The Deserted Bandwagon

Author: MATT KUNZWEILER

Thanksgiving has to be the most depressing of the American holidays - and not just because of the awkward dinner conversations and general gluttony. I can't ignore the central irony surrounding the holiday: the Native Americans went out of their way to feed uptight, outcast whitey - who was starving and shivering - only to give him enough energy to scourge the continent over the next few hundred years. Now as a holiday, Americans take the day off, spend time with their families and give thanks - thanks for the native people's unparalleled generosity, which unwittingly fueled atrocity.

And what a holiday it has become. In many homes, up to four generations of suburban Americans will gather around the table and "give thanks" for five seconds - "rub-a-dub-dub thanks for the grub" - and proceed to thoughtlessly gorge themselves on genetically modified edibles, wear turtleneck sweaters, attempt painful conversation, swig down Pabst Blue Ribbon and boo the Redskins as they play the Cowboys (that's right, soak in the irony of that gridiron match-up for just one second).

Don't get me wrong - the United States is a comfortable place and I'm by and large a fan of this whole freedom thing. But Thanksgiving goes to show that this culture, like any other, is able to take a national disgrace and then marinate, batter and garnish it until it resembles wholesome family fun.

If you agree that this modern version of the holiday is strange and wrong, try imagining the very first Thanksgiving - the one that initiated this whole tradition. You know it was a dud. And you know it was the fault of the Quakers, who obviously had no idea how to party. Just look at their clothes. Those sanctimonious stiff-collars would've refused even a harmless jig, fearing the fire-and-brimstone consequences of merriment. Their brittle digestive systems probably couldn't have handled spicy corn, fermented juice, poppy seed muffins or anything else worth a laugh or shag. And if you were uptight and named Mortimer, you know you'd be jealous of a flashily-dressed guy named Thunder Stag who could dance with such fury that he could shake rain from the clouds.

No wonder the settlers were envious of the locals. They were out-dressed and out-partied.

Sadly, today the holiday has become focused on celebrating the culture that backstabbed the native one. I'm an American citizen, but this is the seventh consecutive Thanksgiving I've spent in Canada, out of principle (which - yes, I know - does have its own Thanksgiving in October… and this somewhat compromises my anti-Thanksgiving gesture… but regardless, I refrain from celebrating Thanksgiving in either country). So I go to Canada and I eat sushi for dinner. I listen to reggae. I drink cheap Australian wine. No turkey, no turtlenecks, no pigskin.

I'll admit that my alternative version of the holiday is by no means constructive or genuine - but at least I get sushi and an undeserved sense of self-righteousness.