Washington D.C., Thanksgiving, and Reckoning with America’s Past and Present
This post is the final part in the series on our 2025 family summer road trip. Read about Ocean City, Maryland here, and Chincoteague, Virginia here and here.
Last Thursday was Thanksgiving, a holiday here in the U.S. which commemorates a day (we were told as schoolkids) that the pilgrims and the “Indians” shared a meal together in the “New World” hundreds of years ago.
We typically share this meal with my husband’s family, whose ancestors mostly immigrated here in the past century, as did mine. Afterwards, while sitting around and talking, the conversation turned to TV shows, a very American topic indeed.
I mentioned that Anthony and I have been watching Ken Burns’ The American Revolution documentary on PBS. I’m really into it, how Burns is cracking wide open the myth of the founding of our nation, and Anthony is a nice husband who also likes history. One of the aspects of the film that I appreciate the most is how Burns sheds light on the lesser-known contributors to the time period: the roles played by regular folks, women, Black Americans, and Indigenous people.
November is Native American Heritage Month. This is significant for me in my role as the secretary of my city’s Equity & Inclusion Commission, for which I serve on the culture & religion subcommittee, often writing for the city newsletter and assisting with the history museum on related projects.
In addition, I inherited a deep respect for the Indigenous people of this land from my mother. She took us to Cahokia Mounds and other sites as kids, refused to visit Mount Rushmore on principle, and even had an arrowhead we found on our property researched by local anthropologists.
Earlier this month I had the great honor of welcoming Illinois Poet Laureate Mark Turcotte to the St. Charles Writers Group. I could go on and on about the way Turcotte is able to shape words into music both resonant and dissonant, how his diction punctures the mind of the reader, and how the world he creates with writing is at once rooted in hard truth and soaring in imagination. Turcotte is a member of the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa Indians and has a whole series of poems that start with “Back when I used to be Indian.” To read them is to understand the power of poetry, a way to peer inside the mind of a person who has lived a different life than your own.
All this to say, this brings me back to the final leg of our summer road trip, a couple days’ spent in Washington, D.C.
We went because 1) it was nearby our other destinations, 2) I’m the only one who’d ever been, and 3) my daughter had the option to go as part of an 8th grade field trip in the upcoming year, but I wanted to go as a family first.
The caveat to the trip was: No politics. That meant no government-type buildings. History and culture only. But let’s face it, you can’t throw a rock in D.C. without it hitting on something political.
On the way there, we listened to the soundtrack to the musical Hamilton, which all four of us have basically memorized.
Our first stop—literally, we didn’t even go to the hotel first—was the National Gallery of Art. There we stood in the presence of the country’s only Leonardo da Vinci painting, a slew of Impressionist works by the greats, and many portrayals of American history, including past presidents of the United States. It’s a profound collection, and better yet—it’s free to the public.
On the walk back to the car, we saw a bus stop sign which pleaded with the president to preserve Americans’ access to healthcare.
Later that evening, after checking into the hotel, we ate a delicious El Salvadoran meal in a room of Spanish speakers. We noted the Pride flags all around the city, and ones proclaiming that Black Lives Matter. The city was clean and felt safe. We were surprised by how much we liked the vibe of D.C., considering that we were unsure how it would be with the return of the current administration.
Our next stop was the National Mall. First, we were dumbfounded by the seemingly endless list of names on the Vietnam Memorial Wall.
We then skirted around the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool with the Washington Monument on the opposite side, taking in the vast hall dedicated to the Illinois president who ended slavery, noting the spot on which Martin Luther King, Jr. stood to deliver his “I Have a Dream Speech.”
After that we passed the World War II Memorial, reminding the kids’ that two of their great grandfathers served.
Crossing over to the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial we paid tribute in relative solitude, just one woman nearby, contemplating.
We ended at the Vietnam Women’s Memorial, about which I had recently learned, after having read The Women by Kristin Hannah.
Anthony was stunned to come away feeling resentful at how many lives were lost to war. To “Freedom.” When I visited last in 8th grade, I remember thinking these were all places I had seen on TV or read about. Buildings and statues. But this time, the magnitude of it was palpable.
The rest of our trip consisted of wonderful, also free, D.C. attractions. The National Zoo to see the silly, lumbering pandas. The hallowed halls of the Library of Congress. The reverent Folger Shakespeare Library.
Between the zoo and the libraries, we stopped at Ben’s Chili Bowl, a D.C. dining legend, for lunch of chili cheese dogs. We learned about it through one of our family’s favorite shows, Somebody Feed Phil. The restaurant’s historic location was under construction, but we got to eat in the “pop-up” spot across the street. The walls were filled with memorabilia. The founder, Ben Ali, and his wife Virginia, served Martin Luther King, Jr. while he revised his famous speech. They were one of the only places allowed open during the D.C. riots. Past presidents George W. Bush and Barack Obama have eaten at Ben’s.
And wouldn’t you know it, at a table close by, Virginia Ali sat chatting with some of her family. We were completely awestruck, and even more so when she came over to our table to say hello! She thanked us for coming, talked with us a bit, and courteously took some photos with us.
I’m still as amazed as I was on that day. Going around and visiting places and thinking about history cannot compare to getting to be in the presence of someone—really interacting with someone—who lived it. Virginia Ali is an icon for the role that she has played in our nation’s capital. She isn’t someone with a grand position who made laws and ruled over people. No, she fed comforting food to folks of all stripes—regular folks and those fancy titled folks alike. And to me, that is work that makes a difference.
We ended our last night in Washington, D.C. with a nice dinner and a quick look at the White House. We snapped a selfie but didn’t smile. In the shadow of the executive mansion, an unhoused woman reclined on a bench scrolling on a cell phone with a shopping cart full of belongings beside her, a red cap (you know the one) perched prominently on top. It crossed my mind to photograph her, but I didn’t. Nevertheless, the image will stay with me for a lifetime.
It was the only red cap we saw the whole time.
Shortly after we got home to Illinois, the National Guard was called in to D.C. to “[take] violent criminals off the streets,” where “they will remain until law and order has been restored in the district.” One of the causes of this was cited as the unhoused population.
Recently, demolition has begun on the renowned East Wing of the White House, reported to be replaced by a massive ballroom.
We’re so glad our kids got to see D.C. before these headlines. They saw firsthand how nice D.C. was, how people there felt accepting and proud of their city. They got to meet a person who fed the people over decades of change. They got a sense of how many have served the nation.
All the regular lives that have worked and contributed and sacrificed to—dare I say it?—make it great. It’s a work in progress.
This past Thanksgiving, with a better understanding of all that has gone on with the humans who have lived and died on this land, there was a part of me who felt uncomfortable saying “Happy Thanksgiving.” It felt trite, possibly even disrespectful.
But all the same, I truly wish everyone here has a reason to be thankful. For good food. Loved ones. For all the people who are striving to make things better for themselves and others. For the ability to learn from the past not to repeat it or go back to it, but to improve upon it.
You gotta hope, anyways.
And as long as we have hope, we can give thanks.