Thanksgiving, again

It comes around every year. Our annual thanks-giving day. And, as I’ve written here before—last year and the year before that—each  year, I find it troubling. That’s true again this year, with my dis-ease heightened by my recent immersion in the story of Sand Creek—also a topic of earlier posts here, and of an op-ed piece in today’s New York Times and an article in the current issue of Smithsonian.

For those of you who haven’t been following this blog over the course of my recurrent musings about Thanksgiving, here’s a short synopsis. When we were living in Massachusetts several years ago, we attended the counter-thanksgiving ceremony at Plymouth, MA, which was organized by descendants of the native peoples who lived in that area when the Pilgrims arrived. Their take on that first fall harvest feast and what it portended for the future was—predictably—very different from the schoolroom stories I learned. If the European settlers at that the feast could have looked into the future, they may have seen the glorious future of a great nation. From the Indians’ perspective, though, that feast was followed by the devastation of their way of life, the loss of their land, language, and culture—and the predictable consequences: poverty, disempowerment, and dysfunction in their fragmented and diminished communities. And still, despite all this, they survive.

At some level, I had known this, but I hadn’t given it much thought, joining in the annual tradition of an autumn celebration dedicated to giving thanks and imagining that we celebrated the bounty of the harvest, the cooperation of communities that might instead have been hostile, and the launch of a new nation. Giving thanks is good, I thought—why not have a day dedicated to that activity? I never thought much about the fact that by choosing this day and wrapping the event in this legend, we were commemorating genocide.

I suspect this is not unlike the experience of many people.

The first really serious challenge to this complacency was the counter-thanksgiving ceremony at Plymouth. Then came the deeply experiential workshop we attended at the Quaker meetinghouse last year, which I also described here, when the brutal reality of the white march across the continent became crystal clear to me. And then came my education about Sand Creek.

Over the course of the past few weeks, following in the wake of our bus trip to Sand Creek, I’ve spent time with the Sand Creek story in a range of venues. I’ve been reading a book about Sand Creek, A Misplaced Massacre, which is written from a critical perspective that shines revealing light on the complex governmental machinations and personal ambition that fueled Sand Creek and other anti-Indian actions of the late 1800s. I’ve also attended a spate of events that addressed this massacre. This year marks the 150^th anniversary of the Sand Creek massacre on November 29 and 30, 1864, so the Boulder History Museum has sponsored a series of commemorative events. The first was a museum forum featuring an interview with former Colorado Senator Ben Nighthorse Campbell, who sponsored the legislation that led to the designation of the Sand Creek Massacre Historical Site. Then came a video of the play “Rocks, Karma, Arrows, Part II,” which examines Boulder’s legacy of racism and exclusion (with particular focus on the Indians), followed by a documentary about that play that included some really smart talking heads offering pithy analyses of these historical events. And the last was a “history on the screen” event that featured a talk by the man in charge of the Sand Creek Massacre site, followed by a screening of “Little Big Man,” the 1975 movie starring Dustin Hoffman as a white man raised by Indians who witnesses the growing efforts to eradicate and dispossess the Plains Indians--including Sand Creek.

Each of these events has added a layer of nuance to the story and to my grasp of the chasm between the legend I learned as a child of the origin and growth of this country and the reality of the genocide that is this nation’s origin-al sin. One of the messages I took away this time, a point made on at least two of these occasions, was this: History is open-ended. History continues. This story is still being written, but now, by us. The implicit challenge: what will we write? How do we change the terrible trajectory of this tale so that the experiences of the indigenous peoples of this continent don’t continue to be silenced.

After attending the Plymouth, MA counter-thanksgiving ceremony, we made a commitment that we wouldn’t do Thanksgiving again without honoring this legacy—a commitment I reiterated here two years ago. (Blogging about it on a regular basis seems to be one of the ways I do this.) This year, a perfect opportunity arose. When we were invited to Thanksgiving dinner by a friend, we asked to include a piece that would honor the true meaning of the day, and she willingly agreed. So yesterday, we began the afternoon gathering of friends with a ceremony that recounted the real history of the relationship between European colonizers and indigenous peoples and ended with reflections on commitments we all could make to moving history forward in a more honest way. We included music—some of it raw and painful (Buffy Sainte-Marie’s “My Country Tis of Thy People You’re Dying”) and some chosen to create a calm space for meditation (pieces by American Indian musicians Calvin J. Standing Bear and James Torres). Afterward, we shared good, thoughtful, open conversation, a fine meal, and serious belly laughs over a word game turned silly by our delight in the camaraderie—and maybe by the release of tension after a difficult, starkly realistic opening to this complicated day.

As we were leaving, one friend thanked us for the ceremony and offered an observation, taken from her work elsewhere, on the contrast between the intensity of the days beginning and the lightheartedness of its end: “We can only work as deep as we can laugh.” 

