As a kid, I was always mad - just noticing the women at

Beth Ditto, with candor and fire, once declared: “As a kid, I was always mad—just noticing the women at Thanksgiving, running around the kitchen, while the men were watching football. For one, I don’t want to cook, and for two, I hate football. I was stuck in the middle.” Her words, though spoken from memory, strike at a wound older than her own life—the wound of roles imposed, of traditions that bind one half of humanity to labor while the other half reclines in leisure. It is the voice of a child awakening to injustice, a voice that refuses to accept what is given merely because it is customary.

The origin of this quote lies in Ditto’s upbringing in the American South, where Thanksgiving, like many family feasts, bore the marks of division along gendered lines. The women carried the burden of the meal, their sweat and sacrifice hidden in the steam of the kitchen, while the men sat enthroned before the glowing altar of the television, worshiping not at a table of gratitude, but at the spectacle of football. For the young Ditto, who found no joy in either cooking or sport, there was no place of belonging—only the exile of one caught between roles she did not choose.

This tension echoes through history. In ancient societies, labor was often divided, and women’s toil was hidden, uncelebrated, taken as given. The feast of kings in Babylon, or of nobles in Rome, was brought forth by the unseen hands of women and servants, their names unspoken while men feasted in honor and renown. And yet, every empire that forgot to honor its silent laborers eventually fell into ruin. For strength does not lie only in the voices of those who speak, but in the hands of those who serve. Ditto’s childhood fury is the modern echo of this timeless imbalance.

Her reflection is not merely complaint; it is awakening. She saw that she was “stuck in the middle”—a place of revelation, where neither role fit, and thus the possibility of a new path was born. For those who stand outside the traditions of their families, who see the cracks in the customs of their ancestors, are often the ones chosen to challenge and reshape them. Her anger as a kid was not weakness but the seed of transformation, the righteous fire that refuses to accept the chains of expectation.

We may recall the story of Susan B. Anthony, who, as a young girl, noticed that her brothers were taught subjects that were denied to her. She too felt “stuck in the middle,” caught between intelligence and exclusion. Yet from that fire came her destiny—to challenge the order, to demand equality, to blaze a path for others. Ditto’s words stand in this same lineage, a reminder that the questioning child may one day become the reformer, the artist, the prophet who calls for change.

The lesson here is luminous: tradition must be examined, not merely inherited. Gratitude and celebration lose their sanctity when built on inequality. If a holiday binds some to toil and others to idleness, it must be reshaped. Each family, each community, must look with honesty at its rituals: Do they honor all? Do they create joy for everyone? If not, then let the old roles be broken, and let new ones arise, where burdens are shared and joy is mutual.

So, O listener, take this teaching into your own gatherings. Do not let the kitchen be the prison of some while the feast is the leisure of others. Share the work, share the laughter, share the table. And when a child, sharp-eyed, points out unfairness, do not silence them, for they speak with the clarity of truth. Instead, let their fire guide you to build a tradition worthy of all. For only then will Thanksgiving be true: a day not of divided roles, but of united hearts, bound together in gratitude and love.