Turkeys on a German farm. Bernd Wüstneck/picture-alliance/dpa/AP Images
This has been a hard year.
Remember when David Bowie died? When Prince died? Merle Haggard? Alan Rickman? Leon Russell? Leonard Cohen? Sharon Jones? And those are just the famous deaths. Remember the people who died in the Pulse nightclub massacre? Or those who died in other terrorist attacks and less prominent mass shootings? Or the black men who were shot by the police, among them Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, Terence Crutcher? Remember the protests that turned violent in Milwaukee, the police crackdown on rallies in Baton Rouge? Remember when Donald Trump tried to hold an event in Chicago and the whole thing melted down into chaos?
Remember when Donald Trump was elected president of the United States?
When things are like this—when everyone is angry and sad for different reasons, when you sense a fundamental wrongness in the world—Thanksgiving can feel like just one more brick in the wall, one more fucking log on the fire, whatever. Some people are going to be sitting around a table with people they disagree with at a time when those disagreements seem more urgent and impenetrable than ever. Maybe you feel shitty for eating turkey and gravy when you could be working to push back against the forces of the apocalypse. Maybe you actually can't handle your family right now and are with friends instead (if you're lucky) or choosing to be by yourself (which is hard).
But let's not forget the origins of Thanksgiving. Not the invented Pilgrims-sit-at-the-table-with-Squanto version, the actual history of the event. Though different parts of America had Thanksgiving-esque traditions, it was formally declared a holiday by Abraham Lincoln at the height of the Civil War, a time when Americans were killing each other, when a still-young country was in danger of falling apart. Thanksgiving was a way to reaffirm the things Americans had in common with one another, to praise God and the nation we've been dropped into.
The God stuff has mostly been scrapped in favor of football, but the basic idea, the setting aside of a day when we all look around and appreciate what we have together, remains powerful and true. So below, some of the staff of VICE.com wrote about what they are thankful for. These are personal things, mostly, individual little shards of joy that remind us that there's lots of good amid the bad. Feel free to share your own thanks in the comments—or just close your computer and enjoy the day. The world will still be out here, full of problems waiting to be solved, when you come back.
My Dog
Photo courtesy of Brian McManus
Last year at this time my wife had just had open-heart surgery—her chest was sawed open, her defective ascending aorta replaced. The road to recovery was very long and hard. The first few weeks seemed especially impossible. Even basic tasks—getting dressed, brushing teeth, tying shoes—were, for her, a trigger for a blinding pain that radiated from her chest. She worried in those early days that this was going to be life from here on out. It wasn't! This year, she's better than ever. (Literally—she no longer has an aortic aneurysm that threatens to burst and end her life in minutes.) And while I'm of course over the moon about this, I'm also thankful for something else we got out of the whole ordeal, something not quite as important as her health but much more cuddly.
Shortly after her diagnosis my wife demanded we get a puppy. This seemed to me like a terrible idea, but it's hard to argue with someone who has just gotten the scariest news of her life and wants a furry something to take her mind off the fear. So we picked up a smiley mutt from a shelter in New Jersey. His name is Benjuls, but we mostly call him Bennnnnnnnnny. He's weird as hell (only walks alongside walls, stands in your lap like a Meerkat until you pet his tummy), and has the most soulful brown eyes. He also loves to sit on my wife's lap and bury his head into her chest. It's likely he does this because he can hear her very loud mechanical valve, but we like to think it's because this cute-ass weirdo we panic-bought is protecting her heart. At the very least, he seems to know it's the reason he's with us.
–Brian McManus, Special Projects Editor
My Ex's HBO Go Password
Every Sunday night, I'm filled with immense gratitude for my ex-boyfriend for not changing his HBO Go password once in three years. Not only has it allowed me to enjoy hours of premium programming on his dime without his knowledge, it's given me some great neutral talking points to bring up with my dad over the holidays that have nothing to do with hot button issues like the election or my current dating life.
–Lauren Messman, Editorial Assistant
The Chance to Do Work That Matters
It's a scary, awesome feeling to be out grocery shopping or catching a movie or something and someone recognizes who you are and thanks you for the work you're doing. Every time that happens to me, I have this urge to just run back home immediately and start writing or editing or doing something, anything, to earn the love and positive vibes that I just received. The idea that there are lots and lots of people out there who read and watch the stuff that me and my VICE homies make is such an incredible, amazing thing to me. And in the wake of the recent presidential election, where everything seems to be going to shit, the power of this platform and the people it reaches are even more precious to me. It's a gift that I don't take for granted. Thank you.