We can't act as though this part of history didn't occur or doesn't matter. But honoring it needn't leave us morose and perpetually somber, which helps nothing at all. History is open-ended. It's still happening. Only now, we’re responsible for where it goes. We need to act, act as if it matters. Because it does. And then, we can laugh as deep as we work.    

© Janis Bohan, 2010-2014. Use of this content is welcome with attribution and a link to the post.

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Hiding Places

A conversation with friends the other day got me thinking about things we hide away. Some are treasures, things of value that we hide to protect them. And then there are things we hide away because we don’t want to think about them. Things that shatter our simple worldviews, that make us uncomfortable, that scare us.

We were talking about books and movies that offer especially thought-provoking insights into lives that are so different from our own that we get surprised by them. One woman had just seen a movie, “The Book Thief,” about a German family who hid Jews during the Holocaust. We talked about the odd realization that we never much thought about there being “good” Germans during WWII. Of course there were, we all knew, once we thought about it. But their lives are so hidden, buried under the reams and reels of stories about the “bad” ones.

That discussion brought to mind an older movie, “Sarah’s Key,” which told the story of a Jewish family in France who were rounded up by French collaborators and sent to concentration camps. The whole family, that is, except for one small boy, whom his sister, Sarah, hid in a closet, locking the door. She told him to keep silent until she came to let him out. She thought she’d be right back—the police hadn’t been taking girls and women. Instead, it was years before she returned. Her brother had followed her admonition to stay there and stay still. The French family who took over the apartment noticed the smell, but couldn’t locate it. She knew where to look, in his hiding place.

Our conversation about these two movies—one about Germans hiding Jews in the basement, the other about Jews hiding a child from his countrymen, both about lives largely hidden from our own awareness—were threaded through with this theme of hiding. It was this theme that brought to mind a pair of short books I read a few years ago that have clung to my consciousness ever since: The Buddha in the Attic and When the Emperor Was Divine, by Julie Otsaka. The first is about things left behind—like the Buddha hidden in the attic—when Japanese Americans were forcibly removed from their homes and sent off to detention camps during WWII. The second is about the places we hid those people, out of sight, and the invisible lives they led. I love this author’s writing style, which is unique and totally engrossing—you really have to read it to see what I mean. But more relevant to this discussion is her skill at laying out these devastating events for us to see without lecturing, without even commenting on the unspeakably cruel acts of our government against its own citizens. Just showing it, word by word and step by step.

Thinking about this later also reminded me of a play we saw recently, “Do You Know Who I Am?” This play was crafted from simple first-person accounts of “dreamers,” undocumented youths who are trying to make lives for themselves in this country. They’re daring to come out of hiding, to be public about their status in order to tell people—or rather, show people—who they are. There they were on the stage, proud, nervous kids (OK, maybe young adults, but to me they seem like kids) asking the audience, “Do you know who I am?” Good question.

Our discussion set me to reflecting on things that are hidden and how carefully—if unintentionally—we keep them that way. How often do we really think about Germans who risked their lives to save Jews, about French officials who collaborated with the Nazis, about the immense sorrow of Japanese Americans being marched away from their lives to remote camps, about undocumented kids who are our children’s and grandchildren’s friends, about the fact that we are walking on land stolen from the Indians? We all “know” that these stories exist, but we have the luxury of hiding them away when we want to. So the antidote is probably choosing not to hide them, at least from ourselves.

“Do You Know Who I Am?” was a production of Motus Theater, who also did a very powerful play last year called “Rocks, Karma, Arrows” (which I wrote about here). Our conversation the other day turned to that play and to the mistreatment of Indians—including massacres of whole communities by the US Army—and thence to Thanksgiving. I wrote last year about how uncomfortable I am about Thanksgiving. Basically, I find it really hard to celebrate genocide. I know that there are responses to that claim, but I just don’t find them persuasive, so I’m always a bit “off” on Thanksgiving.

The other day, as we were talking about some of these stories, my partner and I hatched a plan for next year at Thanksgiving. One of the most reprehensible massacres of Indians (if such things can be placed in a hierarchy of awfulness) occurred at Sand Creek in southern Colorado—the site is now a national historic site. It turns out that one of the Japanese internment camps, Amache, was in Colorado, very close to Sand Creek.

When we lived in New England, we used to go to the counter-Thanksgiving held by local Indian tribes at Plymouth Rock, the land of the “Pilgrims' pride.” That’s too far away now, so we decided to make our own counter-Thanksgiving by visiting Sand Creek and Amache, bearing witness to the stories that we don’t honor with holidays. Trying to avoid hiding them away. Again.

