Rewriting Tradition
Yellow Arrow Publishing is excited to announce our first guest editor for Yellow Arrow Journal, Taína, who will be overseeing the creation of our Vol. VI, No. I issue on cultural resurrections. Taína is a proud Higuayagua Taíno writer on a mission to reclaim her indigenous Taíno culture and write her people back into existence with the same tools colonizers used to erase them. Connect with her at www.tainawrites.com or on Instagram @tainaconcurls.
Please follow us on Facebook and Instagram for the theme announcement at the end of this month. Below, you can read Taína’s perspectives on rewriting traditions.
By Taína
Originally written November 2020, updated February 2021
Our first Thanksgiving in our new home was in 2019, down the block from my brother. My family of four’s geographical shift tipped the family balance 5:2 in Baltimore’s favor, beginning what we thought would be a new tradition of having my parents over for Thanksgiving at our house. This year (2020) only proved us partly wrong.
For most of us, 2020 has been downright dystopic. A pandemic has taken over 400,000 Americans and has rewritten every aspect of life down to our most time-honored traditions. Bridal gowns are now designed with coordinating face masks. Birthday songs are sung through Zoom. Hugging now expresses a deeper intimacy, while avoidance has become a love language. Halloween was hollow and Thanksgiving thinner than ever, all to the tune of being gaslighted by those who insisted their right to celebrate supersedes life itself.
If I’m being honest, I’ve never really liked Thanksgiving. It’s always been more of a day built on resentment than gratitude. As a child, before I knew the Pilgrim and Indian story was a fabrication, I resented the long boring day of tortuous aromas that would fill me up long before they were tasted, so I could never eat as much as I wanted. As a teenager, I resented Mount Saint Dishmore waiting to be handwashed after the meal. These resentments were only aggravated when I discovered the first Thanksgiving was really a post-victory celebration of the massacre of 700 Pequots right in the middle of their Green Corn Festival. The year I found out about how Lincoln decreed the first official Thanksgiving should be scheduled one month to the day before the anniversary of the hanging of 38 Dakota warriors—the largest one-day mass execution in American history, I skipped it altogether.
I chose a man whose indifference toward the day was so synchronous with mine, he agreed to get married on Thanksgiving. We intended to rebrand it all together and secure a perpetual excused absence from having to celebrate at all, though we missed the fine print that said the pass didn’t apply to young children missing their parents on a day most people spend with their families.
As a person who has experienced the extreme erasure of being forced in school to memorize the names of the ships, but never once being taught the name of the people those ships carried into slavery (except that Columbus accidentally called them “Indians” and it stuck), despite being named after those people, I couldn’t understand why my family wanted to celebrate Thanksgiving at all. Along with the knowledge that Indigenous people don’t celebrate anything with gluttony and food waste, let alone following it up with a hunger game of shopping on Black Friday, I have no shortage of reasons to despise this day. So the irony was not lost on me, when last year, after a lifetime of resisting and resenting this day, the torch was passed on, and to me—the most unlikely Thanksgiving host in our family.
My reaction was equally ironic. I was just as surprised as anyone else to discover myself researching how to fold cloth napkins into pumpkin shapes and cooking multiple dishes, but the realization that the days of default gathering at my childhood home were over, made me eager to impress my parents. Yes, I wanted to reassure them we would thrive here, so close to my brother, in our new city, but it was more than that. I wanted to let them see that they had shown me how to keep the torch lit.
I found myself wishing my grandmother could see her daughter relaxing with mulled wine, instead of her usual solo marathon of cooking, while her children and grandchildren collaborated to serve her. I imagined the room filling with my ancestors. I could almost hear the generations of grandmothers proudly boasting to one another, “She gets that from me.” My brother, by far the most superior meat smith in the family, made the Thanksgiving turkey and the pernil; my mother brought her arroz con gandules all the way from New Jersey. There was stuffing and cranberry sauce, potatoes, and desserts. I’d even incorporated an Indigenous dish. I couldn’t get over how proud my ancestors must have felt watching us, and all at once, realization struck. The story they might have told us about this day was a lie, but all of the sufferings my ancestors endured was the origin story of the meal we were sharing. Just by gathering, we were writing the sequel. The one where the Indigenous return and thrive.
My 2020 table has not escaped estrangement. My parents are too high risk to travel, especially as out-of-state visitors. Still, I found myself surprisingly more grateful than I’ve ever been before. Despite the year’s trials, the torch is still burning and our story continues.
I am grateful that the empty spaces at my table are by choice and not by tragedy. My parents have already received the first dose of the vaccine, and I am grateful for the advancements in medical science without which we would be experiencing devastation at bubonic proportions. I am so excited by the promise of what reunions will feel like after such long separations, that the quiet winter holiday celebrations felt more precious than any of their predecessors.
I am grateful for the voices of the Indigenous who recently made themselves heard more loudly than ever. This next Congress will see more Native representatives than ever before in history, and there has even been an Indigenous appointment to our new Presidential Cabinet.
Most of all, I’m grateful to share this story in this space, because as a Taíno woman, I wasn’t even expected to exist, let alone write about it.
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