Hundreds
of American Indians from dozens of North American tribes, and more or
less equal numbers of their supporters, join together every
Thanksgiving Day since 1969 in Plymouth Massachusetts to commemorate,
in a political, social, and sacred gathering, the historic and ongoing
tragedy inflicted on the Native Peoples of the Americas since 1492, as
well as to celebrate the triumph of their physical and cultural
survival. It is called a National Day of Mourning gathering.
The
ceremony begins on a hill directly above Plymouth Rock. All of the
speakers are exclusively Native People. It is
their day. They are evenly divided young and old, men and women, Some
speak to the crowd in the language of their ancestors. There is always
drumming, a poem or two, an explicit invocation offered to the Great
Spirit who unites all beings, and to our Mother Earth, in gratitude for
her strength and support. The crowd is as diverse and multiracial as
any you will see anywhere. African Americans, Hispanic Americans,
Native Americans, Arab American, Asian Americans. Indian veterans with
US military serve are honored. Indian women are honored. Children
honored. The elders honored.
A letter is
read from Leonard Peltier. There are calls for the release of all
political prisoners. The American corporate elite and military
establishment are excoriated for our government's policies in
Afghanistan and Iraq. President Obama is challenged to meet his
responsibilities and promises to Native People for jobs, housing, and
educational aid. The true history of the first Thanksgiving is
recalled, a day first set aside in the late 1600's by the then governor
of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, not as we are falsely taught in
gratitude to the native Wampanoag People for sharing their knowledge of
agriculture with the first Pilgrims, but as a day of thanksgiving to
the Christian God for the safe return of armed colonial troops after they had
massacred a village of over 300 Pequod men, women, and children in Mystic Connecticut.
A
comparison is made to the ongoing struggle of the Palestinian people
for their land and liberty with the struggle of the Native Americans
for their land and their liberty, "our land and liberty" the speaker
says, and the crowd responds, "Ho." The inordinately disproportionate
armed power used by the Israeli Army against the Palestinian people is
compared to the disproportionate power the European settlers/invaders
used against the Native American people. The attack and subsequent
siege of the Gazan people is compared to the massacres, oppression, and
brutalization of the Native American people.
There is a
march through town. People chant responsively. The group pauses at
Plymouth Rock. Deprecating remarks are made about the small rock with
the numbers 1620 carved in it that is kept in a cage, about the
symbolism of its imprisonment, about how "the Native Americans didn't
land on Plymouth Rock, Plymouth Rock landed on us." People always
laugh.
The aggressive warrior history of the United
States against Native People around the globe is recounted. The
racism of it. The greed. The waste. The folly. A speaker says that
universal health care could easily be provided to all Americans if the
wars were ended. Someone in the crowd yells, "Healthcare, not
warfare." The crowd responds, "Ho." The absolutely insulting and
painful racism manifest by a team named the "Redskins," who are hosted
in our nation's capital, is booed, is actually felt, like a punch below
the belt.
The march ends in front of the church where
Chief Metacomet's severed head was displayed on a pike for over twenty
years. The barbarism of the Christian settlers is noted. The six
directions are honored. The crowd turns to the east where the day
begins, to the south and then the west where the day ends, to the north
where our brothers and sisters of the ice are experiencing the very
melting of their homelands, to the sky, everyone looking upward, and to
the earth below, three hundred people on their knees, their palms
touching the ground, a patch of grass, a tree. And when we arise the
ceremony is over.
Then, in what seems like a miracle
to me each year, the Indian people actually host and efficiently feed
all three hundred of their friends and guests in attendance at the gathering in the basement of the church. And a bountiful and lavish
feast it is - of turkey, stuffing, venison, fry bread, salads, dozens
of deserts, everything donated, all in excess, with leftovers galore,
and plastic containers provided in advance so that
participants can take home the extra canned goods, organic carrots,
potatoes, breads, meats, and
deserts. And there is always more than enough food. And there is
never anything left on the serving table to throw away. And it is
good. Hey, it is after all a social gathering in thanks giving.
I stay late each year washing pots and pans. The mood of the kitchen
volunteers is joyful. The busload of Haitians, Hispanics, and American
Indians from New York City is departing. A beautiful Lakota man who
spoke at the ceremony shakes my hand. I ask his name and he says
something like Akecheta Hota Thacha Huste Thasunke
Wito Cangleska Cigala Yellow Feather Smith. Only longer. "Right," I
say smiling, "I got that." Then he asks me my name. "Bruce," I say, obviously enjoying the contrast.
"That's all?" he asks with mock incredulity. "Okay," I say, going with
the playfulness of the moment, "Bruce Taub," which is about as short a name as you can get. "And what might that
mean?" he asks, this time quite serious, And I think, perhaps for the first time in my life,
about the meaning of my names strung together. "Warrior of the woods
who travels under the sign for peace," I answer. "Wear it well," he
says. Then we hug.