Thanksgiving hit a little different for me this year. Don’t get it twisted, I was happy that my sons were all home, and we had the opportunity to laugh and reminisce. But as my calendar turns over each year and I make that revolution around the sun every June on my life anniversary, I get more reflective, conscious and aware. I tend to focus cognitive energy on how these overly commercialized holidays, which aren’t rooted on any substantiated factual basis, impact others more than my own selfish enjoyment. Not everyone looked forward to celebrating last week because it was either the first holiday without their loved one or this may be the last one they get to celebrate with them.

My Native Indian brothers and sisters may have found the day of gorging to excess painful and nothing to celebrate. This holds true for the Wampanoag tribe, who consider that last Thursday in November, a day of mourning, not a celebratory occasion. Like most children in our failing education system, we’re fed the lie of a harmonious feast where the Pilgrims welcomed the Native Indians with open arms, and they all sat at the table of brotherhood, forging lifelong mutually respectful bonds. They’re not taught about the savagery, raping, killing and pillaging that the Native Indians endured at this time. Even more troublesome, there are no records of a celebration taking place, nor evidence to support that the Wampanoag tribe was even present at the feast. For helping the Pilgrims survive their early years on stolen land, the Wampanoags were rewarded by the genocide of their people. So, this year, instead of participating in the charade that has played out for four centuries, I opted to search my heart and focus on things I’m thankful for.

As the bird slowly disintegrated into nothingness, followed closely by its cousin, the pig, I sat ruminating on what I’m truly thankful for. I didn’t take the easy route of being grateful that I was standing upright above ground, happy I woke up, or being counted amongst the living. Something tangible and more personal immediately came to mind. That felicitous feeling rested with my 4-year-old grandson, who we’re now blessed to have living with us. He’s given me a renewed sense of life and energy. It’s been over two decades since I’ve served as a parental figure, and I’ll admit I’m a bit rusty and absent some of the patience genes once in full supply. He’s on the autism spectrum, which brings a new set of challenges all its own, but he doesn’t lack for the energy, intellect and wonder of a child his age. I’m learning as he is too, so we’re on this wonderful journey together.

There’s no greater joy than to witness and feel his unconditional love for his Pop-Pop. There are some adjustments I’ve made to my life over the last couple of years since he’s been living on the inside of my front door. None of these are criticisms, but instead welcomed inconveniences that I’m truly thankful for and wouldn’t change for anything. I’ve accepted that my clothes are no longer mine alone. He takes my athletic ankle socks and pulls them up stretching them over his knees. My shoes can be found in various places throughout the house as he wears different pairs and leaves them in odd places. I’ve temporarily lost my prescription and sunglasses. I’m on my second Fitbit watch. Although he has his own iPad, he prefers mine, so the battery is always nearly empty when I use it. I have a big recliner, but I don’t get to sit in it alone and watch my adult TV programs. I’ve been introduced to Cocomelon, Ms. Rachel, Gracie’s Corner and Sesame Street again after 20 years. I never had much interest in the Triassic, Jurassic or Cretaceous periods, but I now know the names of dinosaurs I didn’t know roamed this earth. I can sing off-key all the songs in Disney’s Lion King and Moana movies. I’ve blown bubbles, played in ball pits, climbed on playground equipment at Dan Nicholas, made snow angels and have even been stung by yellow jackets while running around the back yard chasing him. I’ve relived my childhood playing hide and seek, and singing familiar kids songs like” Old McDonald” and “If  your happy and you know it…”  I spend more time on the kids aisles in the grocery store. My food palate has gone from fine dining to McDonald’s chicken nuggets and French fries, pizza and pancakes several times a week. My bed is now shared with an array of stuffed animals, and I love it.

I used to think there was no better word to describe me than “daddy.” But now that I wear the Pop-Pop title, I’m even more thankful.

Kenneth L. (Kenny) Hardin is a member of the National Association of Black Journalists.