When I was younger, Thanksgiving was always a happy time, every memory a bright orange glow. My family and I would spend the whole day at my grandparents’ house surrounded by extended family, joyful noise, and lots of food. At my first Thanksgiving the turkey was larger than I was!
I still remember the gift baskets my grandmother would give us full of candy and toys to last us the long drive home. I remember the proud feeling of being upgraded to the grown-up’s table, when my grandmother could trust my manners enough to not break her china. I remember every word of the stories my grandfather would tell about our family, every faded and torn photograph, every corny joke retold again and again each year. My grandfather had always told us that the Woodworths came to America on the Mayflower, and that is why we celebrated Thanksgiving. We worked hard for everything and carved out our place in this country, against all odds, for the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I, of course, believed him entirely.
It wasn’t until this past summer that I deeply researched my family’s history and uncovered the full story. I spent weeks going through boxes and files, scouring the internet for ships logs, censuses, and birth records. The earliest I know of is this…
In December of 1620, the Mayflower arrived in America with 102 passengers and about 50 crew members on board. Among the passengers recruited by Thomas Weston in England (“the strangers”) was 14 year old Constance Hopkins, daughter of Stephen Hopkins. Among the passengers of the separatist Leiden congregation (“the saints”) was Samuel Fuller original to Norfolk, England. Then, in 1630, the Mary and John brought Walter Woodworth from Kent, England to the Plymouth Colony. However, by 1633 Samuel Fuller and Walter Woodworth had left Plymouth with a congregation following Rev. John Lothrop to Scituate, Massachusetts.
I am a direct descendent of all of these families; Hopkins, Fuller, Lothrop, and Woodworth (obviously).
These people–my people–were off course, unprepared, near chaos, and desperate. Many had fled religious persecution in Europe, others were indentured servants with no other options, and still others were desperate for opportunities, hoping for something better in a new land. They claimed, lived on, and named land that was already spoken for by the indigenous people who had called it home for thousands of years.
Every year my family’s story is told as one of happy Pilgrims and Indians coexisting in peace, creating a better world free of religious persecution, where any man can make his own way. This story is so far from the truth that it is embarrassing. There is no talk of the millions of people murdered in the genocide of indigenous populations, no talk of broken promises and treaties, nor of the land we stole, the resources we polluted and destroyed. Heaven forbid we ever speak of the millions of people stolen out of their homes in the African continent and sold into slavery up and down the Americas as though they were nothing more than chattel, and we never speak of covering it all up with the so called “American Dream” and tales of men “pulling themselves up by their bootstraps”.
When my children observe Thanksgiving it will be a time to come together as a family and remember how our family came to this country and what they did to live here (the good and the bad). It will also be a reminder that every year an estimated 1.4 million people come to this country in the same way we did, as immigrants seeking out a better life. It is our job as descendants of immigrants to help out others in achieving the same opportunities we did. That is what this nation was meant to be: a place where everyone could come and be free to be themselves and have equal opportunities. Why else would we have a statue of a giant green lady in the middle of New York harbor with the words “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…” inscribed at her feet?
We are only human, but we have to acknowledge our entire pasts the good and the bad, and work everyday to carve out a better future for us all. I am thankful to live in America because I know I have been privileged from birth. Thanksgiving is not just about saying thank you to all of the generations before us that got us here, it is also about recognizing and apologizing to those we have hurt because progress and change always come with a cost.