  The first thanksgiving was in celebration of the political refugees' survival of their first year away from the motherland. Probably because so many of the group did not survive, the expats found themselves extremely grateful to the natives who fatefully made that survival possible by teaching them the ways of the land.
Since, Thanksgiving has become for European and Native American cultures alike an occasion dedicated to the conquest of the Americas by Europeans. To this degree, I feel guilty gathering with my family in the name of a day centered on such a horrible tradition of removing one way of life and replacing it with another--in a word, genocide. Culturally, in my life, Thanksgiving always represented a predominantly matrilineal gathering of family, who endeavored to cook their asses off from pre-dawn hours until mid-afternoon.
Currently, we take turns attending dinners at either my parents' houses or my husband's parents' house, usually my husband cooks the turkey and the various other women in our lives make the side dishes. I like to sit in the living room with their husbands and watch the football game. Therefore, in my life, Thanksgiving is mostly about food and family gathering.
Last year I was too pregnant to travel to anyone's homes for the holiday, so everyone came to my house. My tiny little 900 square foot house hosted a gathering of 18 people! 19, if you count my precious Ella, still in utero. I was fascinated by the notion that I could join the long lineage of women who had hosted giant gatherings for holidays or funerals or just because in my ancient century house. The pressure of hosting my first holiday meal was enormous. I can't tell you how much I stressed over every detail, the centerpieces, the seating, the serving dishes, the order of dishes into the oven. John prepared the turkey the night before, and then woke up at four in the morning to begin cooking it! Partly because most of our guests had never eaten a free range bird, and partly because of my husband's culinary genius, it was fantastic.
Everyone said everything was. We felt great pride in our accomplishment. And, with the meal's successful conclusion, I felt strangely indoctrinated into the realm of womanhood within my family somehow. And I was thankful. Thankful I'd survived it without going into labor, thankful my little house held everyone, thankful the weather had been beautiful so everyone could overspill outdoors, and thankful that everyone said it went perfectly.
Every year when I was growing up, before Thanksgiving meal my mother would make everyone at the table say what they were thankful for. I hated it. I felt it was the worst tradition in the world, and when I was put on the spot as we went around the room I would have to mumble something to the effect that I was thankful for my family and home. We tended to have elderly relatives living with us, near their lives' end and turning to my family after others had turned them away.
That person would inevitably start crying and then we all would as they professed their gratitude toward my parents. This too somehow always embarrassed me. Two years ago was the first time ever that my mom did not make us take turns around the table to say what we were thankful for, and I have to say I was the most thankful Iâ€™d ever felt on the occasion dedicated to gratitude.
We hadn't planned on going home for the holiday, but two weeks before, I miscarried our daughter Grace, and I needed to leave Houston and my job--which I naturally, but erroneously blamed--and cry in my mom's lap. For the first time probably ever, she did not invite guests over, and we ate a small subdued meal. My husband and I had a hard time wanting to feel like a holiday was passing without our baby, and my parents accommodated our need well. I thought the omission of the thankful tradition would only be observed that one year. Unfortunately, a few months later we found out my cousin Scott had severely advanced cancer died a month before the next Thanksgiving, the one I hosted.
My aunt and uncle who were his parents, along with his widowed wife and daughter were among my guests, so naturally, my mother again forwent her question. This year, we sat down to the table in Taos with my parents, and Scott's parents, and my two beautiful young children, and I felt pressure to bring up the tradition.
I think I was afraid if I didn't, it would die forever. Even though I would still die of embarrassment in the spotlight, that embarrassment has become a necessary presence in my experience of the Thanksgiving holiday. I told my mom, Mom, do you know what I'm thankful for? She smiled really big and said what. I had never mentioned her omission, so I think she was surprised that I remembered. I said I'm thankful that we haven't said what we're thankful for in two years. She laughed and everyone did, then she said, So what are you really thankful for? Of course I was unprepared, I stalled and laughed nervously and made a joke, and everyone entered a common conversation about what they were thankful for, and it turned out no one was on the spot.
I think maybe the tradition evolved! Finally, my uncle said we should all be thankful we were still above ground. It took me a moment to understand what he meant, but I realized that thanksgiving hasn't changed that much in all these years.
It's still about being grateful to God or the Supreme Creator or the Unmoved Mover or whatever that you're still alive, and celebrating that fact with those who helped you survive. 
