38 NOVEMBER 2019
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them that she was struggling. Couples often naturally fall into
a division of labor, and the Hawkins-Gaars were no exception.
“Hosting by yourself is obviously way different than hosting
with your partner. Trying to fill the shoes of a talented cook
and hosting when you’re grieving—it was just a lot,” she says.
Thirteen of the couple’s friends and family members gathered
around the table, brought side dishes, showered praise upon
her admittedly terrible turkey, and toasted the man they so
terribly missed.
“His absence is giant and especially on a day like that,” Katie
says. That year, she took particular comfort from a holiday
tradition she had growing up. To play the Thankful Alphabet,
you go around the table and each person takes the next letter,
she explains. “I’m thankful for apples. I’m thankful for Barack
Obama,” and so on. It is, she says, what helped her survive that
first Thanksgiving alone.
“Gratitude got me through some of the hardest moments of
that year where I wondered what there was to be grateful for.
I would stop and force myself to list it out,” Katie says. “To do
that exercise with friends around the table was so beautiful even
though we all were still in shock that this person, this wonderful
light that we loved is just gone in an instant.”
The next year, Katie and her new partner, Billy—whom she
met when she was giving a talk about losing Jamie—attended
someone else’s Thanksgiving, and she was tasked only with
bringing a salad. While she felt a pang, noticing the easy energy
the hosting couple shared, she found the beauty in it, too.
“That was good for me,” she says. “Even though it looked
entirely different and still reminded me of past Thanksgivings,
it was this great reminder that I’ll always carry Jamie with me
and always carry my past with me, but I don’t have to stay stuck
in that. It can look different.”
AS FOR THE Thanksgiving that would become an important
first for me, I had no real or appealing plans that particular
Thursday in 1998, but I wasn’t about to admit that to my col-
league and made some bluster about keeping my options open,
possibly getting out of town. Lissa saw right through me but was
kind enough to entertain the ruse. Well, if your plans change,
my friends and I are having dinner in Harlem, and you’d be
welcome to join. Don’t worry about cooking; Mama Diva’s got
that covered. Just bring something to drink—she prefers Korbel;
don’t get fancy. Thank you, I said. I’ll maybe try and swing by.
I didn’t have any Korbel on hand, but I did have a mostly full,
massive bottle of Jack Daniels with a recipe on the side, and
that would have to do. I bolted to the train, clutching a bodega
bag full of lemons, and contemplated hopping off at every stop
between Union Street and 125th and Lenox. On every set of
knees balanced a foil-topped casserole dish, a Tupperware tub,
a string-tied bakery box, enough to fuel a battalion of loved ones.
I was an army of one, encroaching on a gathering of mostly
strangers, and they’d know I was unwanted elsewhere. But
hey—at least I came bearing booze. I breathed in deeply through
my nose, steadied myself, and pressed the buzzer.
Mama Diva. China Doll. Miss Ellen. Dr. Ellen Edwards
Robinson. This elegant, ageless woman in a polar bear sweat-
shirt was many things to the world: a gifted prosthetist, painter,
makeup artist, habitué of Harlem nightclubs and drag balls,
mother to a biological son she called Turkeyhead and a spiritual
one we all called Mr. Diva (aka my friend Eric Diesel), and in
that moment, the savior of my soul. I wasn’t special—anyone
from the neighborhood knew they could show up at her home
on Thanksgiving looking the slightest bit peckish, and she’d let
them heap a plate of turkey, candied sweet potatoes, mac and
cheese, long-simmered barbecue, whipped rutabagas, corn-
bread dressing, cranberry sauce, and the best greens known
to humankind to take home, alongside slabs of thickly frosted
cake, pies as far as the eye could see and the stomach could
stretch, and Nilla Wafer–studded banana pudding that Lissa;
Eric; his now-husband, John; and I came to use as a mantra in
our tougher times. “Nanner puddin’, nanner puddin’, nanner
puddin’” translates to “It’s going to be OK.” I wasn’t special,
because she made everyone feel that way.
I’ve rarely in my life felt as solid, surrounded, accepted, and
cared for as I did on those Thanksgivings among the other
misfits perched on every sittable surface of Mama Diva’s apart-
ment. It looked, smelled, and tasted nothing like where I’d come
from and everything like where I wanted to go—where I have
gone since. It’s not Thanksgiving for me unless I’ve scanned my
circle of friends and colleagues to see who seems like they’re
being vague about their plans; I let it be known how welcome
they are, ask what dishes are essential to them, and say how
much it would mean to have them with me.
Mama Diva died in January 2008 at the age of 77. That core
group of us spent every Thanksgiving in between with her,
including the final one when her lights were starting to fade.
My husband, Douglas, and I picked her up and ferried her to
John and Eric’s home in Queens, where Eric had toiled for days
to make sure that every last dish he’d learned from her would
pass muster. When she was out of earshot, Eric wiped his eyes
and whispered that he didn’t think she’d make it through the
year, but maybe she’d rallied because she loved the holiday so
much. I theorized that she wanted to stick around and make
sure he knew just how to make the greens correctly. He did, and
she approved. I watched and learned. I made it mine.
Here’s me now: 47, happily married, steadier of foot, calmer
of breath. Lissa moved to Las Vegas a while back, and John and
Eric have made a home in Los Angeles. I miss them fiercely, but
we text a lot, and, most important, they’re living the lives they
need to now. Things change, and it’s OK—so long as someone
cares enough to make sure the collards taste right and every
friend, old or new, knows just how welcome they are at my table.
