Thanksgiving
These days, I feel torn about Thanksgiving. I've been trying to find out exactly what the story of how the celebration got started is. I've heard everything from the standard story told to children in school, that it's a celebration of a short peace between the European settlers and the Native Americans, to a story that suggests that the Native Americans were threatened and offered food to placate the settlers, to a story that claims that the settlers were actually celebrating having massacred large numbers of Native Americans and threw a victory party for themselves. I'm not entirely certain which of those is the truth, or how to determine which is true.
The people in the blogoverse that I used to hang out with most often talked a lot about white privilege. And while I'm sort of fatigued by endless discussions of societal "class" these days, even about "axes" on which I'm "oppressed" (I do talk about those things, but I'm rather tired of the academic phrasing, as I'm no longer sure it convinces anyone who isn't already on board with the theory), if the massacre story is the true one, then surely it's a mark of my social standing that I get to have fun at a harvest festival while Native Americans get to seethe in the knowledge that everyone else is told lies and partying while they remember what happened to their ancestors.
But it's weird. Thanksgiving was never my favorite holiday -- that was always Christmas, which delights me even now that I've left the religion behind. But I'm not the type usually to think about the things I'm thankful for, and there's always been a part of me that liked the annual reminder. It's pleasant to see all of one's friends talking about what's good in their lives and what they appreciate, and it's healing to remember the good in yours. Especially this time of year for me, when the cold and the dark make me more prone to brooding than usual.
So I don't know. When I was being all political, I hated the day by default, sure I'd uncovered its true history and that was all that mattered. But now I'm not so sure. I'm not certain how to verify what story is real, for one. For another, I do believe a harvest festival is only sensible, and though I'd like to purge ours of weird, twee cutesiness hiding possible atrocity, I personally cannot, and as the years go by I'm less and less convinced that the great We will ever do so either.
So. It's often taken as yet another sign of privilege that the privileged feel stuck and guilty. But, well, then here I am, as an anon put it, "defensive in privileged ways." As always, I'd rather be honest than proper. So, the truth: I feel weird. I miss celebrating harvest time with my family without wondering what I say to the family kids, as they repeat their Pilgrim stories proudly, sure what they learned is the truth. I don't even know what the truth is, and I have no right to recite one of the other truths to them to redress the wrong.
So: I'm thankful for my friends and the good people in my family. I'm thankful for a job, and one that means I can give back to the community and help other people with disabilities who are having problems or in trouble. I'm thankful for the chance to advocate, to allow my voice to be heard. And I'm thankful for the love of a puppy and two cats. I'm thankful for the Internet, as much as I hate it sometimes.
The people in the blogoverse that I used to hang out with most often talked a lot about white privilege. And while I'm sort of fatigued by endless discussions of societal "class" these days, even about "axes" on which I'm "oppressed" (I do talk about those things, but I'm rather tired of the academic phrasing, as I'm no longer sure it convinces anyone who isn't already on board with the theory), if the massacre story is the true one, then surely it's a mark of my social standing that I get to have fun at a harvest festival while Native Americans get to seethe in the knowledge that everyone else is told lies and partying while they remember what happened to their ancestors.
But it's weird. Thanksgiving was never my favorite holiday -- that was always Christmas, which delights me even now that I've left the religion behind. But I'm not the type usually to think about the things I'm thankful for, and there's always been a part of me that liked the annual reminder. It's pleasant to see all of one's friends talking about what's good in their lives and what they appreciate, and it's healing to remember the good in yours. Especially this time of year for me, when the cold and the dark make me more prone to brooding than usual.
So I don't know. When I was being all political, I hated the day by default, sure I'd uncovered its true history and that was all that mattered. But now I'm not so sure. I'm not certain how to verify what story is real, for one. For another, I do believe a harvest festival is only sensible, and though I'd like to purge ours of weird, twee cutesiness hiding possible atrocity, I personally cannot, and as the years go by I'm less and less convinced that the great We will ever do so either.
So. It's often taken as yet another sign of privilege that the privileged feel stuck and guilty. But, well, then here I am, as an anon put it, "defensive in privileged ways." As always, I'd rather be honest than proper. So, the truth: I feel weird. I miss celebrating harvest time with my family without wondering what I say to the family kids, as they repeat their Pilgrim stories proudly, sure what they learned is the truth. I don't even know what the truth is, and I have no right to recite one of the other truths to them to redress the wrong.
So: I'm thankful for my friends and the good people in my family. I'm thankful for a job, and one that means I can give back to the community and help other people with disabilities who are having problems or in trouble. I'm thankful for the chance to advocate, to allow my voice to be heard. And I'm thankful for the love of a puppy and two cats. I'm thankful for the Internet, as much as I hate it sometimes.