Our First Thanksgiving: A True Introduction to America’s Spirit of Gratitude and the Magic of Being Welcomed

In the early 90s, when I was a resident physician at North Shore Hospital, Long Island, Manhasset was still new enough to feel like an emerald green peacoat—warm, with smooth silk lining, slightly oversized, bought on sale for $70 at the Galleria, and smelling faintly of the Oscar de la Renta the saleswoman had sprayed on me. We decided to take our first family trip to Rochester, NY. It seemed like a pilgrimage of sorts, a mini vacation to my mother’s side of the family. A small expedition funded entirely by my resident-physician stipend, which was so modest it could have been whisked away in one Uber Eats order today.

We were a young family then—beautifully young. Early 30s, still carrying the soft glow of new beginnings. Hope blooming in our chests like a spring poem (“I wandered lonely as a cloud”). Two healthy children, 9 and 12, growing faster than our grocery budget. Their dreams were starry and untamed; ours were neatly folded like my mother’s pashmina shawl but no less luminous. A family that believed that life could only get better from here.

In those days, we wanted to meet everyone—every relative, every friend, every faint acquaintance… a cousin four times removed who lived in America. The country was so unfathomably large that we didn’t yet grasp the scale of distance. A seven-hour drive? A six-hour train ride? “Of course we’ll come!” we’d declare cheerfully. Gas prices ranged from 89 to 91 cents a gallon. They were cheaper than what we paid for petrol in India. But there was excitement too—the thrill of meeting the few people we actually knew in this new world. People who had arrived before us and who could offer guidance, reassurance, and the courage to hold tight through this bewildering process of becoming American. Their presence made the unknown feel slightly less foreign, the new rules slightly less intimidating.

Everything was big in the 90s. Big houses, big highways, big shopping carts, big voices on television proclaiming big dreams. America was bold and larger than life, and we—freshly arrived, idealistic, still naïve from the sheltered environment at home—had no idea that beneath all the brightness, there existed divisions, and schisms. Places where loneliness could settle in like a biting winter frost. Places where people were silent, or spoke in hushed tones rather than laugh out loud, and share pleasantries. Places, and boundaries we hadn’t yet learned to navigate.

But that winter, we were blissfully unaware of all that. We were simply grateful.

We lived in doctor’s housing then—behind the big hospital. In a one-BHK apartment: a living room and a little dining nook where we shared home-cooked dal, rice, peanut butter sandwiches, and scoops of Rocky Road ice cream from Pathmark. The same dining table where a surgeon from Staten island, had started weeping after eating food prepared by my mother. He was my father’s friend who had relocated from Punjab in the 60s, and was married to a Spanish lady. He said: He had not realized how much he missed that kind of food. 

Evenings were spent squeezed together, recounting stories of school, hospital shifts, and the day’s small victories on the sofa. A $500 hand-me-down sofa delivered from New Jersey in a truck by my friend’s husband, a sofa that looked as though it had survived some tough years. It sagged in just the right places to make us come together in a heap. On this sofa (that was later refurbished by a handmade slipcover in a navy blue Ajrakh, painstakingly made by my mother on her first visit to NY), we watched “I Love Lucy,” “Sabrina,” “I Dream of Jeannie,” “The Nanny,” “Home Improvement”—shows that taught us American humor before American taxes. We laughed together, and the memory of that shared laughter still resonates in the heart of my children who spent a short time together.

My uncle carved the turkey with the solemnity of a chef; he wore a kitschy apron. There was a lot of food passed around family-style. Beans almondine, stuffing, cranberry sauce, broccoli, and sweet potatoes. I, the lone vegetarian, attacked the mac and cheese with gusto.

The kids were still getting used to America. New home. New school. New expressions. “Talk to the hand,” “Booyah,” the un-uniformed chaos of keeping their T-shirts, jeans, and tennis shoes ready for school. The “modestly handsome” jackets (their words). Not name brands, but enough to blend in and not be made fun of by their peers. I wore my faithful Bombay wardrobe: the red polka-dot dress that still hangs in my closet, an off-white salwar kameez, a double-breasted blue blazer stitched from Dad’s Bombay Dyeing woolen suit material, and pants from his white gabardine trousers, re-tailored to fit me. I loved them so much. Clothes stitched with dignity and thrift. The kids had just celebrated their first Halloween, as a Viking with a grey shawl wrapped around hip, and Goldilocks who had still not encountered the Three Bears. They were giddy with delight, just counting and recounting their candy.

