In a world losing its grip on empathy and a country losing its grip on leadership — maybe the best Thanksgiving gift is a reminder to all that America started with refugees, risk-takers, and misfits dreaming of a new way of life and willing it into existence. 

Why? Because this moment we’re in — the shouting, the border panic, the performative tough-guy routines, the whole “shut it all down” energy — it’s all backwards. Not because we don’t need order and tighter immigration rules. We absolutely do. But because we’re pretending our entire country wasn’t seeded by people doing whatever it took to escape violence, persecution, and a government that treated them like pests.

To be clear: This isn’t a leftist “throw the borders open” kumbaya. This is a rally cry to remember who the hell we are as Americans. And what it truly means to give and receive thanks with grace.

The Story All Americans Should Know But Can Rarely Recite

A small group of families — hunted by their government, harassed, spied on, arrested — sells everything they own for pennies just to run for their lives. They try escaping once and they get caught. They try again. Get split up. Their leaders get locked up, and they still don’t quit.

They finally invest all they have left to escape aboard two floating death traps and entrust a small crew with their lives. One ship nearly sinks. The other barely holds together with a medieval house jack. Sixty-six days of horror ensue with storms, disease, famine, death. A guy gets tossed overboard and hauled back in like a cod. A baby’s born in the middle of the Atlantic. It's almost November in 1620. 

'Land ho!' is shouted. But they've landed in the wrong place. Many miles north of their intended destination,  where winter is fierce and there is no shelter. There are no refunds or return tickets. They're on their own to figure it all out. And they do. In fact, they thrive. Partially through shear will and inner spirit. But also for expressing respect and gratitude to the indigenous people there well ahead of them who would teach them how to survive.  

Fast forward: Enduring all they have and forgiving God for all they've lost, they've built a community, created a formal pact, and recognize the importance of formally expressing their thankfulness, along with their indigenous neighbors, with a multi-day feast. They eat. They drink. And they behave with gratitude toward each other, and their shared earth, for providing the care and sustenance they all needed to take care of their families and start not just a new life, but a new world. 

So, why does gratitude look so messed up today? 

There was a time when the world saw the Office of the President as a lighthouse. Now the bulb flickers like a broken streetlamp behind a Southie Dunkin’. Because somewhere along the way — in our politics, our workplaces, our families — we started turning gratitude into a test. A measurement with a scorecard on whether we are seen, valued, appreciated enough. And just this week, it spilled out onto the world stage. The President suggested that Ukraine’s President Zelensky “hadn’t shown enough thanks” toward the United States for assisting in their war against Russia. Except Zelensky has thanked the U.S. so many times that journalists had no trouble pulling up clip after clip after clip.

So, what was the moment really about? Not geopolitics. Not peace or diplomacy. It was about the leader of the free world's need to be thanked — publicly, repeatedly, and in a style he personally approved of.
And that’s the trap. Because the minute you start requiring thank yous, you’re no longer talking about gratitude. You’re talking about ego. You’re talking about insecurity. You’re talking about being the center of a story that was never supposed to revolve around you.

The Pilgrims didn’t survive for each other to get a pat on the back. They didn’t endure and will their community into existence for recognition. They didn’t sit down at that first feast with a list of who owed whom what. They were grateful beyond words and humbled to be alive among the living. And that's the point that escapes this President on every Thanksgiving of his life. 

I'm thankful you read this.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving.

- Dave Strand



#BostonStrong #Thanksgiving2025 #HumanFirst #NotDoneYet
Photo: "Gratitude and Grace" - DS

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The president says he might yank World Cup matches from Boston because of “unrest.” Unrest? You mean, like, if a Bruins/Flyers game, a Dropkick Murphys concert, and a Pride parade all landed on the same day?

Around here, we call that Tuesday.

Boston’s built from immigrants, fighters, and folks who climb back on deck every time something knocks ’em off. We don’t do tantrums. We do tenacity and teamwork.

