A Day of Thanks, Or a Day of Mourning?

I'm reading a book right now called Moon of the Crusted Snow by Waubgeshig Rice. 

I think it's a timely novel since, to me, it feels relevant to our current situation: apocalyptic, a slow burn to the end.

But it's also timely because Thanksgiving is tomorrow, and the novel centers on the Anishinaabe community, a group of indigenous people that includes various tribes from the U.S. and Canada. 

Starting in elementary school, we only learn about that first Thanksgiving Day; where pilgrims and Indians came together for a friendly meal. But the origin story of America is largely a myth, and one we only began to question in recent years, and then, only once we reach high school and college.

In reality, the coming of the white people was an apocalypse for the Native Americans. As Aileen, the oldest community member in the novel says; “Yes, apocalypse. We've had that over and over. But we always survived. We're still here. And we'll still be here, even if the power and the radios don't come back on and we never see any white people again.”

For many Native Americans, Thanksgiving Day is a reminder of the slaughter, and displacement of millions of their descendants. Some celebrate the day not as one of thanks, but instead have declared it National Day of Mourning.

Now that my eyes have been opened to what this day represents for so many others, I will celebrate with this in mind. The day has been turned upside down by the pandemic, with no outside family or friends coming, but we will make it a holiday. The change gives us an opportunity to create some new, "woke" traditions, and to take our time together. 

I can remind my family of the people that lived on the land right under our feet (click here to find what tribes were on the land you live on). For my particular area of Ohio that would be the Hopewell, Adena, Shawnee, and Wyandot. I can discuss with my family the Native Americans' struggles as a people, and also the enriching culture that continues on. 

So is this a day of thanks, or a day of mourning? I think it can be both. 

Let's be thankful for all we have, especially during these uncertain, scary times. Let's be thankful for those closest to us, probably the ones right at our dinner table, who we may get irritated and bored by with all this forced togetherness.

Let's not celebrate this holiday only as the anniversary of the Mayflower landing at Plymouth. We should also celebrate by remembering the indigenous people that lived here before. Let's think of them as we give thanks for all we have.

For an interesting article or broadcast on this topic, go to Here & Now on NPR.

Have a wonderful day of thanks and reflection!

Count Alexandre Dumas

 Do you remember The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas fils*? 

It's the story of Edmond Dantés, who is wrongfully accused of being a traitor to Napoleon, and put into prison where he languishes, whilst his life on the outside is also destroyed.

I read it in high school because it was French, it was an adventure story, and written by the author of The Three Musketeers. Full of adventure, drama, and the the human plight of the wrongly accused. But, it was also a morality tale warning how the need for vengeance can warp our own integrity, and endanger one's own soul.  

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   The Black Count is the story of the author Dumas' father who was the son of a black slave and a French aristocrat. He was the inspiration behind all his son's novels, but especially The Count of Monte Cristo. For a biography, it was like a swashbuckling adventure, though at times, it was heartbreakingly sad. There were some boring military logistics and background info that I skimmed over. And at the same time, so many tidbits that piqued my curiosity (like the medical practices of the day-enemas were a daily treatment for some and sperm conservation was crucial matter). 

Here is a concise biography of General Alexandre Dumas: 

Alex Dumas was highly educated in the Paris of the late ancien regime before the Revolution and was a great equestrian and swordsman. He was also a beloved husband and father. 

                                                             Marie-Louise Labouret, his devoted wife                                                             

He started in the lowest ranks of the military, and quickly rose to general, then military governor, then a general leading 50,000 men. His heroics are near-unbelievable. But there are multiple contemporary sources describing his exploits-as well as his humanity. In fact, he was mockingly called “Mr. Humanity” (which sounds much cooler in French), due to his compassion toward his soldiers, prisoners and the people of the towns he "liberated."

Napoleon had an unusual hatred of him, the repercussions of which led to Dumas fils' impoverished childhood.

Why did Napoleon dislike him so much, when he was such an accomplished, celebrated, daring, intrepid soldier?

Well, those are some good reasons right there. But also because of Napoleon's famed hang-ups regarding his height (after all, General Dumas was over 6-feet tall), and the typical penchant dictators have for not tolerating their motives being questioned (Dumas could not help but speak up against injustice and speak up for the values of the revolution that Napoleon was flouting more and more). And, we think Bonaparte was a little racist. 

Dumas was taken prisoner after Napoleon up and left his men and generals overseas. In a

prison in Taranto, Naples, Dumas was treated cruelly for two years, slowly being poisoned,

and with no word to his family in all that time. 

When he was finally released and returned back to France, Napoleon went to great lengths to insure General Dumas' military feats were forgotten and ignored those who pled on his behalf to give him his backpay.

His death a few years later was cruelly slow (stomach cancer) and painful to read about as

he prepared his family for it and watched as Napoleon imposed cruel race laws in France, reinstituted slavery in the colonies, and made sure any black who wore an officer’s uniform was killed, or captured.

His family was shunned and penniless,

Alexandre, the author, only four years old.

Alexandre Dumas fils wrote: “You see, Father, I haven’t forgotten any of the memories

that you told me to keep. From the time I could think, your memory has lived in me like

a sacred lamp, illuminating everything and everyone you ever touched, even though

death has taken it away.”

               *fils, after a French name, differentiates son from father