A Legacy of Arrival:
The Origin Story That Lives in My Thanksgiving
Every year, I retell the story of my grandma’s arrival in the US around Thanksgiving. It has always been my family’s main holiday, and her story is my quiet reminder of the unlikely path that put me here.
Her life in America both began and ended in the same season, right before Thanksgiving. The symmetry of it all still gets me!
When I was young, I didn’t question why her house was the center of such a big celebration. It was simply what we did. Only later, when we learned about her escape from Nazi Germany after Kristallnacht, did the meaning settle in. She arrived in the US at twelve, just before Thanksgiving, and the holiday carried a significance that stayed with our family.
This time of year brings her back to me. She never used words like gratitude or resilience. She simply carried an understanding that her life could have taken a very different turn. That awareness shaped the tone of her home and the way she noticed people. I didn’t realize how much of that I absorbed until I was older.
When the city shifts into its quieter season, I pay attention in a different way. My kids, my marriage, the rhythm of our life here, the people who enter my orbit through work and end up mattering. None of it feels random. It settles together in a way that reminds me of her.
As Thanksgiving approaches, that feeling sharpens. I think of my grandmother and the improbable path that brought her here. I think of the people who shape my days now. And what rises is simple. I’m grateful for this life, the people I get to know, and this city that continues to connect me to more of both.