From the Atlantic to the American Dream
Our story starts with a guy who fell off a boat. Correction: THE boat. John Howland — one of the Pilgrims — got tossed off the Mayflower in the middle of the Atlantic. He didn’t drown. He clawed his way back aboard, freezing, soaked, unshaken — and then helped build Plymouth Colony, one of the first self-governing communities in the New World.

That’s Boston in a nutshell: you fall, you fight, you climb back up, and you get down to business. We’ve been doing that for four hundred years.

Born Fighters
That same DNA runs through our champions. Rocky Marciano — the Brockton-born Heavyweight champ — 49 wins, zero losses, never let his ego get the better of him. Middleweight champ, Marvelous Marvin Hagler — another Brockton guy — trained like a machine, fought like a poet in a chess match, and made opponent’s earn each second in the ring.

They didn’t pose for the cameras. They didn’t play to the crowd. They fought for respect. That’s Boston’s fight style — all work, no gimmicks, eye on the prize.

The Cheap Theater Act
So, when a "president" slumps over a microphone and threatens to pull our World Cup matches because of “radical left unrest,” that’s not leadership — that’s cheap theater. And Boston doesn’t bow to this kind of spectacle. You can’t intimidate a city built from dreamers, legends, and descendants of the guy who clawed his way back on the Mayflower and formed the foundation of our nation.

You think you can yank matches, stir headlines, and get attention on your agenda by using Boston as a pawn? Bring it — and bring your secretary, too.

We’ll be right here, hosting the world like pros while you dimwits are still rehearsing your next group tug.

The World Part of World Cup
Most importantly, here’s what can’t get lost in the bluster: the World Cup belongs to the WORLD. It’s not a campaign prop — it’s a handshake between nations, a celebration of stories that don’t always get a spotlight.

Take Cape Verde — a nation of about 550,000 people that just qualified for its first-ever men’s World Cup. Half a million citizens, one massive dream. And guess where one of the biggest Cape Verdean communities outside the islands lives? Right here. Dorchester. Roxbury. Brockton.

That’s the Cape Verdean diaspora* — families who left the islands but kept their soul alive in Boston through music, food, and Sunday soccer. They’re doctors and bus drivers, teachers and cops who have as much as pride saying they’re from Boston as they do their homeland.

And when Cape Verde steps onto the pitch, Boston will roar collectively like it’s our own. Because it IS our own. You try to relocate that moment? You’re not protecting America — you’re insulting the idea of it.
 
Hands Off Our Game
You want to politicize the World Cup? Good luck. You’re picking a fight with a city built on grit, brains, pride, and comeback stories.

We’ve hosted the Marathon after tragedy, championship parades on land and water, and global conferences that run on precision. We don’t need safety lectures from people who’ve never crossed Mass. Ave at rush hour.

Boston doesn’t cower. Never has. From Howland’s rope grip to Marciano’s fists, Hagler’s chin, and Cape Verde’s dream — this city stands tall. Keep threatening our World Cup and we’ll remind you — loudly, proudly, and in perfect unison — why the world today, will always trust the Hub over the White House.

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* Diaspora means people who leave their homeland but keep their pride alive wherever they go. It’s proof that America’s greatness isn’t who got here first — it’s who keeps showing up. That’s Boston, in one word.

Let’s also put the Word Cup match details in perspective so nobody confuses bravado for authority:
The games in question are scheduled for the Boston/Greater Boston area (Gillette Stadium), the venue and logistics worked out years ago as part of the U.S./Mexico/Canada co-host plan. Any change would be a massive legal and logistical nightmare and ultimately rests with FIFA, not a single politician. Local officials and venue planners have been preparing for this for years. Contracts, ticketing, stadium readiness, and international coordination don’t get flipped on a rhetorical dime.

If another president were actually worried about safety, they'd offer support—funding for coordination and transit, cybersecurity, help with logistics—not politically-motivated juvenile threats.
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#BostonStrong  #WorldCup2026  #CapeVerde  #HandsOffOurGame