I’m not always the fondest of turkey, but I always look forward to shopping on Black Friday. Although the day after Thanksgiving is often reduced to “capitalist consumption for the unwoke masses,” it has become a favorite family tradition of time spent with two women I love, my mom and aunt. It always includes a meal (we rarely get to eat together now that we’re on separate coasts) and the belly-aching laughter that always ensues when we’re together, plus a few purse purchases.
To be sure, there’s more than laughs, bargain brawls or door-busting deals associated with Black Friday. In recent years, demonstrations protesting the brutal state-sanctioned violence against black folk, and calling for an end to monetizing holidays have erupted during the busiest day of the year for in-store traffic. For some, Black Friday signals participation in an oppressive capitalist paradigm. And because said system interlocks with racism, sexism, transphobia, anti-immigration and all other forms of oppression, participating in Black Friday shopping can be viewed as supporting unjust systems. For others, it is about savings and discounts on coveted items. But for me, Black Friday shopping is a trip down memory lane and a family ritual.
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For years—really pretty much all of my childhood—my mom would leave the house in the cover of night shortly after I fell asleep. She would be gone for hours, only to descend on the house with shopping bags in the daylight. Weeks later, some of those items would be under the Christmas tree for me and my two little sisters. I would gingerly shake the boxes after taking a mental picture of it and made sure to return them to their original place. After my mom caught me, she stopped putting names on the gifts until Christmas Eve. But even without name tags, I guessed whose presents were whose, and fooled my impressionable sisters with unfounded pronouncements of what they were getting.
Years later, to celebrate my entry into adulthood—marked by gainful employment as a high school teacher—I purchased my first Coach bag on Black Friday. Because I was shopping with my mother, I bought her one as well—not as a “thank you, Mom, for raising me; I can now buy you things, too,”—no, this was under duress. To be honest, Mama pulled a trick on me that I used to use on her when I was five and wanted ice cream. She squeezed me in a hug and asked in the sweetest voice if I would buy her one. For my grown-ass mama, a soft, buttery leather Coach bag that cost over $200 was her version of a treat that could not be denied. It wasn’t like I could afford it on a teacher’s salary, but the heart wants what it wants. And she was persuasive.
Of course, it was the allure of receiving Christmas gifts that I focused on as a kid—and remember the most. But becoming a working adult gained me entry into the Black Friday Family Club. That’s right, I finally was invited to shop with the adults. A class privilege, no doubt. But, I was excited to be officially grown and inducted into their shopping ritual. I noticed that with each year since turning 18, the number of neatly wrapped boxes with red and green bows sitting under the tree with my name on it had dwindled. With no more presents to shake and with my own money, I could be part of the club. I’d passed the coming-of-age ritual: I was able to do for myself and do for others, at least in a monetary sense and at Christmas time.
Source: Black Friday: A Special Rite of Passage With My Black Family
