It’s the most wonderful time of year! But, like, again?! Okay. Yay! So much “yay.” You have things to look forward to, not the least of which is seeing your Trump-loving, Christian conservative family and indulging them in hours-long conversations about the important topics of the day, including — say it with me, everyone — Hillary’s emails.

This year, too, you have the added pressure (err, pleasure!) of bringing something to your family’s annual potluck. You’ve debated gifting everyone with a bag of Cheetos and/or bringing the illegal (magically disappearing) caravan on a plate (i.e., bringing nothing), but your mother…

It came to me in 2006, during my sophomore year of high school. I was sitting in AP English, watching as my teacher — a severe toothpick of a woman — drew a red line across the whiteboard. Her marker moved flatly for a few inches before it squeaked, responding to her hand as it made a series of abrupt movements: falling sharply downward to a point, then rising higher and higher to reach another, then falling once more, hitting the same level at which the line had started and extending flatly, returning to stasis. She drew an arrowhead on…