–Wilbert L. Cooper, Senior Editor
Dardy Bar
Some Dardy Bar patrons. Photo courtesy of Jonathan Smith
Dardy Bar is a magical place on South 1st Street in Brooklyn. It's a dive run by three guys in a band called the Dardys. Their approach to operating a business is laissez-faire. It seems more important to them that everyone in the place become friends by the time they leave than keeping an accurate count running on your tab. They serve a drink called a "man down," which is basically a highball glass filled with vodka and an eyedropper of cranberry juice. The traditional way to drink it is through a straw, in under ten seconds.
The vibe is apocalyptic, which is fitting for this year. There's little natural sunlight, and time, in the traditional sense, doesn't exist. It's the sort of place that melts away the problems of the outside world by dunking them in Coors Banquet and holding them beneath the surface, kicking and screaming, until they get all fuzzy and soft around the edges, then slowly fade away into nothing. I've taken multiple friends and family members from all around the country here, and the general consensus is that there is something special about this place, an atmosphere that encourages talking to strangers and community. Sure, it's in Williamsburg, so the political leanings are kinda predictable, but there's often an international mix there, and it's nice to rub elbows with strangers and know that an open dialog is encouraged.
Allie wrote a nice thing about dive bars this summer, which looked at why we love them from a sociological perspective, and I'm thankful for Dardy for a lot of the reasons she hinted at in her piece. Basically, what it boils down to is a crucial need for friendly spaces that offer a break from reality at the tail end of this fuckhole of a year.
–Jonathan Smith, Editor-in-Chief
Resistance to Trump
I'm thankful for my home of New York City, where resistance to Donald Trump's coming presidency has already been fierce and politics is basically the only thing anyone talks about anymore.
With the exception of political pros and regulars at Occupy and police brutality protests, I've often found modern New York to be an apathetic place. And my initial reaction to the news that an alleged serial sexual assailant and racist was going to take on America's most awesome power was despair. Why plan for adulthood, think about marriage and having kids, or do basically anything responsible if a proto-fascist is on his way to the White House? It's certainly tempting to throw up your hands when an election doesn't go your way, and you fear for your friends or the various groups (women, people of color, Muslims, Latinos; there are others) Trump has demonized or terrified.
But as Jelani Cobb writes in The New Yorker, America has a rich tradition of local and state leaders resisting federal excess—and not just in the name of racist causes like segregation or slavery. Certainly, people like me—straight white men who have very little to fear from Trump—can't just tune out the outrages that are likely coming for people across the country, safe in our cocoon of relative safety. And even if NYC's leaders can block or complicate deportations and other harsh policies at the local level, its residents need to remain vigilant about hate across the country. But that America's largest city has already begun serving as a springboard for activism and outreach gives me cause for hope that, sooner or later, there will be a way out of this nightmare.
–Matt Taylor, Crime Editor
Walks on YouTube
A few years ago, I found out that people I don't know, and will never meet—like someone named "keezi walks"—walk around the cities of the world wearing stabilized HD cameras and then make the uncut, un-narrated, music-free footage available to me on the internet. So when I'm having a panic attack, or when I feel like my life is garbage, I can teleport to Singapore, or Taipei, or Pokhara or wherever and just walk around for a few hours. It's not like these are spectacular places that I fantasize about visiting. What's important is that it's somewhere else, and the people on the sidewalks there probably have different problems than mine, and probably don't care at all about whatever bullshit is bugging me.
In a more general way, watching walk videos makes me thankful that there are people out there who make my Weird Internet Thing. Everyone has a Weird Internet Thing, like makeup videos, or ASMR, or a certain kind of porn. This is me tipping my hat to the anonymous weirdos who happen to make mine. Thanks, keezi walks. You're the shit.
–Mike Pearl, Staff Writer
The Art Collective I Joined
The Eli & Sons gallery show. Photo by Zach Sokol
This year, my friends and I started an art collective called Eli & Sons. We organized a month-long gallery show with the 59-year-old artist Mark Flood in a 2,000-square-foot empty storefront on 23rd Street between Tenth and 11th avenues. It was, without a doubt, one of the accomplishments I'm most proud of in my entire adult life. I already feel a deep, beautiful nostalgia about the entire experience, and we closed the exhibition only a month ago!
I've always romanticized the idea of curating or showing work in a gallery, but I never thought I'd be able to do it—let alone do it in expensive-ass Manhattan with no money, no prior experience, no template to work off of. The only reason this project came to fruition was because of our team—Eli, Luke, Bobby, Marcella, and Mark. Without them, this dream would have stayed a dream.
I'm thankful for the people in Eli & Sons for many reasons, but two stand out. They made me realize that what I was actually craving or romanticizing all these years wasn't the completion of any one specific creative project, but rather to find a creative community. We all shared the same goal, but our skill sets and personalities balanced and complemented one another in true symbiosis. This crew made me feel like I belonged, had something to bring to the table, and gave me a real sense of purpose.
