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    [post_content] => 

How the archival work of librarians and other activists helps preserve more than just history.

In 1979, as the Iranian hostage crisis played on American television screens 24/7, the television producer, librarian, activist, and intellectual Marion Stokes began recording the news broadcasts on tape. The live coverage—across all channels, at all hours—launched what we now recognize as the never-ending, ambient flow of media. Simultaneously, Stokes recognized a shift in the narrative America was telling about itself, and the role of media manipulation toward pro-American policies. So, for the next 30 years, she recorded any and all TV news broadcasts, commercials included. All of it was then archived, stacks of VHS tapes quickly accumulating in her Philadelphia apartment, as portrayed in the 2019 documentary Recorder: The Marion Stokes Project

This kind of project by an individual who operates outside of an institution was a radical endeavor: When Stokes began, broadcast channels didn’t archive their own material, often erasing tapes so they could reuse them due to cost. But Stokes’ project and its often innocuous content would also foreshadow the long-term value of guerrilla archives, both in preserving an accurate historical record and holding the media—and government—to account. Activist archives began as a practice in the 1960s, when organizers filled in the historical gaps where universities and institutions could not. These, however, were collective efforts; Stokes operated individually, until eventually, her son donated the recordings to the Internet Archive, where digitized selections are now available online. “By [Stokes] having that collection, it means the scholars, artists, and researchers have access to the information without paying for it,” says Shola Lynch, filmmaker and Professor of the Art and Visual Culture at Spelman College. “Because when our history is bound up in commercial hands, that's problematic.” 

Stokes’ practice of recording any and all materials resembles the history of what is now called  “memory work,” or individuals who preserve the photographs, documents, and ephemera of a community. A relatively recent tradition, this form of archiving has taken on new meaning in a digital era where data sets can be wiped and personal data sold, seemingly without consequence. Following the start of the second Trump presidency in January 2025, more than 2,000 datasets suddenly disappeared from Data.gov, the U.S.’s government's data portal. Since then, the Trump administration has overhauled even more data, including entire web pages and important coding tools for researchers and climate scientists

Over the last five decades, open source tools and government data have been integral to preserving the historical record and maintaining public infrastructure in the United States. According to America’s Essential Data, New Orleanians received smoke alarms because fire departments used American Community Survey (ACS) data to identify neighborhoods most in need. School districts could (previously) make the case for increased teacher salaries using the Department of Education’s Civil Rights Data Collection (CRDC) to highlight underpaid teachers. Residents could avoid scams in their community based on federal Consumer Sentinel data. Now, these records are liable to disappear from the internet, possibly forever. 

The government is ultimately responsible for preserving a record of its own actions. But when federal agencies are unable to preserve all their data, or willfully choose not to, it begs the question if this work is best done by civil society and those outside of the government. Guerrilla archives—whether digital or analog like Stokes’—are generally nonpartisan acts of preservation to serve the public good. There’s the Internet Archive, which has been archiving the web and other cultural artifacts since 1996, and Vanderbilt Television News Archive, which provides the most comprehensive chronicling of evening television news broadcasts in the world. There’s also the End of Term Archive—one of the largest of these projects in progress—which downloads all government information at the end of each presidential term. It’s a grassroots alternative to the National Archives and Records Administration (NARA), which notoriously did not receive all of the presidential records from the first Trump administration in 2021 as mandated under the Presidential Records Act. (Trump promptly fired the head of NARA when he re-entered office in 2025.)

Despite having distributed its data more digitally over the last 20 years, the government has not issued any dedicated preservation or access strategy for its information. Additionally, the current laws and policies around government data preservation are outdated and inadequate. This hole in the system has compelled librarians to join the race to copy digital federal archives, beginning in 2016 with the Data Rescue movement, which drew over 1500 volunteers for dozens of hackathon-style events throughout the year. “Distrust re-orients care,” researcher Laura Rothfritz wrote in her analysis of these early efforts for Big Data & Society. When a public distrusts a system and a possible threat is identified, however, anxiety can be mobilized into producing future forms of infrastructure.