Then came the invitation to Rochester, NY. “Come for Thanksgiving,” my relatives said. “Bring the children.” Of course we would come. Of course.

So I marched to Penn Station and bought four Amtrak tickets—two adults, two children—$200 one way. A small fortune. A week’s worth of grocery money. But the kind of expense that felt like an investment in memory.

At Woolworth’s on Broadway, I agonized over what to bring them. In the end, I picked up a decorative gift basket that looked festive, culturally appropriate, and unlikely to offend.

“You’re a real American now,” my aunt told me later, beaming. “You didn’t come empty-handed!” (It was a courtesy we learned growing up in India; I simply wasn’t certain what would be considered thoughtful in an American setting.)

The train journey was enjoyable. The children fought over the window seat as if the window were a throne. They bargained with stickers, peace treaties were formed and broken, crayons rolled under the seats. We played Name-Place-Animal-Thing, Antakshari, Dumb Charades, and the famous Statue Game, where everyone freezes mid-breath. Six hours passed like a slightly chaotic dream.

We arrived in mid-afternoon. Rochester was covered in snow. The city looked like a Christmas greeting card we would save as kids. My uncle stood at the station wearing a wool hat that made him look like a thoughtful professor. He was slightly chunkier than my Massi’s husband, but he had the same family nose. The nose, as always, entered the room a moment before he did.

“Welcome, welcome!” he said, hugging us with enthusiasm. His house was warm in every possible sense. A pine-cone wreath on the door. Mistletoe and bells on the threshold. A kitchen table covered in red-and-white gingham that made everything on it taste homey. A fireplace crackling as though applauding our arrival. A sloping backyard wearing a lavish coat of snow. The children had warm apple cider for the first time.

My daughter sniffed it suspiciously. “Why is it like hot apple juice?”

My son sipped it politely. “May I have more?” he asked, becoming everyone’s favorite instantly.

Their cousins whisked them off to toboggan down the backyard hill wearing borrowed hats, mufflers, and mittens. The whoops of joy rose like rainbows. I settled comfortably on the sofa, watching them expend their endless energy.

That evening, Thanksgiving dinner was served. My uncle carved the turkey with the solemnity of a chef; he wore a kitschy apron. There was a lot of food passed around family-style. Beans almondine, stuffing, cranberry sauce, broccoli, and sweet potatoes. I, the lone vegetarian, attacked the mac and cheese with gusto.

“We’re so glad you came,” they told us.

“So are we,” I said, and meant it down to my toes.

We all slept like logs that night, like a family of otters on a four-poster bed.

The next morning we toured Rochester—quiet streets, quaint neighborhoods, my uncle’s office (he, the civil engineer (from IIT) building roads, and single-family homes, as though stitching America together with an Indian thread), and then we all went to his younger brother’s home, where warmth and kindness overflowed like the delicious vegetable soup his wife had cooked. We talked about the simple, and wholesome lives of our families in India. We took family pictures.

That evening at a community Thanksgiving event, after dinner and a few drinks (on their part), we all danced to Bollywood music. Then someone switched the tune to The Chicken Dance. No warning. No mercy.

There we were—engineers, doctors, children, uncles, aunts—flapping our arms like deranged poultry. This was the first time I had seen my uncle, the serious civil engineer, gyrate up and down on his hips. We all laughed so hard that our ribs hurt.

And in that ridiculous, beautiful moment, we felt something shift.

And Now, Looking Back

Years later, Rochester represents far more to us than snow or apple cider; it symbolizes refuge, warmth, and a gentle welcome into a country that once felt overwhelming. Known for its natural beauty, proximity to Finger Lakes, wonderful museums, rich history in optics, technology, flour milling, and the significant women’s rights movement, Rochester also became our emotional anchor, protecting us from the loneliness we might have felt during our first winter in America.

Now, inspired by the hospitality we received there, we host Thanksgiving by gathering old friends and inviting one new family, passing forward the same warmth. We’ve learned that Thanksgiving is less about the traditional food and more about offering a sense of belonging, comfort, and community. Our first Thanksgiving became our true introduction to America’s deeper spirit of gratitude, connection, and the magic of being welcomed.

---

With one foot in Huntsville, Alabama, the other in her birth home, India, and a heart steeped in humanity, Monita Soni writes as a contemplative practice. She has published hundreds of poems, movie reviews, book critiques, and essays, and contributed to combined literary works. Her two books are My Light Reflections and Flow Through My Heart. You can hear her commentaries on Sundial Writers Corner, WLRH 89.3 FM.