The second reason I'm so thankful for Eli & Sons is that the people in it taught me about work ethic more than any authority figure ever has. For an entire year, we would all go straight from our day jobs to Luke's studio, and usually work late into the night during weed-fueled hustle binges. It sometimes felt like having two jobs, and it would have been really easy to throw in the towel at several points. But seeing how focused and motivated my friends were pushed me to stay on their level. After all, the slogan for Eli & Sons is, "There's work to be done."
I'm so thankful for this crew. And I'm so thankful for all the people who supported us or expressed curiosity. Eli & Sons made everything shitty in the past year feel worth it.
–Zach Sokol, Weekend Editor
This Video of a Dog Carrying a Box Around
When I started thinking about what to write for this, I was pretty convinced I couldn't do it. The past few weeks have been such a hot dumpster fire of existence that I didn't even know where to start. Obviously, I know I have things to be thankful for—so many, to be honest—but it was more that I wasn't sure how to shift my focus to think about the good when we're confronted daily with mostly bad.
Obviously, a classic way of dealing with any kind of stress or tension is to hunker down with a good puppy video, but that almost felt like a cheap cop-out this time around. Then our Waypoint EIC Austin Walker showed me this old, but new to me, video of a scrappy English bulldog named Diesel and his love affair with a cardboard box.
As I watched this stubborn-as-fuck dog blindly bashing his head into cars and walls through tears of laughter—this was the first time I had laughed this hard or felt this kind of unadulterated joy in weeks—I couldn't help but admire his tenacity. Even though holding onto this box was difficult and maybe painful, he refused to drop it. It struck me that right now, we all need to be Diesel as we head toward life in Trump's America. Hold tight to what we believe in even if it causes us pain. Because damn if that box isn't just the most important thing we've got right now.
–Dory Carr-Harris, Executive Managing Editor
Nothing
Been thinking about this all day and can't think of a single thing. The world sux, sorry!
–Jamie Taete, Executive West Coast Editor
My Friend's Baby
One of my favorite people in the whole world gave birth to boy named Cosmo two nights ago. It was the culmination of a gnarly process that involved her having to escape from Zika-infected Miami to New England, where she ultimately had an emergency C-section, and I'm so grateful that the baby is healthy. Although I could despair by dwelling on how this child's formative years will take place under a Trump presidency, I'm trying to focus instead on all the stuff I can't wait for, like teaching him to throw a perfect spiral and forcing him to like objectively good bands through positive reinforcement (and if that doesn't work, bullying). This whole thing is doubly exciting for me, because it made me realize that I am capable of having protective instincts toward tiny humans and not just woodland creatures and/or varmint. (While raccoons possess opposable thumbs, they cannot be taught to throw spherical sportsballs in a winding and continuous pattern.) Every fourth word I've said today has been "bambino!" which is either a symptom of some sort of brain damage or an indication that I'm not broken inside. I choose to believe it's the latter, and for that I am grateful.
–Allie Conti, Staff Writer
Bruce Springsteen
Bruce Springsteen. Still.
–Harry Cheadle, Senior Politics Editor
My Roommate
Most people who don't know my dear friend Matt DeCaro just refer to him as my "crazy roommate." This is at least how I describe him when I tell people about him. (Perhaps this is how he refers to me when he's discussing me with similarly aloof acquaintances.) I talk about Matt constantly, because whenever I get home and I'm feeling sad, he plays me his music, which is all about him being sad. They're mostly sad, kinda funny little folk-punk tunes (which is how he markets them), and he has a broad lyrical spectrum. He can sing about everything from smoking cigarettes at a cancer benefit to almost being murdered by an oncoming truck while riding a scooter the wrong way down a highway. He croons about lost love and doing his laundry and crying while he's taking a bath. He mourns that he can only fall asleep by consuming low-grade cheese, muses about Ed Norton's shaved head, and worries all his friends are going to be famous comedians and stop talking to him.
A few weeks ago, we went to Pennsylvania and almost lit the woods on fire, but that's only tangentially related.
In short, he's beautiful, and I love him. I'm very thankful he exists every day.
–Alex Norcia, Copy Editor
Photographers Who Care (and Corgi Butts)
I know it's probably pretty cliché being the resident photo peddler here, but I think what I'm most thankful for—especially after this election—is the photo community at large. There's a refocused and urgent sense of responsibility to champion issues that will need platforms after the predicted shit storm coming in January. That being said, I am equally and deeply thankful for Welsh Corgi butts. If there could be a consistent stream of Corgi butts on everyone's feed at all times taking up even an iota of the space typically given to criticism/fake news, then I truly think the world would be a better place. It may seem like a tired imgur gallery collection at this point but I encourage you, if you're feeling blue, take a peep at one of those beautiful, fuzzy momos.
—Elizabeth Renstrom, Photo Editor
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