Now that holiday season is upon us–the time of year that many cannot wait one more second for, that many dread with every fiber in their body, that many see as an opportunity to make their gym membership worth it–I've begun to reflect on the conversations I've had with my relatives years before. By "relatives", of course, I am not referring to my mother or father or brother, but the gaggle of aunts, uncles, and cousins who are connected to me by either blood or marriage, who I only see once a year, maybe twice at most. These people who are a part of my family tree, my history, of whom have either traveled the world and lived in multiple places, big and small, or have stayed a resident of the town they were born their whole lives.

When I think back on the mere handfuls of sentences I've spoken to them, I see that only a few have truly stuck in my brain. Most of my interactions with my group of shared DNA blend and blur together, as the general catch-ups of who is where, who was born, and who is dead usually tend to do. Then, the ones that do beat the race and make it to the long-term memory section of my subconscious are rather short and hazy themselves. To be completely honest, three moments in particular have stood out, complete and bright behind my furrowed brow.

The first occurred when I was four. It was the Friday night after Thanksgiving, and while posing for one of the treacherous extended family photos, an adult cousin in-law leaned over and aggressively kissed my cheek just in time for the flash. I remember how everyone laughed and blamed my red face and tearing eyes on my shyness. I blamed it on his hard nose and wet lips slamming against my face before I could even take a breath.

The second was last year, when I was about twenty pounds lighter than I was the last Thanksgiving, and one of my oldest uncles said to me, under his breath, "You've gotten much more attractive". Those were the exact words. No one else heard him, and I didn't mention it until later that night in the car with my dad, and even then I didn't want to say it out loud–when I did, I surprised myself with how fast and hard the tears came. Neither of us have mentioned it since.

The third was actually the Thanksgiving before that, when I was in the middle of my sophomore year of college, and I was talking about something to do with my drama program. I don't remember the exact thing I was speaking about, but I remember how excited and proud I was to be studying acting there. But I clearly remember the seconds after, when a different uncle–my godfather, to be exact–piped up with, "Oh, you mean waitressing school?", followed by a wheezing laughter. The others in the conversation joined him, including me, albeit more sarcastic and uncomfortable than the chuckles around me.

There are several reasons why these moments have stayed as stiff as concrete in my head versus the others flowing in and out like a river. All three of them involve a man much older than me, dominating me in some sense. All three of them highlight a time in which a family member within an environment of warmth and trust has made me feel slighted, unworthy, and unsafe. All three of them involve a third party who listened, perhaps felt sorry, but then ultimately did nothing.

However, there is one thing particularly different about the third and final memory; I enjoy and benefit from thinking about it. It reminds me why I do what I do. Why I act. Why I am a working actor. Why I was a lead in a university play and am finishing up shooting for my role as a lead in a full-feature film and why I am in the home stretch of rehearsals for my directorial debut, all in the second-to-last semester of my college career.

Why I am proudly going to "waitressing school".

In said school, I have worked my butt (and the rest of my body, let's be honest) off the past three and a half years so I can be trained, skilled, and open to telling the infinite amount of stories on the human condition. Part of the hard work came from the encouragement and demand of my professors, and a lot of it came from within myself. It took waitressing school to learn that it ultimately must come from the latter.

It took waitressing school to realize my privilege in this world and how I can use it to fight against harmful societal norms and further progress.

It took waitressing school to see that I am human and therefore have limits, and can now recognize those limits and let them help rather than hinder me.

It took waitressing school to learn how to really take care of myself, not just say that I do.

It took waitressing school to be one hundred percent sure about this passion, to take on the hard work needed to ensure I'm good at it, the confidence to know I'm good, the knowledge to pursue it successfully, ALL WHILE opening me up to what else I have to offer, such as writing and cartooning.

It took waitressing school to confront what my demons are.

It took waitressing school to find my true friends, people who care about me and support me even when I'm being a poor version of myself.

It took waitressing school to be fearful of the future while standing up to it.

It took waitressing school to be an intelligent, compassionate, focused, driven, ambitious, beautiful, courageous, nasty woman.

It took waitressing school to actually be a waitress for a little while, realize I hate it and cannot do it for a day job, appreciate those who can, and tip them even better for it.

Thank you, Uncle So-and-So. I've grown to love what you've said about my career and life choice. It is one of the many things that has fueled my fire. Hope I see you at the next Thanksgiving.

Love,

Your God Daughter Who is About to Graduate with Honors from Waitressing School