A Journey from Tradition to Truth

Thanksgiving was always a special time in my household. It wasn’t just about the food, though I’ll admit that the turkey and stuffing were a big part of it. It was about family, warmth, and togetherness—a rare moment in the year when we all slowed down to be present with one another. The story of Thanksgiving that I learned as a child added to its magic. It was a story of unity, resilience, and shared humanity.

I remember sitting in school, crafting Pilgrim hats out of construction paper, and listening to the tale of the first Thanksgiving. The Pilgrims, we were told, were brave and faithful settlers who endured unimaginable hardships to find freedom in the New World. They were saved by the generosity of the Wampanoag people, who taught them how to farm and hunt. Together, they celebrated a bountiful harvest, sharing a feast that symbolized friendship and gratitude.

It was a beautiful story—uplifting, heartwarming, and uniquely American. But as I grew older, I started to realize that it was also incomplete. The real history of Thanksgiving, as I’ve come to learn, is far more complex, and at times, deeply troubling. What began as a harmless curiosity turned into a journey that reshaped how I think about the holiday, the history it represents, and the narratives we choose to celebrate.

The World Before the Mayflower

To understand the story of Thanksgiving, we first have to understand the world the Pilgrims entered when they arrived in 1620. The land we now call New England was not an untouched wilderness—it was home to the Wampanoag people, whose name means "People of the First Light." For thousands of years, they had lived in harmony with the land, cultivating crops like corn, beans, and squash, fishing in the rivers and ocean, and hunting in the forests.

The Wampanoag were not a single monolithic group but a network of interconnected tribes, each with its own sachem (leader) and its own territory. They shared a common language and cultural practices, but they were also part of a broader network of alliances and rivalries with neighboring tribes like the Narragansett, Pequot, and Mohegan.

By the time the Pilgrims arrived, this world had already been irrevocably changed by European contact. Starting in the early 1600s, European traders and fishermen began frequenting the New England coast, bringing with them metal tools, firearms, and, tragically, diseases. Between 1616 and 1619, a series of epidemics swept through the region, decimating Indigenous populations. Entire villages were wiped out, leaving fields untended and homes abandoned.

For the Wampanoag, the arrival of the Pilgrims came at a time of immense vulnerability. Their population had been reduced by as much as 90%, and their political alliances were fraying under the strain of loss and uncertainty. This context is critical to understanding what happened next.

The Pilgrims’ Arrival

The Pilgrims, as we know them, were not just any group of settlers. They were English Separatists—religious dissenters who sought to break away from the Church of England and establish a community where they could practice their faith freely. After a brief stay in Holland, they secured passage to the New World aboard the Mayflower, landing in what is now Plymouth, Massachusetts, in December 1620.

The Pilgrims arrived during one of the harshest winters on record, and their first months were marked by extreme hardship. Of the 102 passengers who arrived on the Mayflower, nearly half died that winter from disease and exposure. The survivors clung to their faith, believing that their suffering was part of God’s plan.

What the Pilgrims didn’t realize was that they had settled on the site of Patuxet, a former Wampanoag village that had been abandoned after the epidemics. The land, already cleared and cultivated, seemed to them like a divine gift. They didn’t understand—or perhaps didn’t care—that it was a graveyard, the site of unspeakable loss for the Wampanoag people.

The Wampanoag and the Fragile Alliance

Massasoit, the sachem of the Wampanoag, faced a difficult decision when the Pilgrims arrived. His people were struggling to recover from the epidemics, and tensions with neighboring tribes like the Narragansett threatened their security. Massasoit saw the Pilgrims as potential allies in this precarious landscape.

In the spring of 1621, the Wampanoag reached out to the Pilgrims through Tisquantum, better known as Squanto. Squanto’s story is remarkable in its own right. A member of the Patuxet tribe, he had been kidnapped by English traders years earlier and sold into slavery in Spain. He eventually made his way back to New England, only to find his village destroyed by disease. Squanto became an intermediary between the Wampanoag and the Pilgrims, teaching the settlers how to plant corn, fish, and navigate the unfamiliar land.

The relationship between the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag was never as harmonious as the Thanksgiving myth suggests. It was a fragile alliance, born out of necessity rather than mutual affection. The Pilgrims needed the Wampanoag to survive, and the Wampanoag needed the Pilgrims to help fend off their rivals.

The 1621 Feast

The event we now call the First Thanksgiving was not a holiday or even a uniquely significant event at the time. It was a harvest celebration, a common practice in both European and Native cultures. The Pilgrims were marking their first successful crop, thanks in large part to the Wampanoag’s guidance.

