The black-and-white footage falls away as past and present blur into one. I walk through the streets of Philadelphia, my city, and I can almost imagine the pages of my AP US prep book flipping back and back further still to the beginning. Some of the trees I see in my town’s arboretum of a college campus might be those that earlier Americans saw, too. And they walked on the some of the same ground I walk on, here in Pennsylvania.
They exposed themselves to the elements, to disease, with no guarantee but the land they walked on when they dropped anchor. They tossed their dead children who didn’t survive the journey overboard in makeshift coffins. Hundreds of years ago, people sailed across the ocean and risked their lives to come here. However hokey, however contrived this little tradition might seem, I appreciate that it helps us remember the root of this most American holiday: gratitude for sanctuary.
There is a moment during my family’s Thanksgiving dinner where we go around the table and identify something we are grateful for in our lives.
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