As The Tryptophan Sedates


Turkey is bitter

that’s why there’s cranberry sauce

heaps and heaps of it

to sweeten the taste and make

history palatable


so we’ll be happy

as the tryptophan sedates

the whole family

and we cheer as a pop star

sings the national anthem


and our uncle, the

racist, segways from bashing

activist athletes

to the north bound refugees

who fell from the news-cycle


after the midterms

‘they’ll destroy America’

says our dear uncle

‘no illegal immigrants’

says a cousin, deviled egg


in one hand, whiskey

in the other, losing sight

of the irony

as they proceed to attack

the indigenous people


fighting to protect

everything that sustains life

from the children of

the illegal immigrants

who came here and stole far more


than underpaid jobs

harvesting the nations food,

who came here and stole

this continent, body and

soul, and used cranberry sauce


to help hide the taste

of genocide, a flood of

gravy to help hide

the truth of Plymouth,

stuffing to keep us chewing


so we can’t ask why

Governor William Bradford

accepted their food

then gave the Wampanoag

a Judas kiss. We can’t miss


the next game, Cowboys

play the Redskins, grab a beer

we can focus now

that our racist relatives

are drunk driving themselves home


and part of us cries

for them because it must hurt

to hold so much hate

so much anger, so much fear

and part of us cries because


it took us so long

to realize we’d rather

be breaking bread with

the oppressed instead of the

oppressors, even if they’re


family. We see

now that we’d rather starve than

eat turkey, even

if there are heaps and heaps of

cranberry sauce, even if


there is pumpkin pie,

we’d rather die than honor

this genocidal

folklore, we’d rather die than

celebrate the beginning


of four-hundred years

of war which has stolen names

from tribes and from chiefs

and turned them into aircraft

feared by people everywhere


as they are hunted

the way our founding fathers

hunted nations like

the Apache and leaders

like Black Hawk


and we use these names

in places we send our kids

to both traumatize

and get traumatized, to kill

and get killed, and eat their fill


in the eerily

decorated chow-halls while

watching the Cowboys

play the Redskins, while eating

a lot of cranberry sauce.


The fourth Thursday of

November is no longer

Thanksgiving, it’s a

day of mourning and I

join those who remain, and mourn.


The following is from the United American Indians of New England website:

“Since 1970, Native Americans and our supporters have gathered at noon on Cole’s Hill in Plymouth to commemorate a National Day of Mourning on the US thanksgiving holiday. Many Native Americans do not celebrate the arrival of the Pilgrims and other European settlers. Thanksgiving day is a reminder of the genocide of millions of Native people, the theft of Native lands, and the relentless assault on Native culture. Participants in National Day of Mourning honor Native ancestors and the struggles of Native peoples to survive today. It is a day of remembrance and spiritual connection as well as a protest of the racism and oppression which Native Americans continue to experience.”


Learn more about their website:


About soitgoes1984

I live on a small island in the middle of the Pacific ocean in the Hawaiian Kingdom which is currently illegally occupied by the American government. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
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