What We Build Without Knowing: A Letter from Thanksgiving
Why are holidays important? Time will pass us by whether we like it or not. The seasons will come and go whether we’re ready for them or not. We continue to age, and with every second, we’re figuratively dying, inching one day closer, while our bodies fight like hell not only to survive but to prevent the inevitable.
What are holidays but designated days, reminders to communities to take a break? Maybe a day to do as you see fit, but also to be reminded of something. To pause and reflect on the designation. With mass market media, sometimes holidays don’t feel like what they may have been intended to be. Maybe they’ve simply become markers for our memories. An all-purpose tool to give us finite beings a means—without having to think too hard—to instinctively recall the passage of time, to make memories and give our lives some meaning.
This Thanksgiving, I learned what those markers really mean—sitting across from my grandfather, listening to the choices that made me possible.
He started with how he met my grandmother. He’d traveled to another town in the countryside seeking a woman who wanted nothing to do with him. Instead, he ran into my grandmother at a wedding. Through some small talk—and her sass—he was hooked. I laugh now because that sass, always followed by her wonderful smile, was exactly what made her so great.
It took time for her to come around. He had to speak with her father and mother just to get permission to talk to her. Somehow, it worked out.
They got married, as was custom at the time. They lived together and had a child almost every year for nearly a decade. During that time, they moved from the countryside to the city. My grandfather was a farmer who cultivated coffee and other staples. He had ten cows, and when they made the move, he sold them and bought land in the city. He built his home, set up a small convenience store—what we call a colmado in the Dominican Republic. He acquired a truck—in the 1970s, for a family like his, this was everything. With that, he got into the coal-making and distributing business.
Later, in the 1980s, his brother convinced him to come to the United States. I’m not sure what made the decision final—they were living a comfortable, good life. But they made the transition. One by one, they brought the family over.
There are so many questions I still have, and I plan on making a list to follow up with my grandfather. But sitting there, what resonated wasn’t just what he did—it was imagining the weight of that choice. A father of eleven kids in his forties, choosing to leave his country, his language, everything he’d built. Starting over in a place where he’d be a stranger. The life of an immigrant who doesn’t speak the language, rebuilding from scratch. That kind of courage—I’m not sure I could have done it. I’m not sure I could have looked at everything I’d worked for and said, “We’re leaving. We’re starting again.”
But he did.
Then I heard stories from my mom’s cousins—teenagers crammed into a three-bedroom apartment, so many bodies in one space it seems impossible now. But back then? It was just how it was. Kids are resilient, especially where there’s love. They reminisced about those years like they were golden, and maybe they were. Maybe that’s what resilience looks like—not enduring despite hardship, but finding joy within it.
That unity didn’t end when they grew up. I remember the 2000s—every weekend, some family gathering. Always meeting up, always doing something together.
Now my weekends disappear into errands. But back then, time wasn’t scheduled on designated days—it was made because they lived close and wanted to be together. Catching up. Dancing. Cooking. Eating. No agenda, no end time. What a social fabric that was. Today, scattered across states, we’ve reduced that richness to designated holidays.
It was beautiful to see the impact of those micro-decisions. How I’ve taken for granted the space and time to be with family. How much effort I place on other things rather than meeting up with the people I care about, being there, and making memories.
Like the ones I made this Thanksgiving.
The entire weekend, we were at someone’s house, hanging out like we did in those long-gone New Jersey days. Up until 2 or 3 a.m., wishing it would never end. Recalling lessons learned. Discussing life, personal matters. Supporting one another. Laughing and bringing it all together.
Sometimes I think about my twenties—all that time I spent elsewhere, doing other things. But we all go through periods of growth and exploration before we choose where we want to be, who we want to stay close to. I think I’m choosing now.
Because one day, I’m going to be on that side of the chair like my grandfather—reflecting on the small choices we made day in and day out, not knowing the outcome but living the results days later.
He didn’t know then that selling those cows would lead to me, here, listening. And I used to think I had time to ask all my questions.
Now I know—the stories are still being told, and I need to be there to hear them.
✨ What’s a story from your family that you’re grateful you heard—or one you wish you’d asked about while you still could?