Gratitude

In certain circles I inhabit, gratitude is a huge issue. It’s really good for me to keep this in mind as I contemplate Thanksgiving Day—the day we set aside to be grateful. I need to keep it in mind as a general principle, because I am generally not particularly grateful for this day in its own right.

As I’ve written here before, I have a complicated relationship with Thanksgiving. Those uncomfortable feelings about the holiday, coupled with a complicated relationship with my family of origin, made more difficult by the ubiquitous images of the mythical perfect Thanksgiving gathering often leave me a bit in the doldrums come Thanksgiving day.

The day carries so many “I can’ts.” I can’t dismiss the thought that what we celebrate here is the beginning of a long period of genocide, the appropriation of a continent, the theft of space from a people because we wanted it for ourselves and had the power to take it. I can’t magically manufacture the family I wish I had out of the one I actually have. And I can’t halt the reality that lives decline and end around us or the fact that this is troubling even when (or maybe especially when) our relationship with those lives has been complicated.

So it was no big surprise when I awoke this morning in a funk. A talk with my partner helped, hugs helped, a piece of pumpkin pie for breakfast helped. And then, predictably, a walk helped.

It was actually a lovely day, the blue Colorado sky streaked with high clouds behind the scraggly, bare branches of cottonwood trees and the tall grasses along my route. 

Ice on the rocks, sculpted by water splashing in the cold air, and tiny snow plies among the fallen leaves reminded me that it’s really the end of November. Afterward, a short, happy visit with good friends finished polishing off the edge of the day. We closed the day sharing an easy turkey dinner with family. On the way home, we stopped by a short street we call “Santa Clause Lane,” where gorgeous holiday lights outline the trees starting on this evening every year.

  

Now, looking back, I find myself very grateful for many pieces of this day—a loving partner, a lovely walk on a beautiful day, good friends, and pie.

And then a feast of lights to end a day that started out feeling rather bleak. Nice transformation. 

Thanksgiving: Turkeys, treaties, and truth

I’m writing from a coffee shop in Hollywood, Maryland. (Really. Or maybe this is across the town line into California, MD. Really.) My partner and I are midway in a “road trip,” bookended by two professional gigs. It’s a couple of days after Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is a deeply meaningful holiday in this country. Depending on your perspective, it may be the most wonderful of holidays or the most fraught. It may be “loaded” with warm memories of family gatherings and lovely fall days (or with fantasies of those things). Or it may be loaded with uncomfortable memories and uncomfortable interactions. For me, it’s loaded with complicated feelings and troubling historical and political meanings.

I recall hearing someone say that Thanksgiving is the most wonderful holiday because it’s not tied to any particular religious beliefs. It’s inclusive, they said, it’s celebrated by all of us, collectively. Here’s where the complications start. “All of us” presumes that we see ourselves as Americans (because no other nation is celebrating our Thanksgiving) … er, rather, as a United States-ians (because other countries in the Americas don’t celebrate Thanksgiving with us). So it’s not totally inclusive, but it’s at least inclusive of those of us who identify as US-ian. Well, unless we’re the original inhabitants of the land we now claim as US-ians. If you are among those people whose ancestors were actually here prior to the European invasion, this “holiday” may be a day of mourning.

Last time, I wrote about the then-upcoming “Sweet Land - Choices of Dignity” concert/event, which was performed by Sound Circle, Resonance, and others last week to celebrate the end of the election and the promise of four more years of (generally) progressive leadership. That, and to challenge us to make choices of dignity, to claim our own responsibility for the direction of our communities, large and small. During that performance (which I hope many of you heard), Sound Circle did a rendition of the old patriotic favorite, “America.” Kirsten Wilson, the “vision holder” for OneAction, One Boulder, had reframed the familiar song in minor but profound ways. (Recall that the project One Action, One Boulder undertook was to encourage conversations about and reflection on racism in our own communities). With Thanksgiving approaching, this change in particular caught my attention: The usual lyrics:

“Oh beautiful, for Pilgrims’ dreams

That see beyond the years

Thine alabaster cities gleam

Undimmed by human tears.

… became …

Oh beautiful, for Pilgrims’ … [pause]

for Indians … [pause]

for genocide …

Some years ago, when we were living in Massachusetts, my partner and I spent two Thanksgiving days in Plymouth, MA, land of the “Pilgrims’ pride.” We spent those days participating in the counter-Thanksgiving conducted by local descendents of the Indian tribes who lived in this area in the 1600s. The tribes who were there when the Pilgrims moved in, claimed the land, killed rebellious Indians, displayed the head of one recalcitrant chief on a post in the center of town, and left it there for years as a reminder. We both had qualms about the meaning of Thanksgiving before, but after this experience, the holiday could mean only one thing: a celebration of genocide. In Caesar’s words, we (and “we” has to include us, as beneficiaries of this genocide) came, we saw, we conquered. And then we moved across the continent, seeing, conquering, claiming land that was not ours, eliminating the uncooperative native peoples along the way and assimilating the rest to our “superior” way of life.

