Emily Articulated: A holiday(ish) story

By Emily Erickson
Reader Columnist

I was 15 when my godmother, Chrissy, invited me to Black Friday. It was 2007, an in-between time when everyone had a cellphone, but none that could access the internet. Facebook existed, but your grandma wasn’t on it, leaving comments on public photos like, “Hi Emily, I hope you’re still going to church. But, judging by that hem length, I can’t imagine you are… Love, Grandma.”

The timing matters because this is a Black Friday story — back before it crept into Thursday, Wednesday or Nov. 1. This was peak Black Friday, when news vans parked outside Walmarts, camera crews salivating at the chance to film two pajama-clad grannies fistfighting over a Blu-ray player.

I accepted the invitation with hesitation (very on-brand for 15-year-old me) because my family didn’t shop recreationally, and never as an event. Money in our house was inconsistent: My mom was the reliable breadwinner, while my dad’s carpentry income arrived in unpredictable bursts, allocated to paying down credit cards or the occasional family road trip — sharing “bonding time” in the back of our minivan, forced to hold our bladders between Mount Rushmore and Wall Drug because “we were on a schedule, damnit.”

As Black Friday approached, I kept thinking about Thanksgiving at our house — hourslong meals, conversation games, my mom insisting that shared time counted as abundance.

I also thought about the window that might open by attending, witnessing the kinds of families with foreign-to-me things like name-brand clothing wrapped under their trees. They probably started their days with Captain Crunch cereal, too. And I wanted to see it all.

So, at 3:30 a.m. on the Friday after Thanksgiving, Chrissy pulled into my driveway in her blue Chevy Challenger, looking like an ex-cop to the rest of the world, but to me, a portal into another one. Steam curled through her headlights in the cold Wisconsin air; and, as I climbed in, the seats were already warm.

“Ready to shop?” she asked, already in reverse.

Twenty-five minutes later, we snagged one of the last parking spots in a nearly full lot. I marvelled at the line of people snaking from the doors to the edge of the building.

“There they are, in the matching purple coats,” Chrissy exclaimed, pointing to her adult nieces, Annie and Kim, waving excitedly, their faces red from the glow of the overhead Target bullseye. 

As we tucked into our place in line, the two women enveloped me in a warm hug, the cloud of their breath obscuring the sidelong glances from the people around us. And I wondered if we were committing a faux pas, like the kind of abhorrent people who deplane before the row in front of them. But this was their world, and I was a temporary visitor, so I settled in.

After a few minutes of queuing, the crowd began an audible countdown: “Five minutes to 4 a.m.!” someone shouted. Then “three minutes!” Then, “Any second now!”

When the doors opened and the line lurched forward, a thrill shot through me. I imagined a dormant wolf uncurling in my chest, ready to hunt. As we broke into a jog, the wolf threw back her head and howled. “Awoooooo!” Nobody — and I mean nobody — was getting between me and my $4.99 copy of Pirates of the Caribbean 3.

Inside, the light was blinding. My group scattered immediately, each chasing their own “big deal.” Shoppers yelled plans across aisles like football teams before barking, “Break!” 

“I’ll be in electronics, you head to toys, and we’ll rendezvous in home goods,” someone shouted. Another person chided, “I mean it, Tammy, don’t get distracted by the scented candles!”

I drifted to the discounted DVD rack — alone, because the things people woke up early for were far outside my budget. I dropped Nacho Libre and Bring It On, Again into my cart and looked around.

A flushed woman in Uggs wiped at the sheen of sweat on her forehead as she pushed her 100-inch TV between two shopping carts. Another woman clutched the white, shiny box of a Nintendo Wii under her arm, her lips pinched as she held back a satisfied smile.

I wondered how early she’d woken up to get it; if she knew she was a good mom, console or not. Would her kids remember this holiday — the one where they got exactly what they wanted — or would expectation swallow the effort whole?

Even then, before loss sharpened perspective, I felt deeply grateful for the family and tradition I’d be returning to when I got home. I pictured regaling my family with stories over Thanksgiving-leftover sandwiches, settling on the couch with a new copy of Shrek the Third. I resolved — briefly — to tell my mom that perhaps she was right all along.

At checkout, I reunited with Chrissy, Annie and Kim, buzzing with their wins and losses, laughing through stories of near-misses and aisle collisions.

“Now who wants to go to Walmart?” Annie asked, grinning. “Dave can handle the kids a little longer, right?”

I realized that despite all the transactions, the trip had very little to do with shopping. Because, as I was learning at 5 a.m., under the blinding fluorescent lights of Target, that traditions and meaning come in all forms. Although the holidays might not be about gifts under the tree, sometimes, they’re about the people with whom you’d ram carts into other people to get them.

Emily Erickson is a writer and business owner with an affinity for black coffee and playing in the mountains. Connect with her online at www.bigbluehat.studio.