My mother and I have spent many Thanksgivings together, mostly just her, the one parent I have ever really known, and me, her only child. I cannot say there is a Thanksgiving that has stood out to me. It is more the fact that as poor Americans, as working-class Black folks, the day represents a necessary break from work, from school, a pause in life trying to survive month to month. We were grateful—and thankful—for the day, for whatever food we could afford. And we still are.

Growing up, I was not aware of the history of Thanksgiving or, rather, what truly went down between Indigenous people and English settlers, known as Pilgrims. I thought what I was taught in school: It was a beautiful gathering of diverse groups, and it was peaceful. We now know, or at least I do, that ain’t the tru

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