Mark Green's Atheopaganism Blog

It’s American Thanksgiving again.

I have feelings.

Because let’s face it: the Happy Shiny story most white Americans tell themselves about this day’s origin is a crock of shit: a self-congratulating retcon of colonization as “brotherhood”. In which they, of course, are the heroes.

As in every American myth about themselves. Tiresome, really.

Ourselves, I should say.

Just because I eventually vomited up the Kool-Aid doesn’t mean I’m not a part of this.

White Americans tell themselves that their ancestors’ invasion of the lands they now occupy—dragging with them enslaved Africans, which is a whole other abomination—was beneficial to all concerned. Benign, at the very least.

Of course, the descendants of those they infected, enslaved, supplanted, massacred, humiliated, kidnapped, attempted to eradicate, assimilate, and erase the culture of—and then pretended none of it happened—have a somewhat different version of events.

They were there. Their people tell the stories because that is what they have always done. Though until very recently, almost no one listened because they didn’t have the benefit of the kind of Happy Shiny propaganda machines that pass—have always passed—for journalism in the United States of America.

The Indigenous of these lands and waters call this day the National Day of Mourning. Because they remember.

Now, I’m a white guy. English English English going back centuries–probably for as long as there have been English. I’ve traced my genealogy back to 1620, when at least four of my ancestors arrived aboard Mayflower, and on neither side of my ancestry is there any sign that one single person was ever so creative or brave as to step out of the English English English lane.

So I cannot imagine the incandescent rage, the yawning gulfs of grief that the past 400 years must inspire in the descendants of the survivors of the American Genocide.

But as a human fucking being reasonably informed about that history in its broad strokes, I am so angry and so appalled and so desperately, desperately sorry. Both in the sense of being grief-stricken and of feeling apologetic.

And I am angry about today. I am angry about poverty and reservation conditions and continued bigotry and cultural eradication and lower life expectancy and the heartbreaking fact that there is so, so much that we English squatters could learn from cultures that know how to live on this planet.

I am angry about Murdered and Missing Indigenous Women. I am angry about blood quantum requirements and the BIA and every fucking broken treaty.

I don’t feel righteous about my outrage. I hardly even feel entitled to it. It’s only my status as a human that entitles me to it, given the blood that is all over my pedigree.

So: Thanksgiving.

I’m a big believer in gratitude.

I know for a fact that looking for the moments of joy and really holding them for as long as you can is a core skill for a happy life. We’re wired to look for problems and dangers—that’s how a slow, weak primate survived the African savanna.

So we have to teach ourselves the art of joy.

And I think a national moment for gratitude is a worthy thing. Maybe more than one, really.

But this thing? This twisted collection of smiling, heartwarming lies covering so much blood?

That’s not it, not really.

I celebrate a gratitude holiday at Harvest—the autumnal equinox. “Pagan Thanksgiving”. Feels natural, then: the grapes and apples rolling in, the gardens erupting with food, beautiful days. A time to gather friends and enjoy.

I will gather with friends tomorrow. It’s a thing that happens. Maybe it is hypocritical, but I’m too much of a hedonist to avoid sharing good company, food and drink in the name of wearing a hair shirt. It wouldn’t do anything good for those who deserve it, either.

What I can do, though, is donate to the Native American Land Conservancy, which protects and restores sacred sites and lands. Or to one or more of these. Or to Indigenous Climate Action, if you’re looking for a two-for-one.

I can continue to educate myself, both in the history and in how to authentically and honorably engage with, support and appreciate Indigenous people.

I can continue to explore what it means to be a human of Planet Earth, to live a life of respect and reciprocity with our world. To advocate as best I am able for that, and, as invited, for those who have stewarded these continents for many thousands of years. I can work to advance culture and values that are not derivative, but of complementary values with an Earth-affirming, human-affirming worldview.

I am grateful for so much. But not, particularly, for this day, which demands that I choose sides of a fraught commemoration.

I see both.

I feel both.