To many people, Thanksgiving is a holiday that brings excitement and joy, but as you become inducted to this club no one wants to belong to, those dreams diminish. How do you go on to make new memories, one may ask? The answer is simple: Hold onto the old memories, but also embrace the new ones.
I’m sitting here thinking back when my children were younger. It was a tradition for me to go to Esposito’s on 9th Street in the Italian Market to buy a turkey stuffed with duck and chicken each year. I would pick up a big blue fish, fresh string beans, collard and kale greens, potatoes, sweet potatoes and so many other foods that I knew everyone would enjoy.
The day before Thanksgiving, you would find us cleaning the house in preparation for entertaining our guests. By 5 p.m. I would be in the kitchen preparing the Thanksgiving feast so we could enjoy a good ole home cooked dinner at home filled with family and friends.
Thanksgiving morning, the kids would be excited because the aromas of the food would wake them up. Niam, my youngest child, would be the first to come down to the kitchen to talk while sneaking food out of the pots and pans. One of his favorite dishes was macaroni and cheese, but one had to cook it to his idea of perfection. If it wasn’t, he would say, “Mom I put the mac and cheese back in the oven because you have to make the top crispy.”
By 12 p.m., my children would begin to get dressed in their Thanksgiving outfits. Of course, they would have to dress to impress so that everyone would tell them how nice they looked. Niam took it overboard by brushing his hair at least 100 times to ensure every piece was in place. He would make one of his sisters – normally Eboni — iron his clothes, including his underwear and undershirt. Jalisa, his other sister, had to wipe off his brand new sneakers to ensure they were clean enough for him to wear. They would argue with him, saying he was getting on their nerves, because he would stand over them barking orders.
At 1 p.m. my mom would arrive with her contribution to dinner and ask Niam to help her get the food out of the car. Instead of him saying, “Grandmom I’ll get it, ” it would turn into their discussion of how he just got these clothess and he doesn’t want anything to drip on them. My mom would say, “Niam, if you don’t get your butt to the car you won’t eat.” Niam would say, “Grandmom, why do you have to be difficult?” Then he’d get into the food, stealing bites as he carried it in.
As the house began to fill with family and friends, Niam would go from room to room, talking to everyone and making his presence known. Sometimes he would dance, sing, play games, play jokes on others, or just have an intelligent conversation with some. Of course, he would give the ladies a compliment and tell the men they look great.
Our last Thanksgiving dinner together as a family in 2016, Niam made an announcement: He was going to be a father and he introduced the family to his girlfriend. My mother said to him, “Niam, you are no longer the baby anymore. You will have a baby that you have to raise. You are now a man.” Niam said, “Grandmom, I know and I will take care of my baby and do things the way ya’ll raise me to do.”
As the night grew on, people would begin to leave. Niam would always say, “Mom, I had a great time with the family. I love Thanksgiving, it’s my favorite holiday because I get a chance to see everyone I love.” As the children helped me clean up, I’d hear the laughter between them throughout the house.
At night, they would stay up eating and playing games until they got tired and fell asleep in the living room.
Families, these are the beautiful memories I have of my son. The first year, I was able to cook Thanksgiving dinner and invited everyone over, including his friends, because I thought losing Niam was a dream or a joke. I would look out the door each chance hoping to see Niam coming in.
By the second Thanksgiving without Niam, I was in shock because I knew that my son was really murdered and we would never add to the beautiful memories we share. I couldn’t push myself to cook that year and my other children were lost without me cooking at home.
This year we will cook dinner, but include Niam by making his favorite dishes as well as begin to make new memories as a family. Life doesn’t stop for any of us and we must continue to fight through the pain. Yes, I will cry that day because it was a day filled with family togetherness and one of us is missing. But, as he would tell us, we must continue to live our lives to the fullest.
Happy Thanksgiving to each one of you from my family to yours, and please remember to let the healing begin.
Kimberly Kamara is the author of “Where’s My Daddy,” a children’s book aimed at kids who’ve lost a parent to murder. The book was inspired by her family’s continuing journey of grief after her son, Niam Johnson-Tate, lost his life to gun violence on July 5, 2017. Kimberly has two daughters and lives in Germantown with her husband.
