Around the Thanksgiving Table

Thanksgiving is a complicated holiday for me. My family came over on the Mayflower, and for some, that heritage might seem like a point of pride. But when someone asks me why I don’t share that more often, I am not filled with pride. Why should I be proud of a heritage that was rooted in survival for my ancestors but resulted in devastation for the people who were already here? The Native Americans who helped my family learn to survive the harsh winters were repaid with betrayal, violence, and broken promises. How can I celebrate that without acknowledging the cost of what we call “progress”? 

And yet, centuries later, I look at what I believe is now the scorched earth of my country—not just the physical scars of a changing climate or industrial sprawl but the deep divides in trust, compassion, and accountability. I can't look away from them. I now realize that maybe there is a kind of hope in confronting these truths head on. That we can rebuild from the rubble. Enter a period of enlightenment that couldn't happen until the worst happened.

I believe that the potential of my country remains as great as ever. The idea of a land where people can thrive together, one person at a time, one immigrant at a time, still calls to me. But we cannot reach for that promise without owning what we’ve done—the good, the bad, and the horrific. And, where we are in this moment. 

We are a country of such breathtaking accomplishments. We’ve built towering cities, sent people to the moon, and developed technologies that connect the world. Been on the right side of world wars that were not on our shores. We stood up for our friends. Our ideals of freedom and democracy have inspired movements across the globe.

We are also a country that stole land, enslaved millions, and justified cruelty with arrogance and power, right up until today. We are in a dark place now, treating those who are not white and in many cases now, male, as the enemy or minimally, second class citizens. So our history is one of contradictions—compassion and cruelty, innovation and exploitation, heroism and horror. To ignore the darker parts is to deny the truth of who we are, and to dwell only on them is to miss the hope of who we can still become.

This Thanksgiving, I choose to sit with the full weight of that history on me at the dinner table. I celebrate not the myth of a perfect union but the potential of what we could be if we commit to doing better. We are crouched on scorched earth right now. It's time to rebuild and I can get behind that with energy and hope. One small act of rebellion at a time.

For me, the way forward isn’t found in hollow pride or willful ignorance. It’s in acknowledging our past, reckoning with it, and building something truer. So, next Thursday is a day to be thankful for the promise of second chances—not just for individuals but for nations. It’s a day to remember that each of us has the power to live differently, to behave as we want to be remembered, to reach out to others with honesty and empathy. I build this hope for our future on a belief that there are more of us than them.

So I will raise my glass this Thanksgiving not in celebration of who we’ve been, but in hope for what we might still become. May this holiday be a new beginning—not for rewriting the past but for finally facing it, together. At our tables. Across America. 

And, I put this out a week early for us all to have a little time to think about what we might be saying next week as we go around the table mentioning the things for which we are grateful. I think they will matter more in the coming months and years. We will not have an easy time, but I am steeling myself more and more each day with a belief that I am up for the challenge. - CM