As the situation becomes more dire, these efforts have only expanded. Today, the Public Data Project runs within the Library Innovation Lab at Harvard Law School, collecting and authenticating all federal datasets, more recently including the Smithsonian Institute’s public domain data. So far, they have downloaded the entirety of Data.gov, copied it, and digitally signed it with a provenance mark to authenticate its origins. The project launched in early 2025 as part of Harvard Law School’s repository system, which dates back centuries. 

“I think a lot of us in the library and technology communities are sort of waking up to the fact that we need to have a strategy in place for the preservation and access of government data beyond what the government provides,” says Molly Hardy, the Project Lead for the Public Data Project. Their team also works closely with the Data Rescue Project, a grassroots nonprofit preserving massive data sets and consisting entirely of volunteers. 

“Public data infrastructures have long been considered essential components of democratic governance, scientific accountability, and civic participation,” Rothfritz continues in her Big Data & Society piece. Much like our city’s infrastructure, however, we don’t recognize its value until it's broken. It is the invisible fiber that holds democracy together, from our roads and postal service to job numbers and environmental data. Increasingly, its preservation is also a task that has been left to individuals and communities. In October 2025, the nonprofit organization Internet Archive celebrated archiving its trillionth web page on its most popular service, the Wayback Machine, an initiative that allows users to find web page screenshots from specific dates. It has become an essential tool and digital service for independent organizations and guerrilla archivists alike. (The largest archive on the internet, dedicated to “universal access to all knowledge,” has not been without its setbacks however: In 2024, it suffered a data breach affecting millions of users and a copyright infringement case over its digital lending library.)

The Invisible Histories Project, a nonprofit organization based in North Carolina, has been preserving the digital history and cultural memory of LGBTQ+ life in the South using tools like the Wayback Machine. “We could no longer trust institutions to protect marginalized histories,” says Maigen Sullivan, the Co-Executive Director of Invisible Histories. She recalls a community effort at the start of last year to preserve government and university pages with references to diversity offices, along with flyers and photos. According to Sullivan, by August and September 2025, when universities returned to term, about a quarter of those pages were already gone. “This is the only evidence, other than what individuals might hold, that exists,” she says.

Invisible Histories has also built its own server because of mistrust in corporations like Google and Microsoft that store and hold onto their data, another issue facing digital archivists. The organization has endured two cyberattacks—one in 2023, and the other in 2025—since its founding in 2017. Because of this, they’ve considered cybersecurity training and increased security for potential threats against the archive. “If you feel like you're hopeless and helpless and have nothing to do, archiving is a tool of resistance and anyone can do it,” says Sullivan.

These examples of digital mutual aid have become essential for documenting history, and are one way to combat historical revisionism. Activist archives also continue to challenge which institutions have a say in the historical record, nationally and beyond. Zakiya Collier, a Brooklyn-based archivist, says individual archives preserve more than just data. “I think that memory work has a liberatory capacity to it,” she says. “I use that term because it calls on a legacy of people who dedicated their time and energy to preserving history in their homes, communities, churches, attics, and basements. They decided something was important to document and keep.”

Collier, who has worked as the digital archivist in the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture in the New York Public Library, now works with the organization Archiving the Black Web, which trains archivists to document a more inclusive history of the internet. Its potential to create more live archives and documentations of the web aims to contribute to a more equitable historical view of how we catalogue our lives online. 

As data and information is getting purposefully disappeared from the internet—an increasingly fertile ground for fascist ideology—archiving becomes increasingly necessary, or else, the public cannot bear witness to itself. In April 2025, the National Park Service erased references to Harriet Tubman on its webpages. The following month, Trump issued an executive order sanitizing federal cultural institutions by accusing the Smithsonian Institute of promoting “race-centered ideology” in its exhibit, “The Shape of Power: Stories of Race and American Sculpture.” The USDA ended its annual survey of hunger in America two weeks before the government shutdown in October 2025, affecting the distribution of food stamps. 

