November 22: "Learning About the Indians," Complete Fiction, Thanksgiving Truths

A Mary Oliver poem to keep in mind tomorrow . . . 

Learning About the Indians

by:  Mary Oliver

He danced in feathers, with paint across his nose.

Thump, thump went the drum, and bumped our blood,

And sent a strange vibration through the mind.

White Eagle, he was called, or Mr. White,

And he strutted for money now, in schoolrooms built

On Ohio's plains, surrounded by the graves

Of all of our fathers, but more of his than ours.

Our teachers called it Extracurricular.

We called it fun.  And as for Mr. White,

Changed back to a shabby salesman's suit, he called it

Nothing at all as he packed his drums, and drove,

Tires screeching out of the schoolyard into the night.

In this poem, Mary Oliver is drawing attention to how we have dehumanized Indigenous cultures in this country.  White Eagle is playing a part for Oliver and her classmates.  Wearing feathers.  Painting his face.  Beating on drums.  It's a show.  A pageant that has little to do, probably, with who he really is.

Most of what my generation was taught about tomorrow's holiday was complete fiction, as well.  The peaceful feast between the pilgrims and Indigenous peoples at Plymouth colony is a myth created to whitewash (literally and figuratively) the truth.  Here are some real truths about Thanksgiving:  the Wampanoag people weren't even invited to that first feast; the Wampanoags had encountered Europeans previously, and some of them had actually been to Great Britain and spoke English fluently; the Wampanoags were ravaged by diseases brought to the "New World" by European colonizers; in their first encounter with the Wampanoag people, the pilgrims stole from their winter provisions; Europeans repaid their Indigenous allies by usurping their lands and imprisoning, enslaving, and executing their Native "friends"; the "thanksgivings" that were celebrated after the first one often occurred when Europeans massacred Native peoples, one such celebration including the beheading of the Wampanoag leader Metacom in 1676; finally, Indigenous peoples were here at least 12,000 years before America was "discovered" by white Europeans.

Those are some of the truths about Thanksgiving.  I didn't learn them from the construction-paper Thanksgiving pageants of my elementary school years.  My guess is that not too many people sitting down to their turkeys and mashed potatoes and stuffing and pumpkin pies tomorrow are aware of these truths, either.

Don't get me wrong.  A day set aside for giving thanks is a good thing.  A sacred thing.  But we shouldn't dress up that day with fables, exaggerations, and out-and-out lies.  Most of us live on lands stolen from Indigenous peoples.  Those lands were acquired by violence, disease, and false promises.  So, give thanks tomorrow, for your family, friends, and abundant blessings, not for the fairy tale of the first Thanksgiving.

Me?  I will say a prayer of thanks that I've survived another year.  That my wife and children are healthy and happy.  That there is food to eat, clothing on my back, and warmth in my home.  And I will honor the memory of loved ones absent from the table tomorrow evening.  My parents and brother and sisters who I've buried in the last seven or eight years.  

I made a pecan pie tonight.  It was my mother's favorite.  It's now my son's favorite, too.  

Those are the truths of Saint Marty's Thanksgiving this year.

February 20: Good Grief, Good Friend, Good Jazz Leaps

And now Ford Prefect must somehow break the news to Arthur Dent that he's a hitchhiker on a flying saucer and going "home" (back to Earth) isn't really an option . . . 

"Yes," he agreed with Arthur, "no light."  He helped Arthur to some peanuts.  "How do you feel?" he asked him.

"Like a military academy," said Arthur, "bits of me keep on passing out."

Ford stared at him blankly in the darkness.

"If I asked you where the hell we were," said Arthur weakly, "would I regret it?"

Ford stood up.  "We're safe," he said.

"Oh good," said Arthur.

"We're in a small galley cabin," said Ford, "in one of the spaceships of the Vogon Constructor Fleet."

"Ah," said Arthur, "this is obviously some strange usage of the word safe that I wasn't previously aware of."

Ford struck another match to help him search for a light switch.  Monstrous shadows leaped and loomed again.  Arthur struggled to his feet and hugged himself apprehensively.  Hideous alien shapes seemed to throng him, the air was thick with musty smells which sidled into his lungs without identifying themselves, and a low irritating hum kept his brain from focusing.

"How did we get here?" he asked, shivering slightly.

"We hitched a lift," said Ford.

"Excuse me?" said Arthur.  "Are you trying to tell me that we just stuck out our thumbs and some green bug-eyed monster stuck his head out and said, 'Hi fellas, hop right in, I can take you as far as the Basingstoke roundabout?'"

"Well," said Ford, "the Thumb's an electronic subetha signaling device, the roundabout's at Barnard's Star six light-years away, but otherwise, that's more or less right."

"And the bug-eyed monster?"

"Is green, yes."

"Fine," said Arthur, "when can I go home?"

"You can't," said Ford Prefect, and found the light switch.

"Shade your eyes . . ." he said, and turned it on.

Even Ford was surprised.  

"Good grief," said Arthur, "is this really the interior of a flying saucer?"

Another long day of packing and pitching at the medical office where I work (for the time being).  Packing up medical charts.  Pitching Christmas trees, holiday decorations, and old manuals.  With the help of a good friend/coworker, I managed to eliminate much that would have filled up my garage and sat unused in boxes for years.  It was both depressing and liberating, in a way.  Depressing because 20 years of my life went into trash bins.  Liberating because I allowed myself to let go of items that were sad reminders of my sister.

