Narratives about stereotyping and social perception

Stereotyping

I was quite proud. I had spent the past hour putting together what had to be the absolute best cranberry sauce in the entire history of cranberry sauces. I dipped my finger into it, tasted it, and at that moment I was pretty sure I was about to get a phone call from Gordon Ramsay asking me for the recipe. I was making one seriously delicious contribution to Thanksgiving. My family hardly ever does anything big for Thanksgiving anymore. My older brother is long gone. He works in London. We see him once every couple of years and my mom would always bug him to find a nice girl and get married, so she could have grandkids. My sister is off at school now, too, some pot-smoking hippie places in Oregon. But this year we were all getting together. My stepdad's brother was going to join us. My stepdad hadn't seen him in ten years, and I don't know if I ever met him. I head his name a few times, and when I asked what Uncle Wendell was doing I would never get a straight answer. My mom told me not to call him "Uncle" Wendell, because he wasn't my uncle. My stepdad just said he was travelling. I figured he must be a missionary in Rwanda or some crazy bearded white-guy mystic in India, sitting under a Bodhi trees or something. I had no idea.

I went to the train station to get my brother. He was in a suit, looking all smart and dapper because he knew my mom would eat it up. He was big Mr. Money guy, right. Whatever he did, he made it sound important on his business card. Yeah, my brother gave me his business card. I know, right? When we got back Wendell was there. He didn't look like a missionary -- I don't think they have so many tattoos. And these weren't the good kind, like he went to Polynesia or something. There were knives with blood, the Grim Reaper and a bunch of stuff that looked like a kid drew it. He was showing my stepdad. My mom wasn't talking to him and didn't really say anything to me either. She thinks I'm dumb sometimes, I swear. I figured out pretty quick where Wendell spent the last ten years.

My brother shook everybody's hand and gave out his business cards. We laughed, and chit-chatted but before long the bird was out of the oven and it was time to eat. My mom beamed. She had a feast and the whole family was together, pretty much for the first time ever since grandpa died. My mom said grace and the whole routine, and then my brother just came right out and said it. He's gay. I already figure that out a long time ago but I guess it's something that just had to be said. I looked around the table. I was actually kind of nervous for him. I was worried about Wendell. He was a damaged man, you could tell that right away, and just out of prison for doing something very bad, I have to admit I had been a little worried about him. Never met an ex-con before, never had one at my dinner table. I knew he was going to be a problem. That southern drawl, the tattoos, the hard edge and simmering anger. He's had more than a few already, even though he's only been there an hour.