A week ago my folks were telling a very compelling story about how stars aligned for them as they scored the largest marked-down turkey (a monstrous 15-pounder) at the grocery for Thanksgiving dinner.
According to my mental arithmetic, means another year ends. Again.
I panic and buy myself a shabby piece of internet real estate.
My name is Tzaddi.
My Hebrew name makes my descent sound unplaceable but my ancestors never had to cross the Atlantic to flee religious persecution in Europe.
Before you get creative, I am all Filipino.
Even if I wished it as a kid, I could not be in any way related to Pocahontas neither.
Still on every fourth Thursday of November my family fusses over Thanksgiving dinner like the rest of America.
Admittedly, it’s more of a quirk than anything religious.
Though in essence, my family does have reasons for thanks as any pilgrim come to the New World; liberty to practice one’s own faith.
I realized when earlier this year my sister was married by our own pastor in front of all our relatives, Catholic and Muslim.
Growing up, we’ve always kept Sabbath quietly behind doors out of love and respect for our grandfather than anything else. He’s always known and out of love for us, in turn has always kept a blind eye.
Anyway, I’m only coming to appreciate how wonderful it is to be openly acknowledged for it finally.
Apart from all the rough training and all the little loves and great joys this year has seen… being what we choose to be and not having to deny it or apologize for it every time is the one overlooked gift I’m glad my family has thanksgiving day for.