Thanksgiving Eve is here and it is cool on the bay. At least a breezy 65, and the city is starting to shut down slowly, only to open early tomorrow for those of us who have forgotten our last minute items like pumkin pie filling and probably alcohol. I have felt a little bothered by Thanksgiving. It feels like a forced holiday to me and being a Catholic, thanksgiving is about the mass. However,who am I to judge the idea of what this holiday means when to me it is just another day.
My abuelo cooked a Barbacoa head on thanksgiving in a dug out hole filled with red hot mesquite embers. It smoked in that hole for four hours or even overnight. Alongside the stuffing we had frijoles and arroz. Pan de Campo and bread rolls. It was our tradition to bring in something that reminded us of who we were. As I look back, I wonder if Abuelo was trying to hold onto who he was in the midst of assimilation.
I wonder if I am still trying to hold onto a piece of who I am in the midst of the same forced assimilation. I try to hold my head up drowning in the waters of life,desperately trying to make it to shallower shores. But, despite it all, I am thankful.
I am thankful for my husband to have been able to find a job after being pink slipped. I am thankful for those of you who read and follow my blog. That means more to me then you can ever imagine. I am grateful for the people who happen to come to my site and hope they appreciate the little corner of my world.
I am thankful for my twitter friends and their funny and thoughful messages.
I am thankful for my familia and the memories they have given me over the years.
Most importantly, I am thankful to not have forgotten my mixed roots. Mis raices that connect me forever to Aztlan. They connect me to my abuelos and to my great grandparents, and to a past that is beautiful. I long to know more about who I am and where we came from.
Do not forget the indiginous people who died when the conquistadors came, when Columbus landed, and when the “Pilgrims” landed.