Performing Morality: How the Turkey Pardon Lets America Forgive Itself
The annual presidential turkey pardon, a ritual as American as pumpkin spice lattes, is treated as a quirky celebration of national goodwill. In reality, it’s a performance of morality, one staged by the White House and sustained by the public. Each November, while millions of Americans prepare to carve into their roasted turkeys, the president rehearses for a melodramatic show of mercy on one or two birds whose names—Chocolate and Chip, Biscuits and Gravy, Apple and Cider, Mac and Cheese—ensure that the country smiles.
The tradition offers a convenient intermission from political tension, during which the president can play benevolence without scrutiny, the nation can pat itself on the back, and the turkeys gain nothing at all.
Remarkably, the tradition’s origins are far more earnest than the ritual’s modern iteration. Over a century ago, Tad Lincoln, son of President Abraham Lincoln, convinced his father to not eat his turkey friend Jack for Christmas dinner. It was a small, sincere child’s act of innocence. But in the decades following, the gesture was rebranded as a sentimental tradition, one whose charm functions as a political distraction.
When Ronald Reagan officially “pardoned” his turkey in 1987, it wasn’t to honor Lincoln’s kindness. He was knee-deep in the Iran-Contra scandal, facing plummeting approval ratings, congressional investigations, and growing public distrust. Desperate to redirect the media’s attention, he realized a smiling president sparing a bird made a better headline than “illegal-arms deal.” The act worked, reframing Reagan’s spotlight and giving the country a simple and wholesome symbol to rally around: an act of mercy that required no reflection or responsibility. By focusing on the image of a compassionate leader rather than the complexity of the Iran scandal, Americans could project their desire for moral purity onto a single bird and believe once again that the president was good.
“Since then, all other presidents, regardless of party or controversy, maintained the pardon, a moral distraction from political turmoil to prove even the most polarizing leader can, at least, be nice to a bird.”
Transforming Reagan’s damage control to long-lasting image management, George H.W. Bush cemented the tradition. Amidst public backlash over corporate bailouts during the Savings and Loans crisis, he welcomed children and the media to the ceremony, ending with a speech about gratitude and grace. Since then, all other presidents, regardless of party or controversy, maintained the pardon, a moral distraction from political turmoil to prove even the most polarizing leader can, at least, be nice to a bird. The country, in turn, gobbles up that very image of compassion—along with the other forty-six million unpardoned birds, roasting quietly while Americans relish their brief taste of moral pride.
But peeling back the layers of the spectacle, the “lucky” pardoned turkeys are hardly beneficiaries of the “mercy.” Chosen from a narrow pool provided by the National Turkey Federation, the turkeys, bred with survival as a second thought, are flown to Washington. Trained to behave in front of reporters, they then endure the stress of crowds and flashing cameras, the pardoning amounting to a confusing sensory overload. Shortly after, the pardoned few suffer from the effects of selective breeding and environmental stress, living only marginally longer than their unpardoned counterparts. But by then, they’ve already been forgotten.
As Bjorn Olafsson observes, after Reagan and Bush’s political deflection, the ceremony was sustained by the nation because it thrives on moral doublethink: the country goes through “massive effort to save one animal,” sparing one bird to forget the millions of turkeys “eaten on Thanksgiving just a few days later.” And by spotlighting a few birds, the nation can indulge in the Thanksgiving comfort of symbolic empathy, while turkeys’ sufferings are conveniently smothered by the coverage of the pardoning ceremony. Americans then eagerly self-congratulate, liking and sharing clips of “Chocolate and Chip’s big day,” while maintaining the very practices pardoning pretends to oppose. We gather around to care just long enough to feel good about caring, then move on, relieved of guilt until next Thanksgiving.
The turkey pardon flatters our desire to feel compassionate without any structural change or caring why we do it at all, using repetition of the tradition as an easy excuse to avoid real reflection. As much as the turkey pardon seems to be just a quirk, it shows a country eager to savor the appearance of virtue, performing morality rather than being moral.
“Every Thanksgiving, we forgive the president for forgiving the turkey, then we forgive each other for caring only once a year.”
For the president, it’s a rare bipartisan win: a photo op no one fact-checks, a chance to appear gentle (amidst whatever political crisis they could be going through!). And for the public, if the president is kind, the country must be too. Why question anything when a presidential smile, a punny name, and a few thousand reposts can restore our sense of national decency?
The ritual isn’t special for one or two turkeys living a little longer. It’s special because it gives the illusion that the president (and by extension, the nation) has a heart. Every Thanksgiving, we forgive the president for forgiving the turkey, then we forgive each other for caring only once a year.