Data is information and has become a weapon in the digital age. But both individuals and communities are not powerless to fight back. With the rapid monopolistic takeover of media platforms, it’s no surprise that users are beginning to archive their own data and leaning towards physical media. Sales of vinyl are up, print book sales are rising, and DVD collections are in.

“All archives create futures,” says a voiceover in Recorder: The Marion Stokes Project, as news broadcasts and infomercials from Stokes’ archive flash in rapid pace onscreen. The organization of information by the lay person may help overcome barriers of the institutionalized index and history, as the threat of excessive online information and its disappearance still looms large for activist archives. But this work has become even more critical, not only for deciding how the past will be remembered, but how an imagined future might pull from its past to mobilize this kind of anticipatory care in the present.

[post_title] => On Guerrilla Archives in the Disinformation Age [post_excerpt] => How the archival work of librarians and other activists helps preserve more than just history. [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => closed [ping_status] => closed [post_password] => [post_name] => guerrilla-archives-activism-protest-history-preservation-politics-marion-stokes-media [to_ping] => [pinged] => [post_modified] => 2026-04-23 15:59:16 [post_modified_gmt] => 2026-04-23 15:59:16 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => https://conversationalist.org/?p=10428 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw )
Photo illustration by The Conversationalist, featuring a film strip imposed over a photo from the Iranian hostage crisis. (Getty/Alamy)

On Guerrilla Archives in the Disinformation Age

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    [post_date] => 2025-11-04 14:12:36
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    [post_content] => 

Queer relationship visibility isn’t good enough if all it does is replicate heteronormative approaches.

Soapbox is a series where people make the case for the sometimes surprising things they feel strongly about.

Like any faithful reality TV fangirly, I dutifully invest many hours of my brief and precious human life into my little shows. I dwell unabashedly in the cult of reality standom: My housecleaning rituals include day-long marathons of shows like Vanderpump Rules or 90 Day Fiancé, where I empty my closets and scrub my floorboards to the tune of a full season, filling my home with the sounds of strangers’ arguments, diary cam thoughts, and curated confessionals. 

For me, this isn’t just entertainment. I am endlessly fascinated by human relationship dynamics, and the belief systems that shape them. Much of reality television serves as my personal laboratory for examining these phenomena in action—and I absorb every minute with rapture. This is especially true within my favorite subgenre of all, reality romance, which I find particularly compelling because of the ways it reveals the ubiquity of heteronormativity in our collective consciousness. It’s also why I think we are long overdue for more queer reality romance—including shows that actually explore queer relationship frameworks, rather than just LGBTQ+ casting.

From classics like The Bachelor and Rock of Love to contemporary hits like Love is Blind, shows where total strangers form attachments to one another and make legally binding commitments in intense, pressurized, and unnatural situations are canonical. They’re also historically very heterosexual, something that hasn’t changed even as casting has diversified. 

Accurate, dynamic queer representation across all media is essential, and desperately overdue. Thanks to LGBTQ+ reality shows like Tampa Baes, The Real L Word, and the I Kissed a Boy franchise, we’ve finally been able to see a variety of sexualities and genders normalized in a dating context. And thank goodness! But as entertaining as these programs might be, queer relationship visibility isn’t good enough if all it does is replicate heteronormative approaches—and when it comes to relationships where personal autonomy and romantic intimacy are successfully balanced, these shows are falling short. 

With its second season out last summer, breakout hit The Ultimatum: Queer Love might be the most popular of the LGBTQ+ reality romance genre, both for queer and straight viewers alike. It’s also a strong (and, for better or worse, incredibly entertaining) case study in the pitfalls of dropping queer contestants into heterosexual dating frameworks, especially on a global stage. The plot features five couples on the lesbian spectrum who have reached an impasse in their relationships—one partner wants to get married, the other does not, and the former has issued the latter an ultimatum: Marry me, or we’re breaking up. 

The show aims to “help” castmates gain clarity about their present dilemma by presenting them with an opportunity to explore partnership with someone new. But not just anyone new: Castmates date each other. 