Let me explain something about my sister:  she was kind of a hoarder.  She never threw anything away.  (My dad was the same way, but he had an excuse:  he grew up during the Great Depression.)  Therefore, I'm not sure that my sister would have been on my side today as I dumped and ditched and discarded.  When I found something that reminded me of my sister, I held it for a few moments, said a prayer of thanks for the good memories it evoked, and then placed it in the trash bag and let it go.  (My friend/coworker taught me to do this, and it helped a great deal.)

Slowly, but surely, I am seeing the life that I've led in this place disappear.  I can do nothing to stop this process.  It will happen with or without me.  Therefore, I must find moments of joy in my day, whether it's discovering some artifact that reminds me of my sister, which happened a lot this morning, or attending my son's dance open house, which I did this afternoon.

Yes, I was once again at the dance studio, this time for my son's jazz class.  I watched him stretch and kick and leap.  In between, he'd look over at me, wave and smile.  It made the difficult parts of my day recede, like waves after a rainstorm.  It was a perfect conclusion to a not-so-perfect Thursday.  Watching my son do something that he really loves filled the empty cup of my heart.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for good friends and jazz leaps.

January 6: Walt Disney, Finalist, Prayer of Thanks

...And there was also his collection of, affectionately kept, handwritten notes from fellow artists much more famous than himself.  His favorite, because it took him back to a happier time during his childhood, was the note Walt Disney had sent him back in 1935, when, at the age of thirteen, he submitted some funny-animal drawings and gag ideas on the chance that he could go to work for the Disney studio, then making a new kind of animated, feature-length film called Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.  A form letter turned him down, but a few lines had been added, which said, "Keep in touch and keep it up, your work is swell!  Walt Disney."  Ives showed the note to all his friends and passersby, as they walked by his stoop, the mild praise had him floating for weeks.

Edward Ives is a very humble man.  An artist by trade, he ekes out a decent living as an advertising man (not the Mad Men kind).  He's a family man.  A religious man.  His greatest joys are his wife and children.  Of course, he had dreams of being famous--the next Walt Disney or modern-day Raphael.  Yet, he never realizes those dreams.

Like Ives, I've had dreams of being a successful artist since I was very young.  I was an avid reader.  Loved writers like Dickens and Frost and Tolkien almost from the time I could check books out of the library.  I used to sneak into the adult section to read biographies of Lon Chaney and Walt Disney.  (I checked out a huge tome called The Art of Walt Disney several months in a row so that I could memorize images and facts.  That book featured a page with photographs of a topless model posing for men with sketchbooks.  I was seven or eight at the time.)  I loved the limitless doors opened by writers, and I wanted to count myself among their ranks.

Today, I found out that I am one of the top five finalists to be the next U. P. Poet Laureate.  I am totally stunned.  I was happy simply making the top ten.  Now, there is a remote possibility (very remote) that I could actually win.  My mentor and friend, Beverly Matherne, is also in the top five.  So, now, until March 16, I wait and do interviews.  Of course, there's going to be a big reveal on the local Public Radio station.  And I will have to sit there and pretend to be happy when I lose.  I need to practice my I'm-so-happy-somebody-else-besides-me-won expression.

But, for tonight, I'm going to be thankful and happy.  I am in the running for a very big honor.  (My friend and fellow nominee, Beverly, called to congratulate me this afternoon.  She said, "No matter who wins, you are the best poet in this group."  It was such a lovely compliment.)  And my sister who's in the hospital is doing much better today.  She won't be ready to come home for a while yet, but she's on the mend.  That's something to be thankful for, as well.

So, tonight, I say a prayer of thanks for being recognized as a poet/artist, and also for my sister's improving health.  God is good.  (My daughter agrees with this statement, too.  She just found out that school's been cancelled for the third day in a row.  She's headed for an almost three-week Christmas vacation.)  In the midst of the chaos and confusion of this world, there is happiness and hope to be found.

Saint Marty is happy and hopeful tonight.

September 9: Attention Please, Good News, Prayer of Thanks

Suddenly a voice was heard on the loud speaker.

"Attention, please!" it said.  "Will Mr. Homer Zuckerman bring his famous pig to the judges' booth in front of the grandstand.  A special award will be made there in twenty minutes.  Everyone is invited to attend.  Crate your pig, please, Mr. Zuckerman, and report to the judges' booth promptly!"

The best things in life come as surprises.  Mr. Zuckerman learns that lesson at the end of the book.  Another pig has taken home the blue ribbon at the Fair.  Failure has settled over the Zuckermans and Arables.  And then, the voice on the loud speaker.

I sat down in my office today to do some school work.  As usual, I checked my university e-mail before I started into the tasks at hand.  In my e-mail was a message with the memo line "Your submission to The MacGuffin."  Here we go, I thought.  Another rejection.

It wasn't a rejection.  Two of my poems were accepted by the poetry editor, and the other three are still under consideration for the Fall 2014 issue of the magazine.  I will admit that I read the message.  Then reread it.  Then reread it again.  Then I stood up in the middle of my office and danced a little bit.

It was a surprise.  And it was wonderful.

Tonight, I send out a little prayer of thanksgiving.  I was feeling tired, maybe a little defeated.  I'm still battling my bronchitis.  Yet, I am happy tonight.  Really happy.

For that, Saint Marty gives thanks.

Oh, yeah.  I've got some moves.

May 28: Maya Angelou

Today, poet Maya Angelou died.

My wife and I had the privilege of seeing Ms. Angelou speak two times.  She was an amazing person, and the world will be a slightly less beautiful place without her.

I will say no more.  I'm going to let Maya Angelou speak for herself.

Saint Marty's going to say a little prayer for her this evening.  A prayer of thanks.