The feast lasted three days and included about 50 Pilgrims and 90 Wampanoag men, led by Massasoit. The menu likely featured venison, wild fowl (possibly including turkey), fish, corn, squash, and other Indigenous crops. There was no cranberry sauce, no mashed potatoes, and certainly no pumpkin pie.

What struck me as I learned about this event was how far removed it was from the Thanksgiving we celebrate today. The Pilgrims didn’t see it as the beginning of a tradition, nor did they frame it as a day of gratitude in the way we understand it. It was a moment of coexistence, fleeting and fragile, in a much larger story of conflict and dispossession.

The Mythology of Thanksgiving

The story of Thanksgiving as we know it today didn’t emerge until much later. In the 19th century, as the United States grappled with the Civil War, the idea of a national Thanksgiving holiday began to take shape. Abraham Lincoln declared Thanksgiving a national holiday in 1863, framing it as a day of gratitude and unity at a time when the nation was deeply divided.

The imagery of Pilgrims and Native Americans sharing a peaceful meal became a convenient symbol of harmony and progress. Writers like Sarah Josepha Hale popularized the story, emphasizing themes of cooperation and abundance while erasing the violence and displacement that followed.

By the 20th century, Thanksgiving had become a cornerstone of American identity—a celebration of resilience, gratitude, and shared values. But the story it told was incomplete, and in many ways, misleading.

The Cost of Colonization

The years following the 1621 feast were marked by growing tension and conflict. As the Plymouth Colony expanded, the Pilgrims began encroaching on Wampanoag territory, claiming more land and imposing their laws and customs on the Indigenous population.

By the 1670s, these tensions erupted into King Philip’s War, a devastating conflict that decimated Indigenous populations in New England. Thousands were killed, enslaved, or displaced, and the Wampanoag and their allies were effectively stripped of their autonomy.

The tension between the Thanksgiving myth and reality gnawed at me as I delved deeper into the history. It wasn’t just about uncovering uncomfortable truths—it was about understanding how a sanitized narrative could persist for so long and why it mattered to so many people, myself included. The more I read about the Pilgrims, the Wampanoag, and the world they inhabited, the more I realized that Thanksgiving wasn’t just a story about a feast; it was a story about America itself—how we choose to see our past and what we decide to leave out.

The years following the 1621 feast were particularly eye-opening. Despite the temporary alliance between the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag, it became clear that the settlers saw themselves as entitled to the land and resources of their new home. What had started as a tenuous partnership quickly devolved into a struggle for control, one that the Wampanoag, already weakened by disease and loss, were ill-equipped to win.

The Pilgrims’ Expanding Colony

In the early years of the Plymouth Colony, the Pilgrims relied heavily on the Wampanoag for survival. They learned how to cultivate corn, catch fish, and navigate the unfamiliar terrain. But as the colony grew, so did its appetite for land. The Pilgrims began to expand beyond the boundaries of their initial settlement, claiming land that had been occupied and cared for by Indigenous peoples for generations.

For the Wampanoag, land wasn’t just a resource—it was a sacred part of their identity and way of life. The idea of "owning" land in the European sense was foreign to them; they believed in stewardship rather than possession. The Pilgrims, however, operated under a very different worldview. To them, the land was theirs for the taking, a divine reward for their faith and perseverance.

This fundamental difference in perspective set the stage for conflict. Treaties were made, often under duress or with terms that the Wampanoag didn’t fully understand. When disputes arose, the Pilgrims turned to their own laws and governance systems, marginalizing Indigenous leaders and imposing European norms.

The tension boiled over in countless ways, from small disputes over resources to larger struggles over sovereignty. Each conflict chipped away at the fragile alliance between the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag, pushing the two groups further apart.

The True Cost of Thanksgiving: The Displacement of Indigenous Peoples

The story of Thanksgiving often ends with the 1621 feast, leaving out what came next. But for the Wampanoag and other Indigenous peoples, the arrival of the Pilgrims marked the beginning of centuries of displacement, violence, and cultural destruction.

As more settlers arrived in New England, they brought with them not only their families but also their livestock, their laws, and their religion. They cleared forests for farmland, disrupting the ecosystems that the Wampanoag had relied on for hunting and gathering. They built fences, dividing the land into parcels that excluded the very people who had cared for it for generations.

By the mid-17th century, these encroachments had reached a breaking point. The Wampanoag and other tribes in the region faced not only the loss of their land but also the erosion of their culture and autonomy. Missionaries sought to convert Indigenous people to Christianity, often demanding that they abandon their traditions and languages in the process.