In front of the partners they arrived with. 

Participants have one week to select a new partner, and then immediately move in with that person for a three week “trial marriage,” which some of the new couples consummate. They then each move back in with their original partner for another three week “trial marriage” before decision day. 

The end goal is either for castmates to leave the show engaged—whether to their original partner, or to someone they just met under fast, furious, and fantastical circumstances—or, if they’re still not ready to commit, to walk away single. And of course, things go off without a hitch, everyone is super mature about everything, and no one ends up brokenhearted or publicly humiliated.

Now, maybe this plotline conjures images of the chaotic, toxic, and mysteriously elusive “U-Haul lesbian”. Yet that instinct would be misguided: In reality, The Ultimatum: Queer Love is a spin-off of The Ultimatum: Marry or Move On, a pre-existing show with the exact same premise, but a heterosexual cast. 

When the main focus of a show is for participants to “find love,” however, especially when the premise pressures them into making quick decisions about marriage or monogamy, the ghastly, unflattering light of patriarchy spares no one—something the landscape of LGBTQ+ reality romance makes clear. This is also one reason why copy-pasting heteronormative relationship frameworks onto a queer cast is particularly dangerous. On the whole, as a society, we are not trained to recognize misogyny when it doesn’t come from cis men, something that can quickly translate into queerphobia: When queer folks embody patriarchal values, people around them may be tempted to blame queerness, rather than patriarchy, for any ensuing problematic behavior. Queer people struggle enough with this inside our own communities already; something that compounds when media about us continuously reiterates stereotypes about gender, power, and control. This is particularly visible in reality television, from the lesbian sex scenes that border on soft porn, to the queer fuckbros whose predatory behavior towards femmes goes largely unconfronted, to cis women whose emotional abuse of their femme, masc, and genderqueer partners does not ring alarm bells the way it would if a cis man were behaving the same way.

The entire Ultimatum franchise is part of a robust and patriarchal legacy within the genre, where marriage is treated as an achievement, especially for women and femmes, and prioritized over everything, even at the expense of healthy bonds and connections. But to simply recycle the plotlines of heteronormative reality shows and transpose them onto a queer cast is not only creatively lazy; it exposes the errors of these shows’ premises at their core. 

“[R]eality television…has created a falsified account of how certain people are meant to behave, communicate and love, and the majority of the victims to these production tactics are women,” wrote Lindsey Spencer in a 2022 article for the Michigan Daily.

Where patriarchal marriage is the prize, women and LGBTQ+ folks will always get the short end of the stick, even when they “win.” I’m not knocking marriage as an institution—big fan, actually—but patriarchal marriage? One where gender is, whether consciously or unconsciously, viewed as binary, and where partners and/or traits perceived as “feminine” are subjugated to partners viewed as “masculine”? Where the praxis of the relationship itself eliminates the possibility of true intimacy? Where my partner and I are beholden to monogamy, rather than deciding whether we want to choose it anew, as the seasons of our lives unfold? 

Ew, no.

This is also precisely why I believe we’d all benefit from some more queering of reality romance. What if, instead of watching people wrestle their partners into making high-stakes commitments, audiences were offered a window into a cast of queers exploring alternative frameworks and modalities for love and connection? Reality fans would still get to absorb all the juicy human drama we hold so dear, but we’d also get to witness people grow and change in ways for which current plotlines don’t allow. 

In the current season of The Ultimatum: Queer Love, for example, an interesting situation cropped up during the initial re-shuffling of couples that might have played out very differently outside of the show’s rigid framework. A mutual attraction developed between one participant, Pilar, and both halves of one original couple, Kyle and Bridget. When, independently of one another, the pair learned that Pilar was interested in them both, they each encouraged her to explore the other, vouching for each other’s radness.

The show’s most visibly genderqueer couple so far, Kyle and Bridget already stood out from the pack. But they were also, in my opinion, the most mutually respectful couple the show has seen—something made clear throughout the season. Eventually, Pilar and Kyle selected one another for the trial marriage, and Bridget ended up with someone else. After Pilar and Kyle shared a kiss during their time together, Kyle quickly disclosed it to Bridget once they were reunited for their own “trial marriage.” While Bridget was visibly miffed, she and Kyle continued to have productive, open, and tender communication as they worked through a difficult conversation. 

