Straight people love a good charity case. They love to put on their finest buckles, armor, and smug expressions and spend all afternoon feeling sorry for those they deem less fortunate than themselves. Never mind that the Native Americans–like the homosexuals before them–were doing pretty well in the first place, without the help of a bunch of straight, white people zooming around Plymouth Rock in their gas-guzzling buggies and building thatched-roof McMansions as far as the eye can see. “Oh, if I could only help them in some way,” Sally Farthington thinks to herself, “If only my fried chicken were good enough–maybe they’d learn to be more like us…” Thanks but no thanks, Dear Breeder.
Oh please, painter of group nationalistic portraits foregrounded by fuzzy buildings and trees: We know this representation is a bold-faced lie. We know, for instance, that chocolate chip cookies were not served to a seated crowd of Native Americans by a Jane Austen character. We know that it would not become fashionable to wear electric blue stockings with green velvet pants (and to cross your legs in such a manner) until 1885, the year of Boy George’s birth. And we also know that Shirley Temple and her dog Sparky most certainly were not the guests of honor at what you so artlessly hail as “The First Thanksgiving.”
I will, however, compliment you, Painter of a Thousand Inaccurate Details, on your fine rendering of male facial hair. The drag kings who read our blog are going to be ecstatic.
And isn’t that, after all, what Thanksgiving is really about?
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