King Philip’s War: A Turning Point

The simmering tensions erupted into open conflict in 1675 with King Philip’s War, one of the bloodiest conflicts in American history. Led by Metacomet, the son of Massasoit and known to the English as King Philip, the Wampanoag and their allies fought to resist the settlers’ encroachment on their land and sovereignty.

The war was brutal on both sides, with atrocities committed by settlers and Indigenous fighters alike. Villages were burned, crops destroyed, and entire communities displaced. For the Wampanoag, the stakes were existential—they were fighting not just for their land but for their very survival as a people.

By the time the war ended in 1678, the Wampanoag and their allies had suffered devastating losses. Thousands were killed, and many survivors were sold into slavery or forcibly removed from their lands. The power of Indigenous tribes in New England was broken, paving the way for unchallenged European expansion.

Learning about King Philip’s War was a sobering reminder of the true cost of colonization. The 1621 feast, celebrated as a moment of unity and gratitude, was not the beginning of a harmonious relationship—it was the precursor to a series of events that would decimate Indigenous populations and reshape the land forever.

The Making of a National Myth

If the true story of Thanksgiving is so complex and painful, how did it become a symbol of unity and gratitude? The answer lies in the power of mythmaking. By the 19th century, as the United States grew and struggled with its identity, the story of Thanksgiving was reshaped to serve a new purpose.

In 1863, Abraham Lincoln declared Thanksgiving a national holiday. The country was in the midst of the Civil War, and Lincoln hoped the holiday would serve as a unifying force, reminding Americans of their shared values and resilience. But the Thanksgiving he envisioned was not tied explicitly to the Pilgrims or the 1621 feast—it was a broader call to gratitude and reflection.

The connection between Thanksgiving and the Pilgrims was popularized later, in part through the efforts of Sarah Josepha Hale, a writer and editor who campaigned tirelessly to establish Thanksgiving as a national tradition. Hale’s version of Thanksgiving emphasized themes of family, gratitude, and abundance, painting the Pilgrims as symbols of perseverance and moral righteousness.

This narrative gained traction in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, reinforced by school curriculums, literature, and popular culture. The image of Pilgrims and Native Americans sharing a peaceful meal became a cornerstone of American identity, a comforting story that obscured the realities of colonization.

Reckoning with the Truth

For me, learning the real history of Thanksgiving has been both enlightening and challenging. It’s hard to reconcile the holiday I grew up loving with the painful truths it represents. But I’ve come to believe that understanding this history doesn’t mean abandoning Thanksgiving—it means approaching it with greater awareness and intention.

Thanksgiving can still be a time for gratitude and family, but it can also be an opportunity to reflect on the past and acknowledge the resilience of Indigenous peoples. It’s a chance to educate ourselves and others, to support Native organizations, and to honor the land we live on and the history it holds.

The Role of Education in Shaping the Thanksgiving Myth

As I delved deeper into the history of Thanksgiving, one question kept coming back to me: how did the sanitized version of this story become so ingrained in American consciousness? The answer, I realized, lay in the way history is taught. Our education system has been a powerful tool in shaping national identity, and Thanksgiving has played a central role in that effort.

In elementary school, we are introduced to Thanksgiving as a story of cooperation and gratitude. Pilgrims and Native Americans are presented as equals, sitting down together to share a meal in peace. The complexities of colonialism, the devastating impact of European diseases, and the violent conflicts that followed are conspicuously absent. This narrative serves a purpose: it provides children with a comforting and inspiring story about the founding of America, one that emphasizes unity and progress over division and conflict.

But what happens when those children grow up? For many, the Thanksgiving myth remains unchallenged, embedded as a foundational part of their understanding of American history. The Pilgrims become symbols of perseverance and faith, while the Wampanoag fade into the background, remembered only for their brief appearance at the "First Thanksgiving."

When I began to question the story I’d been taught, I realized how much effort had gone into maintaining this narrative. School curriculums often prioritize simplicity over accuracy, especially when it comes to events that challenge our national identity. Teachers, constrained by time and resources, rely on textbooks that present history in broad strokes, leaving little room for nuance or complexity.

The result is a version of Thanksgiving that feels universal and timeless, but in reality, is anything but. The story we are told is a product of its time, shaped by the cultural and political priorities of the 19th and 20th centuries. Understanding this context is key to unraveling the myth and grappling with the truth.

Thanksgiving’s Commercialization in the 20th Century

As Thanksgiving evolved into a national holiday, it also became a major cultural and economic event. By the mid-20th century, Thanksgiving was no longer just a day of gratitude and family—it was the starting point for the holiday shopping season, a commercial juggernaut that has only grown more powerful over time.

