Thanksgiving was, in a word, great. In more words, it was full, delicious, golden, laughter, games, pride, beauty, family. We finished the cooking ahead of schedule, and everyone worked really well together in the kitchen. We listened to The Who, Bette Middler, Laura Love, Arlo Guthrie, our own chatter. We took bread and cheese breaks, and made way too much stuffing. Among the cast was J, our ex-Jehovah's Witness stray that my sister brought in five years ago and has been Thanksgiving sous-chef every since, C, and C's best friend, J (not to be confused with the first J). We were a merry bunch.
Sometime in the middle of dinner, when it became apparent that no one wanted to say grace or anything, I took myself outside and breathed deeply and said a prayer. Dear Apache, dear Algonquin, dear Iroquois Nation, dear Lenni-Lenape and Delaware, dear Cheyenne and Dineh and Inuit, dear Eskimo and Apache, dear Hopi and Navajo, dear Abenaki and Adirondack, dear Lakota, dear every tribe and nation I've silenced with my ignorance, dear people who are not here, now. If I knew that somewhere in the world people gathered to laugh and share meals with one another in twisted commemoration of my people's destruction, I would have nothing but anger for them. Because my people know what it means to be marched from their land and burned, to agree to legislation that will invariably hurt them, to trust without fighting because it seems like the best chance for survival...all of this is in my blood's memory. And every year my family gathers and eats more than they can hold, and it is beautiful that we do this. That we can do this. And I can't ask for your forgiveness, because I don't deserve it. The fact that I sit here and pray for you on one night a year does nothing to change the invasion, infiltration, the blankets, the schools, the reservations, the poverty, the alcoholism, the looks on the street, or the land o' lakes butter girl. And without beating myself up with guilt, I want to hold this moment in recognition, between me and the stars. And recognize the wrongs that have been done in the name of my skin. I don't know how to ask for a people's friendship, don't know how to go about building a bridge in a swamp, don't want to make a useless gesture of apology. So, between me and the near-frozen ground: I'm so sorry the betrayal continues. And if you were to knock on my door tonight, or any other, I would let you in.
J (C's best friend) and I spent the next day wandering around Union Square, eating and people watching and talking, and eventually realized that it was Big Shopping Day. A woman handed out coupons to a fancy shoe store in the form of scratch tickets, and I took two. No free shoes for me. People dressed up as elves held signs declaring themselves "Fair Trade Elves: Escaped from Santa's Sweatshop" They played drums and tambourines and offered dance lessons. We helped a family from South Carolina find the right train to 51st street and smiled at little kids. C and I avoided saying goodbye, again. We figure we can squeeze a visit in around Christmas, before I leave.
And finally, lifted verbatim from a friend's blog:
Two months ago 800 people were rounded up and arrested simply for sitting around in a park nearby a protest nearby the Republican National Convention, and charged with "conspiracy to riot."[Dane's insert: one of them was a poet-acquaintance who is currently fighting the charge]
Today 2,000 people trampled a Wal-Mart worker to death, and continued to harass and trample the police officers trying to give him first aid. Nobody was arrested or charged with anything. No rubber bullets were shot. Nobody was tasered. Nobody thought riot gear would be necessary.
The lesson? Always pretend you're shopping.
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