksgiving was always the day I saw my Uncle Jim, who was the biggest, most welcoming and expansive host this side of Fezziwig. He looked like a cross between Pa Walton and John Nettles as Inspector Barnaby, and he was as big and flushed and smoke-enshrouded as Maigret himself.
On Thanksgiving, we gathered at Uncle Jim and Aunt Anita’s house with all of my dad’s family. Grandparents and cousins rattling around tables laden with all that we could afford.
Uncle Jim would take me outside to hang Christmas lights in the afternoon, just as the early winter twilight began to creep in. My father and I shot pool and I betted with my aunt on whether the Cowboys would win that day’s game. My cousin Vicki and I competed over who could eat the most deviled eggs.
My grandparents are gone now. So is my mother. And Uncle Jim and Vicki. Now we gather at my cousin Jimmy’s and his wife Kem’s house. Our gathering isn’t much smaller, as families grow just as they shrink. And it’s no less joyous, warm or belly-busting.
This year is different. We’re all staying home and staying safe. And, considering the political climate of 2020, many families are a little relieved.
It’s a hard year for gratitude, isn’t it? Anger and fear are the big growth businesses for 2020.
This is where I’m supposed to say that I’m thankful for art, for memories, for family.
Right.
Today at the breakfast table, sitting with the family I’ve been confined with for all 11 years of 2020, I didn’t know if I could take another second of anybody’s voice. I ended up in the bed with my laptop, cat and noise-canceling headphones, trying to type loud enough to demonstrate my displeasure to the entire house.
Today, looking down the barrel of deadlines — deadlines for work that I love and have the privilege of pursuing — I wanted to run naked and screaming into the woods. Looking at the news, I want to hop on the next SpaceX rocket to anywhere.
Today, thinking about art, I can barely muster the enthusiasm to look at another damn picture or listen to another damn song. And I give zero damns about what some rich/ successful/woke/high-achieving/famous person wants to tell me about how I’m doing everything wrong.
And memories? It seems like only the wrong ones are parading by.
Shit. What was I talking about?
Gratitude.
I’m thankful for Inspector Maigret. I’m thankful for his office with its coal stove and plates of sandwiches and beer. I’m thankful for the Seine and zinc bars and tiny coffees of his Paris. I’m thankful for all the trains and the total lack of cellphones and computers. I’m thankful that in my mind he looks like my Uncle Jim and sounds like a cross between Tom Waits and Jean-Paul Roussillon in Un conte de Noël.
Sometimes, that’s all you need to be thankful for. Another day without a drink. Another day to look at that semicolon tattoo. Dogs, the clean laundry, a healthy child. Sometimes it’s enough to be thankful that you’ve fought as far as you have. That we’ve fought as far as we have collectively. Sure we have a long way to go, but we’ll never get there if we don’t pause, reflect and refresh.
I don’t have to feel thankful for capital A “Art” every second. Not when I can be thankful for The Simpsons, reruns of Frasier and The Office, for baking shows and murder mysteries.
You can be grateful for your family and tired of them at the same time. You can grieve loss and be happy for others at the same time. You can be happy for yourself and grieve for others at the same time. You can hold grief and gratitude in yourself at the same time. You’re big enough for both.
You can live through a shit year and celebrate the fact that you’ve lived through it.
All I want for Christmas is equality, justice, peace, kindness and the perfect pair of boots. But you know what? I’ll settle for progress on all of those things. (Except the boots. Gimme the boots.) I’ll be thankful for it. And thankful for every single person who has sweated, cried, bled and grieved to get us all to where we are right now.
I’m thankful my Uncle Jim taught me how to make everyone feel welcome. I’m thankful that my family taught me how to celebrate and grieve simultaneously. I’m thankful Maigret is there to catch the bad guys, even if it’s only pretend.
It’s a hard year, y’all. Sit with your pain. Sit with your love. Take comfort where you can.
