9 months ago
39
“I’ve got something I’d like to say.” That’s what I usually offer up as a preamble as I try to get the attention of my kids and other family members gathered around the Thanksgiving table. It takes a couple of attempts, but once we’re all on the same page I offer words of thanks for my ancestors. I talk about how brave they must have been to leave the communities of their birth, which were at least familiar to them despite the hardship, discrimination, and all-too-common violence they faced. They came to a land where they didn’t speak the language, didn’t know the culture, and, in many cases, didn’t know a soul.
In this offering, I mention the family names of the people who came and the places they came from. We’ve done quite a bit of genealogical research on my side and my wife’s side of the family, and we’re lucky to have as much information as we do. My goal is to give my kids a sense of who their ancestors were and what they went through to give us a chance to have the life we do here in America. One branch of my father’s family came from Vilnius, now the capital of Lithuania; another from Riga, Latvia’s capital; another from Minsk, the capital of Belarus; and the last from Odesa, now in Ukraine, which is a country fighting back with growing success against Russian dictator Vladimir Putin’s vile aggression.
Growing up, I had learned that all my father’s ancestors were “Russian.” It turns out none of them came from places that are now in that country—and let’s hope its borders don’t expand any further.