Among the “One Action, One Boulder” events I attended during the year was a performance of “Rocks,Karma, Arrows,” a performance piece that sketched the history of the relationship between Boulder-area tribes and the settlers arriving in Colorado. I carried a number of messages away from that event, but the one that keeps coming to mind is this: “We are walking on stolen land.” A treaty with the United States gave the land where Boulder sits—in fact, the land all along the front range and well into the mountains—to the Northern Arapahoe in perpetuity. That means forever. That treaty was never renegotiated. But it was violated over and over by the “settlers” and their armies … by our government. That means that every day, I walk on, hold (illegal) claim to property on, enjoy the beauty of, and damage at will land that is not mine.

I mention this partly because of the obvious link to the Thanksgiving story. On this day dedicated to giving thanks, we celebrate a legendary event that amounted to the launching party for a campaign of continent-wide genocide. And I benefit from that every day. No, I wasn’t personally there. I didn’t kill any Indians or personally push them from their land. But I am responsible for recognizing that I benefit from that campaign. And when I allow myself to realize that, celebrating it feels so painfully inappropriate.

The other reason I mention this is that I just had an up-close-and-personal reminder of how easily I judge other people’s failure to acknowledge the privilege they gain from the oppression of others—even as I so easily forget my own. This past week, we were on a college campus in the South. The hotel where we stayed is built and decorated to evoke the old South—southern hospitality, southern elegance. But as we walked around, I couldn’t help but be reminded of southern plantations—the “big house” with its columns, porches, and elegant furnishings. It’s a lovely scene—until you consider the whiffs of slavery and unquestioned racism, the people who lived in the slave quarters just down the hill from the big house. Later, we walked around campus, learning bits of history from our friend and guide. Many of the buildings were very old, pre-civil war structures—which means that they were most likely the handiwork of slaves. I couldn’t help but ask, silently, to myself, “Have you never thought about who built these buildings?”

I was aware that this (rather judgmental) response came partly from an earlier visit to a campus in the south where we were told that the buildings were indeed constructed by slaves. In that case, the stewards of that campus had embarked on a project to make amends for that egregious mistreatment of other human beings. But I saw none of that in the people we met on this college campus. In fact, my attempts to raise this issue—noting how uncomfortable the “southern charm” made me feel—evoked no response from people I met, except, perhaps, a slightly uncomfortable change of topic. I was feeling pretty righteous about this (“Don’t they see their responsibility to address this?”), when my partner reminded me that Kirsten Wilson and One Action, One Boulder spent an entire year trying to get folks to see the same dynamic of avoidance and denial in our own back yard. … “I am walking on land that belongs to someone else.”

We are all responsible for recognizing and acknowledging our own privilege, recognizing ways in which we have—literally and figuratively—stolen our well-being from others. The point is not that we should feel guilty about this, but that we are responsible for what we do about it. Simply celebrating “Thanksgiving” without reflecting on, talking about, questioning the meaning of the holiday now seems irresponsible to me.

And yet, two days ago, I sat down to “Thanksgiving” dinner among people with whom I did not have this conversation. Nothing in the day or in the conversation even hinted at the holiday’s origin. Indeed, these folks, like many other people I know, would likely argue that the point of Thanksgiving is really to bring family together. They might also say that the point of the day is to remind us to be grateful for our many blessings. Still, “Thanksgiving” as we know it is built on a legend. In retrospect, it’s clear that the legend made super-human heroes of people most US-ians have historically identified with—European “settlers.” And it made sub-human demons of the people who have historically been unlike most of us—indigenous people of color, American Indians.

If we want a thanksgiving holiday that celebrates community and gratitude, then let’s do that, instead of deluding ourselves into thinking that these things capture the real meaning of our current “Thanksgiving” holiday. For me personally, the “Sweet Land” concert was as fine a celebration of community as I can imagine. I left it feeling uplifted, connected to community, and challenged to make choices of dignity.

And in that spirit, my partner and I have agreed that we won’t spend future Thanksgiving days in celebration (or avoidance) of the holiday’s legendary origins. Instead, we’ll find ways to explore the historical meaning of the day and honor the people at whose expense we enjoy such great privilege. Here are some of the ideas we’ve discussed: We can make a donation to the Native American Rights Fund, which does great work on behalf of American Indians (including work on those violated treaties). We can spend time with friends watching and discussing the video version of “Rocks, Karma, Arrows.” We can join with friends in a common reading and then share a meal discussing what we’ve read. And we can make a commitment to speak up, whenever possible, when we hear the legend with its distortion of what actually happened in New England in the early 1620s … and beyond.