Why I’m No Longer Observing Thanksgiving

I originally published this article on Medium on Oct. 29, 2019. I've made minor edits.

Growing up in the Midwest, in a white family with my parents and older sister, our holidays were pretty standard. We observed all the major US ones — Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Independence Day, Labor Day — with food, laughter, and games.

I don’t come from a large family, so it was pretty much just the four of us most years, aside from a boyfriend, girlfriend, or some other stray who may have made an appearance as my sister and I grew older.

We’re not a religious family. My mom was raised Catholic, and I went as far as my first communion, but I was relieved when she stopped making me have anything to do with church or religion in general.

All of this is to say that while my immediate family got together, ate, chatted, or played games on the major US holidays, we didn’t talk about the meaning of any of them. We didn’t ponder where they came from, what they symbolized, or what their importance was. My mom would usually say her standard, “Well, Merry Christmas, everyone,” or “Well, Happy Fourth, everyone,” before we all dug into the meal.

I’m not complaining about our traditions, mind you, if you can call them that. I’ve never been one for ceremony or sentimentality, so I’m okay with skipping the pretenses with my family. We can usually have a good time together on holidays, especially after a few drinks.

Karla, you’re so sensitive.

I’ve always been a bit of a black sheep in my family, especially in my social and political beliefs. I’m the “bleeding heart” of the bunch.

I’ve always rooted for the underdog. Starting in elementary school, I played bodyguard for the bullied, protector of the little guy. I was clique-less and could see the value in being kind to most people. I’m the one who brought home the aforementioned strays, those friends and acquaintances who were kicked out of their homes or who otherwise had nowhere else to go. Empathetic and empathic, I was (am) highly sensitive and compassionate.

As a middle schooler, I sent away for an informational kit from PETA, and while I could never completely give up meat, I always sought the friendship and love of animals over people. In high school, I followed the news of apartheid violence in South Africa and was devastated to see kids my own age fighting and dying for rights I took for granted every day. I cried when, on my 16th birthday, it was announced that Nelson Mandela would be freed.

As I got older, this led to learning about social justice causes, mainly focused on animal rights, gender equality, reproductive freedom, and civil rights. At university, I studied history and women’s studies, always diving deeper than the whitewashed textbooks that I knew (from some excellent educators) were full of lies. Books like Black Women in White America by Gerda Lerner, Lies My Teacher Told Me by John Loewen, Kaffir Boy by Mark Mathabane, and Women, Race, and Class by Angela Y. Davis moved me towards critical questioning of motivations (my own and others’) and the part I played in the oppression of others.

Okay. So, what does this have to do with Thanksgiving?

I didn’t know much about the Indigenous people of what is now referred to as the United States. I knew (know) more about South African history and culture than I did peoples in my own (their own) backyard. But a few years ago, I set out to change this.

How I did this is another article entirely but, in essence, I started paying attention.

I read a lot (duh): news, books, articles. I sought out media and narratives created by Indigenous people themselves. I became skeptical of pop culture portrayals of Indigenous peoples. I started critically questioning the US history I had previously read and learned about.

As a feminist and scholar of women’s studies, one of the first issues I dug into was that of missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls (MMIW or MMIWG). I couldn’t (and still can’t) believe the scourge of this epidemic throughout North America, and why more people aren’t outraged by it.

I also came to understand the argument against using stereotypical (or any) portrayals of Indigenous people as mascots (I’m looking at you, my hometown team, the Mukwonago “Indians”). In time, I began to understand appropriation and why it is unacceptable to dress up as “Pocahontas” at Halloween.

The one thing I neglected to see for a long time was Thanksgiving.

It may seem obvious to look at this first and break apart the whitewashed historical narratives upon which this holiday is based. But for me, it was just a time when my family got together and did the whole turkey-dinner thing.

It wasn’t until the Dakota Access Pipeline (DAPL) protests made headlines that I began thinking more critically about Thanksgiving. Not that one is directly related to the other, but #NoDAPL was coming to a head at Standing Rock throughout 2016, and as the last Thursday in November grew nearer, I knew I couldn’t, in good conscience, celebrate that holiday that year.

And so I didn’t. Instead, my partner and I decided to gather donations of goods and money from friends (and, in some cases, strangers) to deliver to the Water Protectors at Standing Rock. We researched what they said they needed, and what they didn’t. We read about the issue and listened to Indigenous friends when they said to decenter ourselves and be self-sufficient and respectful.

That year, we spent Thanksgiving in snowy North Dakota, in women-led meetings on how to “help” as white people without getting in the way, and in passive resistance lessons on when and how to put ourselves in harm’s way if it came to that.

But it’s not about YOU. (Except that it is.)

So why do I write this article that sounds so much like it’s all about me when it should probably be focused on Indigenous people?

Well, the purpose of this article is to reach out to fellow white people and encourage you to stop talking, question, listen, and learn about this so-called holiday in November. It wasn’t really what we learned about in school. It wasn’t all pilgrims, learning about maize, and the peaceful breaking of bread. Saying that it’s about gratitude and family isn’t true either; that’s just the narrative we tell ourselves to ignore the devastation and genocide wrought upon Indigenous people by European colonizers.

My family never sat down and shared what we were thankful for. We never talked about the real history of the day or examined the real meaning behind the “celebration” we were holding. If you want to spend time with your family, do it. You shouldn’t need a reason or holiday to show gratitude and appreciation for one another; we can do that on almost any other day.

But I can’t go back now. I can’t sit around a table, stuffing myself, without knowing that it’s a lie. Knowing that thousands of Indigenous women and girls go missing every year. Knowing that I occupy stolen land once inhabited by a rich and thriving population. Knowing that all across the country, Indigenous families live in poverty and addiction as a direct result of this occupation and genocide.

So I choose not to participate in this day, designated a holiday in November. My family may not understand or may be disappointed, but I tell them we can get together on another day.

Instead, we will be volunteering at our local food pantry. Or serving dinner to hungry veterans. Or traveling to Plymouth, Massachusetts, to support the 50th National Day of Mourning march. Or fasting. Or a combination of these or other experiences.

None of these is perfect. I’m not an expert in how to be the best ally to Indigenous people or movements. I make mistakes. I will admit that my knowledge of the Indigenous people of what is now called the United States is a tiny percentage of what I want it to be, of what it ought to be. I haven’t been as active in movements for Indigenous freedom and reparations as I would like. Like many white settlers, I am afforded the privilege to fall back on how busy I am most days as a reason for not being more involved.

But each day, each year, I am learning more, listening more, and acting on my beliefs and values more, in the ways that I can. And not observing a holiday built on the blood, rape, tears, and theft of a whole population is one way I can. I know it’s not enough, that good intentions aren’t enough, but I have to believe it’s a start.

I’m asking other white people to join me on this journey. I’m not saying you have to give up your family traditions; I’m not saying you shouldn’t give thanks. I am asking you to think. Open your eyes. Be wary. Be skeptical. Stop, listen, and learn.

It’s not about our guilt or tears. Each of us has to make our own decisions, accept our mistakes, and make amends. Maybe this isn’t even the “right” way to go about talking to white people about this type of topic, but we have to start somewhere.

It’s incumbent upon us to do the work, to re-educate ourselves about this history in order to make up for the wrongs of our ancestors, to honor Indigenous people, and to help make the world a better place for everyone.

In the future, I’ll write more about where I started, what I read, and what I do to deconstruct the settler-colonial mindset that decades of historical lies have created. But I still have a lot to learn.