The connection between Thanksgiving and consumerism can be traced back to the 1920s, when department stores began using the holiday to kick off their Christmas promotions. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, first held in 1924, became a symbol of this transformation. Featuring elaborate floats, marching bands, and, of course, the arrival of Santa Claus, the parade turned Thanksgiving into a spectacle, drawing millions of viewers and cementing its role as a prelude to the Christmas season.

By the 1930s, the economic significance of Thanksgiving was so great that President Franklin D. Roosevelt attempted to move the holiday to an earlier date to extend the shopping season. Dubbed "Franksgiving" by critics, this move was widely unpopular, but it underscored the growing commercialization of the holiday.

For me, this shift raises important questions about what Thanksgiving has become. While the holiday still carries a sense of tradition and togetherness, it has also been co-opted by consumer culture. The focus on gratitude often feels overshadowed by the rush to prepare for Black Friday, a day that epitomizes the excesses of modern capitalism.

This tension between Thanksgiving’s origins and its contemporary celebrations mirrors the broader struggle to reconcile myth with reality. How do we honor the true history of Thanksgiving while navigating the ways it has been transformed by culture and commerce?

Personal Reflections: Grappling with the Myth

Learning the truth about Thanksgiving has been a deeply personal journey for me. It’s not easy to let go of something you’ve cherished for so long, even when you know it’s built on a shaky foundation. For years, I clung to the version of Thanksgiving I’d been taught as a child because it felt good, because it brought people together, because it was simple.

But simplicity, I’ve come to realize, is often the enemy of truth. The real story of Thanksgiving is complicated and messy, filled with moments of hope and resilience but also of betrayal and loss. Ignoring these complexities doesn’t honor the holiday—it diminishes it.

For me, the hardest part has been grappling with my own complicity in perpetuating the myth. How many times have I told the Thanksgiving story to my children or grandchildren without questioning its accuracy? How often have I celebrated the holiday without acknowledging the pain and suffering it represents for Indigenous peoples? These questions are uncomfortable, but they’re also necessary.

Acknowledging the truth doesn’t mean abandoning Thanksgiving. It means reimagining it in a way that aligns with our values and our understanding of history. For me, that has meant incorporating elements of education and activism into my celebrations, from sharing what I’ve learned with my family to supporting Native organizations and causes.

The Ongoing Struggles of Indigenous Peoples

As I learned more about the history of Thanksgiving, I began to see it not just as a reflection of the past but as a lens for understanding the present. The struggles faced by the Wampanoag and other Indigenous peoples didn’t end with the Pilgrims—they continue to this day, in forms both overt and subtle.

One of the most pressing issues is the fight for land rights. Across the United States, Indigenous communities are working to reclaim ancestral lands that were taken from them through treaties, violence, or outright theft. These efforts are often met with resistance, as governments and corporations prioritize economic interests over Indigenous sovereignty.

Cultural preservation is another critical challenge. Centuries of forced assimilation have left many Indigenous languages, traditions, and practices on the brink of extinction. Organizations like the Wôpanâak Language Reclamation Project are working to reverse this trend, teaching new generations the languages and traditions of their ancestors.

And then there are the systemic injustices—higher rates of poverty, unemployment, and health disparities; limited access to education and healthcare; and ongoing discrimination and marginalization. These issues are not historical artifacts—they are the legacy of policies and practices that began with colonization and continue to shape the lives of Indigenous peoples today.

Learning about these struggles has been a humbling experience. It’s one thing to acknowledge the sins of the past; it’s another to confront the ways those sins persist in the present. For me, it has reinforced the importance of turning knowledge into action, of using what I’ve learned to advocate for justice and equity.

What Thanksgiving Can Be

In the end, what I’ve learned about Thanksgiving has left me with a choice: to cling to the comforting myth or to embrace the uncomfortable truth. I’ve chosen the latter, not because it’s easy but because it feels right.

Thanksgiving, as it’s celebrated today, can still be a time for gratitude and connection, but it can also be an opportunity for reflection and growth. It can be a day to honor the resilience of Indigenous peoples, to educate ourselves and others, and to commit to building a future that values truth and justice over myth and convenience.

For me, that means more than just learning about history—it means living in a way that respects and supports the communities most impacted by that history. It means donating to Native organizations, amplifying Indigenous voices, and advocating for policies that promote equity and inclusion.

Gratitude and Truth

Writing this has been a journey of discovery, one that has challenged my assumptions and deepened my understanding of Thanksgiving and its place in American culture. It hasn’t been easy, but it has been worth it.

Gratitude, I’ve come to realize, isn’t about ignoring the past—it’s about acknowledging it, learning from it, and using it to guide us toward a better future. And for that, I am truly thankful.