A Reservation For Christmas

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It was 1621, a few months after the very first Thanksgiving feast. Technically, it was a harvest feast, and not the Thanksgiving feast we are familiar with. If not for Wampanoag tribe leader, Massanoit, there would have been zilch to harvest, and that zilch would have been the Pilgrim population to boot. Massanoit felt pity on the simple Pilgrims and taught them how to farm earlier in the year. It saved their lives.


The Pilgrims wanted to end the year with a repeat celebration revolving around food, especially that savory deer meat. They came up with a terrible premise for such a gathering. They would impose their religious beliefs, in this case, Christmas, on the natives. The four surviving females gulped and looked around nervously. They were tired of doing all the cooking and cleaning.

Squanto, a Patuxet Native American happened along. He was best described as the liaison to the other natives, since he learned the English language while enslaved in England. He smiled big and toothy, “What is the word, whites?”

William Bradford put his arm around Squanto. “We would like to celebrate a tradition from our mother land in a week’s time. A little thing we like to call, Christmas.”

Squanto shook his head, fully aware that this was going to be another stupid idea like Labor Day and Flag Day.

After hours of Christiansplaining, Squanto finally agreed to ask Massanoit if he would share in the celebration of the birth of a baby named Christ. He rolled his eyes as he returned to the Wampanoags, then released a healthy sigh/groan.

“Dig this, the pale people from overseas want—“

He was interrupted, Massanoit growled, “Want, want, want, all those snowskins are good for, wanting.” The other tribe members laughed as they danced in circles, bumping into each other, acting like complete clods, chanting, “Duuuuuh.”

“All they want is my fucking deer meat. Those ashen maidens don’t know seasoning from dirt. So… what do the “Pilgrims” want now?” Massanoit put his hands up and air quoted.

Squanto looked up at the winter moon and chuckled, “Something about Christmas and the birth of some baby called Jesus Christ.”

Chief Chickafawbut of Massachusetts, who just happened to be there said, “That is a stupid sounding name. Jesus Christ. And why isn’t it Christmas with a long ‘i’? I tell you those honkies are serious dolts.”

Reservation

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