Every Thanksgiving morning, as dawn cracks over the Hudson River and frost clings to the sidewalks of Manhattan, New York City stirs with a unique electricity. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade—a kaleidoscope of giant balloons, marching bands, and sequined performers—isn’t just a spectacle for tourists.
For generations of locals, it’s a deeply personal ritual, a tapestry of memories, and a thread connecting families and strangers alike.
Beyond the confetti and TV cameras, it’s the stories of ordinary New Yorkers—the ones who brave the cold, volunteer their time, or pass down traditions through decades—that give the parade its soul.
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The Santino Family: Three Generations of Scarves and Hot Chocolate
In a cramped but cozy Astoria apartment, 72-year-old Carmela Santino lays out red wool scarves on her dining table, one for each of her six grandchildren.
“My father bought these in 1968,” she says, running her fingers over a frayed edge. “He worked the night shift at the post office but always took Thanksgiving off. We’d stand near Central Park West, and he’d lift me onto his shoulders so I could see Snoopy floating by.”
What’s Next for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade
Today, Carmela’s daughter, Angela, 44, carries on the ritual with her own twist. “Mom’s scarves are non-negotiable—they’re like our family uniform,” she laughs.
“But I started the hot chocolate tradition. We make it from scratch, with cinnamon and chili powder.
The kids complain it’s ‘weird,’ but they’ll thank me when they’re older.” By 6:30 a.m., the Santinos are huddled near Columbus Circle, thermoses in hand, as Carmela whispers to her youngest granddaughter, “That’s where your great-grandpa stood.”
Maria Gutierrez: The Baker Who Feeds the Float Builders
For Maria Gutierrez, 58, a third-generation baker from Jackson Heights, the parade begins weeks earlier—in her kitchen. Every November, she donates hundreds of empanadas and conchas (sweet Mexican bread) to the artists and engineers constructing floats in a Queens warehouse. “My abuelo did this back in the ’70s,” she says, dusting flour from her apron.
“He’d say, ‘Pan para el corazón, antes de los globos’—‘Bread for the heart, before the balloons.’”
Maria’s son, Luis, 23, recalls childhood nights delivering pastries to the warehouse. “I’d fall asleep under tables covered with papier-mâché flowers,” he says.
Macy’s Parade Boosts New York City’s Local Economy
“The workers taught me how to wire sequins onto costumes. Now, I volunteer on the float team.” Maria’s voice softens. “My father died last year, but Luis wears his old apron when we bake. That’s our parade.”
Jamal Carter: The Balloon Handler Who Found Family
For Jamal Carter, 29, a Bronx-born MTA bus driver, the parade is an unlikely anchor. “I got laid off during COVID and felt lost,” he admits.
On a whim, he signed up to be a balloon handler in 2021. “I figured, why not? Free gloves.” What he found was camaraderie. “You’re literally tethered to 40 strangers, fighting wind gusts. You learn to trust people fast.”
Now, Jamal trains new handlers, teaching them to “walk like a crab” to keep balloons stable. His squad—a mix of teachers, retirees, and college students—meets year-round for dinners.
“Shalanda, this retired nurse from Harlem, calls us her ‘Thanksgiving orphans,’” he grins. Last year, they inked their balloon team number (“87”) onto matching wrist tattoos. “Sounds cheesy, but these folks… they’re my foundation now.”
The “Midnight Artists”: Queens Teens Who Chalk the Route
Along the parade route’s barricades, a secret tradition blooms in the dark. Since 1997, students from Frank Sinatra High School for the Arts in Long Island City have spent Thanksgiving Eve sketching murals on the pavement.
“We call it ‘greasing the street,’” explains Sofia Rahman, 17, crouching with a bucket of neon chalk. “By morning, the dancers’ footprints turn it into abstract art.”
The project began accidentally when a student dropped pastels while securing a spot for her family. Now, it’s a curated effort. “We theme it each year,” says art teacher Marcos Rivera.
“2023 was ‘Voices Unheard’—the kids drew portraits of marginalized New Yorkers.” By dawn, the chalk blends into a rainbow haze under marching bands and trampling reindeer hooves. “It’s fleeting,” Sofia says. “Like a memory.”
Eleanor Wong: The Retired Teacher Who Sings for Strangers
Eleanor Wong, 81, hasn’t missed a parade since fleeing Shanghai as a child in 1951. “My first Thanksgiving here, I didn’t speak English,” she recalls.
“But I heard the music and thought, This is America.” For 30 years, Eleanor taught kindergarten in Flushing, weaving parade history into lessons. “We’d make Clifford the Big Red Dog puppets and talk about how helium works.”
Musical Moments: The Evolution of Live Performances in the Thanksgiving Parade
Now widowed, Eleanor stands outside Macy’s Herald Square, belting Broadway tunes with a portable speaker. “I do this for the lonely ones,” she says.
Last year, a Ukrainian refugee tearfully joined her for “Tomorrow” from Annie. “Music bridges what words can’t,” Eleanor says. Her favorite moment? “When the Santa float arrives. Everyone—rich, poor, native, immigrant—starts clapping. For a second, we’re all kids again.”
The Unseen Keepers: Custodians and Street Vendors
While crowds ooh at balloons, Hector Morales, 54, a custodian at the American Museum of Natural History, watches the parade from a fourth-floor window.
“I’m cleaning confetti for weeks,” he groans. Still, he’s carved out a ritual: At 9am, he texts his brother in Puerto Rico a video of Snoopy. “He’s bedridden now. Says the parade makes him feel close.”
Nearby, hot dog vendor Anika Patel, 38, works her busiest day. “I’ve memorized regulars,” she says. “The guy who buys two coffees—one for his late wife.
The teens who tip in candy. My dad used to park his cart here; now my daughter hands out napkins.” She pauses. “This corner’s my theater. The parade’s the show, but the people… they’re the story.”
A City’s Living Heirloom
The Macy’s Parade endures not because of its size, but because New Yorkers have etched their lives into its seams.
It’s in Carmela’s scarves, Maria’s empanadas, Jamal’s tattoo, and Eleanor’s songs—a mosaic of personal histories that outshine even the tallest balloons. As Anika Patel says, “You can’t freeze time, but for one morning, we all try.”
In a city often accused of hardness, the parade reminds locals that they’re still capable of wonder. Or as Luis Gutierrez puts it: “We build floats that vanish in a day, bake bread that’s eaten in minutes. Why? Because joy doesn’t need to last forever. It just needs to be real.”
