Public image, artist unknown.
That familiar voice speaks, clear as morning light through my bedroom window. Usually I only hear it at night, so this startles me. Thanksgiving's coming. What are you going to do?
What do you mean? Uncomfortable, I evade the question.
Come on. About Squanto. Tisquantum.
Silence.
Once you know, you know. How he conveniently spoke English when the Pilgrims were starving.
God is really annoying me. Haven't I done enough? I say. When I lived in Amherst all those years ago, remember, after I found out our town's founder Lord Jeffrey Amherst gave smallpox-infected blankets to Shawnee, Delaware, and Mingo people, I told everybody. Every Thanksgiving dinner. On and on about it, I say, proud to know the names of the tribes.
Oh please. Spare me your resume. Now you know how Squanto had been tricked onto an English ship bound for Spain, where one of Captain John Smith's men tried to sell him. Thank God (that's Me, God chuckles) two Jesuit priests—My people—helped him escape. When he got home six years later his whole Patuxet tribe had been wiped out. How are you going to help with the reckoning?
Listen, God, I say, defiant. We're still trying to reckon with slavery. Not too successfully. And women's abuse. ICE. We can't tackle everything at once.
Joan? God pauses. Then I hear a deep rumble, like thunder growing closer. And there's that unmistakable clear voice. What is yours to do at this time of year?
I feel so guilty. I'm just one person. Plus I recycle, even the smallest bits. I'm a good person.
As if that's relevant. We're talking genocide. Reparations. It's not about you. I'm surprised by you today, Joan. How are you going to step up?
I begin to sniffle
.
Oh, white girl tears. Honestly, did you think I'd fall for that?
Cornered, my sass evaporates. What am I supposed to do? I whisper.
You know, the voice says. Strong and confident.
Do I? I sniff.
Absolutely. Be still and know.
And suddenly I do. My job isn't to preach. God is turning this "Come to Jesus" moment into something more profound, like a parent would. Okay, I say. Since I live in Berkeley I could contact the Sogorea Te' Land Trust. Contribute to their sacred West Berkeley Shellmound, land they miraculously bought, but it's all paved over so they're going to restore. Maybe I can start a national movement for reconciliation, telling stories….
Joan, start with one small thing. Let a movement emerge. You are not the one to lead it. Simply contribute what you can.
Chastened, I ask, God, could I say a prayer?
Sure. As long as you're not simply delaying taking responsibility.
I almost hear God frown, but I plunge ahead. This Thanksgiving, 2025, may more of us acknowledge our true origin as a country. As Maya Angelous said, "If you don't know where you come from, you don't know where you're going." May we do the work to slowly mend ourselves, finding our way back into harmony with the land and each other.
There you go again, Joan. A bit grandiose, don't you think? How about sticking with yourself instead of prescribing for all three hundred forty eight million people in the U.S.? God giggles. Maybe just pay the annual tax the Sogorea Te' Land Trust requests from non-Native people living on their unceded Ohlone land.
I take a deep breath. Okay, keep it simple. Be humble. That's new. I breathe again, then surprise myself by pressing my hands together, bowing my head, and murmuring, Thank you, God, before I write the check.