The events surrounding what we call “Thanksgiving” was foreseen by many Vision-keepers in what we call “North America”. Long were there stories of the “many white wings”, the white skinned men who would sail to the eastern shores. These people would have long, sharp knives and black tubes that would take birds out of the sky and make the forest animals fall down with fire and frightening noises. There were very early people who did come, there is evidence of cross symbols and it is believed that Jesuits came long before Columbus, to Northern America. The Pilgrims/Puritans were not the first to North America, but it has become a convenient fantasy that has settled itself in history.
Long have the children been taught of white buckskinned and broad hat and buckled leaders sitting at a long table being served by Pilgrim women. It is intimated that the Pilgrims invited the First Nations people to feast on turkey and all gave thanks for the bounty and riches of the land. The coming of the white nation was apocalyptic and the story that is celebrated as truth is one of fantasy; as is the story of Columbus.
From Genoa, Columbus came, looking for a quick route to India and riches. When he found the Americas, his greed built until it exploded under the religious guile of their understanding, or misunderstanding, of who Creator was and what he would approve of. His goal was to exploit, conquer and convert. Albeit, “convert” meant that a nation would disappear into the foreign concept of heaven or hell. It was too late. The ships came from the East.
By the time the Puritans came, 130 years after Columbus landed, the invasion was well under way. Pestilence of every kind, suffering, decimation, and those Wamponag that greeted the Purtians were already part of a decimated tribe. The Puritans arrival signaled the plunder, rape, enslavement, subjugation and disease that is known as the Native American Holocaust. It only took sixteen years before the new people turned their guns against the very people who saved them in this new land. The massacre was great and no doubt, each massacre of the First Nations people was cause for the Puritans to feast. The suffering was great and First Nations had no reason to celebrate from the time the many white wings were seen on the horizon.
Thanksgiving celebration is not a First Nations’ celebration. As First Nations, many do celebrate “Thanksgiving”, but it is a thanksgiving for survival in spite of, a time to gather with our families and be aware how truly blessed we are that we survived the holocaust. But, we do not single out this great world-wide celebration, nor do we sanction it. It is a celebration of false pretenses. Thanksgiving is a Christian-sanctioned celebration based on genocide and denial of historical crimes.
At some point, we must, like children, get over the myth of Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, and the Easter Bunny; consciously review what has been fed to us as history. We have to acknowledge the misunderstandings and crimes of what is the reason for the celebration, or the myth of the celebration.
As we gather, today, remember the Native American Holocaust. Only the truth can set our history free. Only the truth can ever contain Peace amongst our nations, rather than surrender to easily swallowed myths. As you unconsciously and, perhaps, unconscionably (because you know the story is a myth since First Nations have openly been getting the message out), feast with your families, remember, this holiday is a myth and represents the darkest direst times of humanity. We knew you were coming. We knew our potential, then, and we know our potential now: Be honest in what we celebrate. Let there be a sense of Grace and quiet honor that comes with authenticity.
Drop-down
There is a hum in the hollow of my footstep
I have not silenced
with my stomping and clomping,
with my eyes
on unhalted horizon.
My legs have never left the ground
as I plodded, surely, along
until they ached for flight.
My guts have ground good grain,
soured on sowbelly stippled
with hapless hormones
and I forgot how to graze
on good things that took
patience to prepare.
My heart hammers at the thoughts
of how hard it is down here on earth
but does not swell simply
in the intensity of gratitude
it was endowed to emit.
My throat squeezes
on authentic audibles;
I have swallowed such great lumps
of lustiest liturgies
that truth is caught in my teeth.
Air has been whispering to me
for eons, while I listened for ca-ching
and chagrin of loose-flapping fury
and flurry of festoons and feasts.
Oh, let me stop in my tracks,
make me fall to the ground,
cause me to spew out impurities,
halt my heart a beat so I notice it,
open my mouth and loosen my voice,
let me sing the tune that the sky knows.
I have my part
in my pathetic promise
to never secede the sacred burial grounds
of millions of my people.
Let Grace fill me, surround me, carry me,
up to tallest mountain’s face
where I cradle that dear face,
weep that “I am sorry”
and gain ground on making it known:
It was, and is, such a travesty!
Tags: Journal Blog, Native Culture, Poems by Shewolf
3 Comments »
