Thursday, November 22, 2012

Dreaming of a White Thanksgiving

Greetings from Burro Hall's temporary offices in Massachusetts, where 392 years ago a group of illegal aliens came in search of a better way of life for themselves and their families, which they obtained by slaughtering the holy living fuck out of the rightful citizens of the land, people who were - and we're sure this had no bearing on the arrivistes' sense of entitlement - covered in skin somewhat more brownish than theirs was. As the part-Cherokee heartland philosopher Will Rogers put it:
This is Thanksgiving. It was started by the Pilgrims, who would give thanks every time they killed an Indian and took more of his land. As years went by and they had all his land, they changed it into a day to give thanks for the bountiful harvest.
Four centuries later, the descendants of those victorious illegal alien invaders, currently d/b/a The Batshit-Crazy Nativist Movement, can send out messages like the one we found in the office mailbag this morning:

The fight against the deadly and destructive illegal immigration invasion of America is about to take on a whole new dimension. The invasion supporters are launching offensives in many states that we must stand together against....

The controlled demolition of America is well under way, and while it is very unpleasant to deal with, thank the Lord for those of you who have the mental, emotional, and spiritual fortitude to stand up, speak out, and resist!

So this Thanksgiving, please take the time to relax and to enjoy what is still good in America. Savor the moments of seeming normalcy with your loved ones and reflect upon the fortitude, determination, and faith of the Pilgrims who gave their lives to a cause that led to the creation of America.

And as we give thanks to God for the blessings in our lives this Thanksgiving, let us pray for those among us who have lost loved ones to this invasion, and let us pray that God will guide us, strengthen, defend, and lead us according to His will.

Because the Good Lord has blessed us with an abundant sense of irony, we sometimes forget the unfortunate souls who have none whatsoever. Let us give thanks for the wholesale extermination of a people, and united ourselves against the horror of having to press 1 for English. 

If you're looking for something to distract you from your annual argument with your loony right-wing uncle today, there's a lovely piece in the hometown paper about Jesús Manuel García Yánez, a Mexican-American ecologist trying to piece together the common agricultural legacy of Sonora and the Failed State of Arizona.

“It’s a search for what Tucson used to be,” Mr. García said. “Along the Santa Cruz River, there was a belt of cottonwoods and a mesquite forest. But that’s gone. The water table dropped. For newer generations to try to see that is almost impossible.”

Except for one thing. Mr. García waved down to the flood plain and a new adobe wall that formed a tidy square. Inside was a huerta, a small orchard of the same fruit trees that Padre Kino and his fellow missionaries brought with them from the Mediterranean.

These trees were no mirage: apricots, peaches, quinces, figs, pears, limas (or sweet limes) and pomegranates. Along with a civic group called Friends of Tucson’s Birthplace, Mr. García helped to plant the Mission Garden in March with specimens he scouted himself.

He had found the trees growing next to leaky troughs at border ranches and in the tiny Tucson backyards of elderly Hispanic ladies. How long has that quince been there, he would ask, and what is its story?

“When I became involved about 8 to 10 years ago,” he said, “it dawned on me that Tucson was a sleepy Mexican town like the Mexican towns in Sonora. If you don’t travel to Mexico, you can’t picture what that was.”

It's safe to say there's more common ground here than there was between England and New England 400 years ago. But then of course there's this:

Mr. García returned with a handful of fruit that he had found on a few of the more precocious trees ... and sliced off the top of a glossy golden orb. Allegedly, this was a pomegranate.

Yet there was little resemblance to the red fruit Americans know from the grocery store (generally a cultivar called Wonderful). Inside, the arils, or edible nuggets, were almost white and free or any tartness or astringency.....

The United States Department of Agriculture maintains some 220 pomegranate and 150 quince varieties at repositories in Davis, Calif., and Corvallis, Ore. But the pomegranate curator, Jeff Moersfelder, was hard-pressed to identify a precise match for these fruits. And the department’s quince keeper, Joseph Postman, explained that in the future, DNA testing might reveal whether the pome was a long-lost descendant of old Mediterranean stock.

For America's white Europeans (like us), there's always that hope.

1 comment:

Crazy Rita said...

We all have our own traditions. Today, as we sit down to feast on our slaughtered and gathered goods, we will give thanks to all of our ancestors for giving us this day of vacation. Especially our 12x-great-grandmother, Rebecca Nurse, murdered by her own kind.