by C. McCraw
As long ago
as the nineteen sixties
I was an elementary school student.
Every November
the teachers ladled out the story
of the first Thanksgiving.
We did reenactments.
The cafeteria ladies prepared a feast
and we dressed as Pilgrims or Indians.
I always opted to be a Pilgrim.
My mom provided a black blouse,
long black skirt and white apron
and in class we made headpieces
with construction paper.
Bands around the head for the Indians
with construction paper feathers,
bonnets for the girl Pilgrims,
from a pattern of paper
held together with Scotch Tape
and Elmer's Glue.
Now, as a single adult,
I visit friends
for Thanksgiving meals.
I am grateful to God
for the lavish spread,
the conversation, laughter
and glow of candles
from the centerpieces.
But, I'm nostalgic for
the simple story
I learned at ages nine and ten
that omitted the aftermath
of that first feast,
the diseases the Pilgrims brought,
the bloodshed and fights
for territory,
the driving of the Native Americans
into reservations.
I've long had an adult understanding
of sorrow and gray shadows, but
once upon a time
Thanksgiving was
a tale for children,
as black and white
as the Pilgrim costume
I used to wear
for my first
Thanksgiving feasts.
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