The First Thanksgiving

Today, on a very special post at, I present to you my slight re-imagining of the traditional tale of the first Thanksgiving.  I don’t want to appear too presumptuous, but I think this one is a little more compatible with the world we live in today.  I hope you will read it to your children and they read it to theirs and so on, and so on…

Part I:  The Boat

The stormy seas of the North Atlantic rocked the decreasingly sturdy Mayflower and its intrepid crew of zealots from the “Religious Right.”  They had left England and sailed to Holland, where they quickly tired of the rampant drug use, prostitution, and homosexuality that seemed to be the norm there, and are now nearly two months into their voyage to America as our story opens.

“She is with God now, my brother,” a quiet voice in the ship’s hold.

“There must be something you can do,” George Walker, an especially devout man, responded to the first voice which belonged presumably to a doctor or minister.

George’s body shook with sadness and anger.

“Time heals all wounds, brother.”  The minister tried to console him.

“The only thing that could make me feel better,” George looked lovingly into his wife’s recently deceased face, “is if there are dark skinned people in this new world that we may oppressify.”

“Haha, that would be great,” the minister agreed.

A teenager who had been sitting quietly in the corner piped up.  “But if there are people there already, wouldn’t the community that we are going to build be on their land?  I mean, wouldn’t that be stealing?”

George and the minister laughed at that, but both agreed that something must be done about this sympathizing youth, and done before they reached America.

Part II:  Land Ho!

Mayflower docked in Plymouth Harbor minus one wife and minus one teenage boy.  George stepped off the boat and inhaled deeply. 

“I can’t wait to rob this new world of all of its natural resources and leave behind a devastatingly large carbon footprint,” he said to himself.  And with that, the oppressive, unassimilating pilgrims were set loose upon North America.

That winter was especially cruel and frigid (since Global Warming hadn’t taken effect yet), and the pilgrims’ food supply was dangerously low.  Many of their community had fallen ill and died, and the men were forced to seek out the peacedul, land-lubbing native people who had pretty much kept to themselves since the arrival of that strange ominous ship in the harbor.

“We would be most gratificated if you people could show us your quaint ways of surviving without restaurants and supermarkets,” George addressed them, eyeing their animal skins, meat and turquoise.

Being the kind, loving, environmentally conscious people that they were, the Native Americans taught the horrible pilgrims how to track an animal (and how to use every part of that animal once it had been killed), and how to grow corn.  To the indigenous people, the pilgrims appeared grateful, but in fact they had already put into motion a nefarious plan to steal the Native Americans’ land, possessions, and women.

After a few days, the pilgrim men went back to the Indians (oops, I mean Native Americans), and invited them to a feast.  “Obviously we didn’t have time to plant corn, so if you could bring that it would be great,” George told them.  The proud and virtuous Chief agreed, eyeing the pilgrims’ muskets suspiciously.  “As for the meat,” George continued, raising his musket unthreateningly, “I thought we could all hunt for that.  I was thinking some sort of poulty, like turkey–”

“Or quail,” another pilgrim interjected.

“Right Dick, or quail,” George agreed.

The great chief nodded, and soon the hunting party was dispatched.

PART III:  The Feast

The Native Americans arrived at the pilgrim’s compound with enough corn to clog every toilet in England, which they presented to George and the rest.  George thanked them and invited them to sit at a long table that had been prepared for the feast.  The braves, the squaws and the chief alike looked around them in amazement at the twinkiling lights adorning the pilgrim’s homes, as well as the large evergreen in the center of the compound (which by the way, looked like it had been ripped savagely from Mother Earth).

“Why have you put the stars of the sky on your homes?” the Chief was the first to speak.

George’s belly shook as he laughed.  “Those are Christmas decorations, Stupid.  Here drink some of this.”  George handed him a cup.

In the spirit of friendship and harmony, the Chief accepted the cup and raised it to his lips.  “Delicious, what do you call it?”

“It’s called beer, we brought it with us on our ship.”

The Chief downed it and asked for another.  Seeing the response of their leader, the other Natives lined up for a cup of their own. 

They ate and drank their fill (and then some) that night, until more than ten barrels of beer had been drained.  Many of the natives lay unconscious at the table while a few danced and stumbled in circles.  The Chief sat at the table sipping the liquid gold from his cup and singing the wrong words to a song, while a group of pilgrim men were gathered near the Christmas tree.

“Should we shoot them now?” the pilgrim known as Dick asked excitedly.

“There’s no need to, Dick,” George Walker laughed maniacally.  “There’s no need to.”


copyright 2008.

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