We were typecast. My sister Rachel–she of sunshine and light–was always the pilgrim, newly arrived in a wild land and looking for warm food. I was the Indian, with a penchant for fringe and accessorizing, who just happened to have an outdoor repast of turkey and corn set for guests. It’s a reductive rendition of history they serve when you’re 9, but the idea is an awfully nice one: welcome others and share your bounty.
Over the years, the pilgrims have come from all over; and when they get here, they become a part of the native tribe. I know–it’s a reductive rendition of history. But it’s a nice one.
Happy Thanksgiving–whatever kind of American you are.