It was an intriguing plot line, for sure, and played out as healthily as it could have within the scope of the show. But how much more interesting would it have been to watch Pilar, Kyle, and Bridget explore what it might be like to date as a trio? Or to watch them even have that discussion? I wonder how they may have all impacted each other’s lives differently, and whether stronger friendships or romances could have blossomed if they hadn’t been confined to the show’s rules.

Something as simple as that could have changed not only the trajectory of the contestants’ lives but, arguably, perhaps the trajectory of a viewer’s life, too. Witnessing couples undertake that type of exploration, safely and from a place of mutual trust, could be the very representation that some viewers need, queer or straight. It could also be a gateway for them to learn about their own relationship preferences, or even expose them to the fact that alternatives are possible. 

Beyond that, this more expansive approach would bring us closer to true representation, not just its bare minimum. The reality romance industry profits greatly from our identities, and queer viewers deserve something beyond an “LGBTQ+” label on the dropdown menu of our favorite streaming sites. After decades of witnessing countless reality stars run the hamster wheel of heteropatriarchy, I, personally, am ready for something a bit more nuanced—and, frankly, a lot more queer.

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An illustration of a wedding cake with a rainbow of colors in the background. At the top of the cake is a cake topper with a queer couple, both wearing suits, leaning towards one another for a kiss; both holding bouquets behind their back. In their shadow, we see a heteronormative couple, with one wearing a wedding dress.

Why Isn’t LGBTQ+ Reality TV More… Queer?

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    [post_content] => What did you talk about at your Thanksgiving dinner?

A week after the celebration of the most American holiday, many people are still digesting dinner table conversations that might have wandered into current events. Whether they were contentious, or affirming, the Thanksgiving dinner table conversation as a reflection of our cultural moment has become a motif in popular culture. A survey of some of the most iconic enactments of the holiday meal in film and in television go some way toward putting last week's conversations in context.

Unlike any other religious or secular American celebration, Thanksgiving offers a motif that resonates with nearly all American audiences, as Norman Rockwell shows in his iconic 1943 portrait of a family celebrating the holiday. The title of the painting is Freedom From Want; it is one in a series inspired by Franklin D. Roosevelt’s 1941 State of the Union address, Four Freedoms (freedom of speech, freedom of worship, freedom from want, freedom from fear), which he delivered shortly after the United States entered World War Two. Rockwell’s all-American family would, one hopes, look quite different today; but the propaganda potential is the same – almost everyone celebrates Thanksgiving, in similar ways, with similar cultural cues and breaks from the workweek.

Over the years, film directors have used Thanksgiving scenes as an instantly recognizable tableau for the foibles of the extended family. Many of those Thanksgiving scenes have become iconic — offering a peek into less-familiar narratives. They are also remarkably powerful reflections of the political climate of their time. Viewed years later, they offer salutary insights into whether and how things have changed.

In Avalon, the third of Barry Levinson’s semi-autobiographical Baltimore movies —of which Diner is perhaps the best known —Thanksgiving makes the director’s Jewish Baltimore deeply and undeniably American. Even for people who haven’t seen it, “You cut the turkey without me?!” has become one of the most-quoted lines about Thanksgiving.



Each Thanksgiving meal in Avalon marks the evolution and assimilation of the Jewish-immigrant Krichinsky family, presided over by the benevolent, mustachioed patriarch Sam Krichinsky (Armin Mueller-Stahl). As the children gather at their feet and listen raptly, the older generation — Sam, his brothers, their wives and offspring — regale them with oft-repeated stories about the old world, which the younger ones imbue with fresh ideas bred by the new world. The opening scene of Avalon shows Sam arriving in Baltimore as a young man, before World War One, a new immigrant landing on the Fourth of July amid the fireworks and fairy lights. The sense of splendor and 1950’s nostalgia are a constant in this deeply sentimental film; at times Levinson’s Americana schmaltz is almost too much to bear. Yet it reflects the sentiments of its time: the film was released in 1990, just as the Communist bloc was collapsing — a historical event that many (perhaps most) Americans viewed as a validation of their values. This feeling is reflected in Barry Levinson’s nostalgic film about growing up in post-war Baltimore as the grandson of Jewish immigrants from eastern Europe.

