thanks given

Remember the first time you crossed the street without your mom, or read a book, or cleaned yourself after using the toilet? You’re a big kid now, that’s for sure. That’s how I felt this weekend after hosting Thanksgiving in my apartment. I mean it wasn’t just like home. Buying pre-cooked chickens from the supermercado isn’t quite the same as roasting a turkey all day, but what are you supposed to do if you don’t have an oven? Most people had to eat standing up and no one was related, but there was still a little bit of drama. And although there were no corn or cranberry products available, last minute improvisations of stuffing and sweet potatoes sealed the deal and made it feel a little like that most American of holidays.

We had representatives of three European countries present to witness the American celebration of the coming together of the native American peoples and the European newcomers for a beautiful dinner. Those were the happy times, before the resettlements, smallpox blankets, alcoholism and casinos, and that’s what we taught our European friends. When some members of our party donned paper headbands with feathers in the back, it was with utmost reverence to our Wampanoag brothers, who saved our ancestors from starvation 400 years ago. Even on the way to bar afterward, the Spaniards in the streets seemed to understand our show of gratitude as they whooped like the Chippewa themselves at our coming.