Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Not when I was young when the adults sat at a separate table and seemed to be having more fun, but now when I am one of the adults having fun. Thanksgiving is just a time to get together – with people you want to be with – and give thanks. But now there are cracks starting to appear in this idealized facade. Today, it is easier to see the echo of our past being played out in Israel/Palestine. The first Thanksgiving was a nice dinner with some Indians who – in the long run – had most of their land taken away – not to mention that the majority of them died (although murdered may be more accurate).

 I have mixed emotions about this and am reminded of my grandmother Bambow. After my grandfather died, my grandmother lived alone, and every couple of weeks, one or more of her descendants – usually my mother and, less often, me – would go up to Santa Rosa and take her shopping. She would fill her shopping cart to overflowing, and then she would waddle to the checkout counter pushing the cart while one of us would follow, picking up the boxes that slid off of the pile. Once, as my grandmother got close to the checkout, a woman with a bottle of milk tried to scurry ahead of her. (This was way before the time of 15 items or fewer checkout lines.) With a mighty shove, my grandmother pushed her cart in front of this poor soul, cutting her off.

The woman couldn’t believe it, and I couldn’t either. It was just such a nasty move. The woman looked at my grandmother and said “Well, I hope you are happy!” My grandmother looked back at her and said, “Of course, I am, I won, didn’t I?” I probably took the opportunity to admire the floor tiles.

But now I feel a bit like that about the Indians or First Nations, if you prefer. What we did is probably to the point of being genocide. Still, the world is becoming kinder, more compassionate. Every day, there are more acts of love and kindness. And I am happy that we are here, on this wonder-filled continent, celebrating Thanksgiving.