This American exuberance at the Thanksgiving table can be found in the films of two less likely candidates — Woody Allen's Hannah and Her Sisters,  and Spike Lee's She's Gotta Have It. Both films were released in 1986; they channel a Reagan-era sense of carefree consumption, the ability to recreate oneself, and endless second chances.  Hannah and Her Sisters, one of Woody Allen’s best-known films, is framed and punctuated by three Thanksgiving meals. Given the director’s reputation for cynicism, “Hannah” is surprisingly optimistic, even as it explores the destructive potential of love and human frailty. The film begins with a Thanksgiving gathering at the sprawling Central Park West apartment of Hannah (Mia Farrow) and Elliot (Michael Caine). The camera take us through rooms that are suffused with warm light and happy children playing while clusters of adults drink, eat hors d’oeuvres, and converse. Hannah’s mother, a retired Broadway performer, sings while her husband accompanies her at the piano, and uniformed catering staff serve the food. Rather quickly, however, this scene of familial happiness morphs into something altogether different, with all the characters seemingly on the brink of ruinous heartbreak and professional failure. And yet, in tandem with the anguish over illicit love affairs, money problems, career frustration, and sibling rivalry, the city continues to sparkle and entice; the failures are minor and redeemed by success; death is defied; and most of the hearts not only survive intact, but seem to grow. The whimsy, humor, and celebration of New York City, with a closing Thanksgiving meal, full of heart and warmth, are what remain. Even Woody Allen and Dianne Wiest are happy at the end, which seems to make the film a veritable fairy tale.

She’s Gotta Have It, Spike Lee’s first (and arguably best) film, is a similarly overflowing package of whimsy and a sense of plenty. This includes its charmingly odd Thanksgiving meal. Nola, the female protagonist, is a free spirit whose enjoyment of love, sex, art, and the people around her are intoxicating, to both the characters and the viewers. For Thanksgiving dinner, the first she has ever cooked, Nola invites her three lovers — Jamie, Mars, and Greer. Over dinner the men joust for her affection, with their competitiveness extending to a post-dessert game of Scrabble. At the end of the evening each suitor is understandably reluctant to leave, hoping he will be the one Nola chooses to spend the night with her. The final scene is a beautiful overhead composition of Nola and Jamie lying in one another’s arms on her bed, with Mars and Greer hanging on nearby as the music plays — until they finally give up and leave. Like Hannah and Her Sisters, the film feels suffused with a late-1980’s American intoxication with itself – even when it’s pushing the margins or making them visible. Spike Lee provides a portrait of black Americans that doesn’t use white America as a reference point. This world exists regardless of whether or not white people are aware of it or understand it; just as Nola offers herself without apology or excuse, so does Spike Lee present black America.



While less celebratory Thanksgiving films exist — Parker Posey offers two examples of unhappy Thanksgiving gatherings in her cult classics The Day Trippers and House of Yes — television has more space to dig into broader conversations. The Thanksgiving episodes in some older television series feel shockingly political in a way that seems inconceivable today. In a 1994 episode of Roseanne, abortion is the predominant theme: four generations of women sit at the holiday table sharing their views and experiences, with Roseanne expressing views that are stridently pro-choice. When she and Dan discover their unborn child may not be healthy, however, Roseanne suddenly realizes she might not be so certain about her own choice. It is a remarkably thoughtful conversation —one of many salutary episodes in a series that gave white working-class Americans a nuanced, complex voice.

That other avatar of the white working man, Archie Bunker (Carroll O’Connor), famously served as a foil for the preoccupations of the 1970s. In the 1974 Thanksgiving episode of All In The Family, he and Edith are invited to the new home of their daughter Gloria, and son-in-law Mike  (a.k.a Meathead). Since Gloria is pregnant, the subject of whether or not the child will be raised with religion arises, with Archie and Edith expressing hurt and dismay that their grandson might be raised a liberal atheist.



All in the Family is one of the few shows premised entirely on the culture wars of the 1970s; viewed today, it holds up a sobering mirror to our contemporary political moment — i.e., we’ve regressed to a place where those inter-generational conflicts of 45 years ago now feel acutely relevant.  Emily Nussbaum, The New Yorker’s television critic, adds an additional insight in her brilliant essay about All in the Family, titled “The Great Divide:  Norman Lear, Archie Bunker, and the Rise of the Bad Fan.” The show, observes Nussbaum, attracted many “bad fans” who watched because they identified with Archie Bunker and his bigoted views. He was meant to be the old racist uncle at the Thanksgiving dinner table, an anachronistic buffoon, but many of his fans loved him because they shared his worldview. This is one of the dangers posed by using anti-heroes to explode cultural stereotypes and advance conversations.

The new canvas created by the so-called Golden Age of television has endowed the Thanksgiving episode with even greater potential. Friday Night Lights, one of the best twenty-first century portraits of very key elements of American culture, provided a perfectly fraught Thanksgiving episode in 2010, very much under the shadow of the culture wars and the polarized national debate on abortion. Tami Taylor, one of the main characters, is a principal of a high school in this a small, conservative, Texas town of churchgoers. After she is discovered to have advised a pregnant student to explore her options, guiding her with empathy and a total lack of judgment, Tami is publicly criticized and nearly fired from her job. At Thanksgiving dinner she is in the midst of dealing with the fallout from this incident, which makes the holiday a brief and not completely relaxed respite.  While the subject itself is not discussed at the dinner table, her anxiety over it permeates the evening and she is visibly distracted. This Thanksgiving dinner, as is so often the case in real life, represents a short respite from the battles of the workweek. The next day she is essentially told she is fired, and so decides to leave and work as a counselor at another school, where she is needed and wanted. When she returns home, her husband and daughters are putting up the Christmas lights, in a perfect exhalation and sense of relief.

One of the most touching Thanksgiving episodes in recent years is Denise’s coming out story in a 2017 episode of Master of None, Aziz Ansari’s scripted show on Netflix. The show ran for two seasons, took on some very big issues with humor and insight that showed one can be woke and sensitive and remain funny; its demise is a real loss — it was a cathartic corrective to the Trump presidency, an advancement of so many important conversations. The Thanksgiving episode shows Denise and Dev, who are childhood friends, at the former’s  home over several holiday celebrations, starting when they are about 6 years old. Successive scenes in the episode show the same tableau when they are 12 and 16 years old; it then jumps forward to 2015, 2016, and 2017. Dev is the only male, and the only non African-American at these Thanksgiving tables, over which Denise’s single mother, aunt and grandmother preside. It is a beautiful extended family that gradually, by the very end, grows to include Denise’s partner Michelle. The path there is lovingly charted – and the specific challenges of coming out as gay in the African American community are explored. The “non-conventional” family debunks the notion that they lack anything a traditional nuclear family might offer.



It seems odd that the cultural currency of Thanksgiving is underestimated or unrecognized– it has as captive an audience as is still possible and offers a trope that is so universally familiar. It also sets lower expectations for denouement, as Christmas might, which makes it a better canvas for experimentation or unintended projections. This is why Thanksgiving, the ultimate American holiday, has often been the best means for getting a real sense of the country’s political pulse via popular culture. We are all tuned in, and not because we are preoccupied with impeachment hearings. We just happen to be watching.
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    [post_excerpt] => It's a tradition as old as Hollywood: every year, Thanksgiving scenes are presented on television and in film as a metaphor and an analysis of our cultural moment. 
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How film and television put last week’s Thanksgiving celebration in cultural context