Thanksgiving With Enna Mae

“Alright now, y’all settle. Set them forks down. This ain’t gonna take long, but it’ll land where it needs to. I’m gonna tell you a story that a Cherokee medicine woman named Salali told me when I was not much older than some of you young ones. We were sittin’ by the creek, sun droppin’ behind the ridge like God was blowin’ out candles, when she looked at me and said, ‘Enna Mae… white folks remember the feast. My people remember the famine.’ I didn’t know what she meant, so she told me plain.
Before anybody from across the ocean ever dragged a foot off a ship, this land belonged to nations who’d been livin’ here longer than our mountains have been named. Cherokee, Creek, Shawnee, Yuchi, Wampanoag, Tuscarora—more than you’ve heard in school. They lived in balance so steady you could set your watch by the seasons. Then winter came, and with it strangers—cold, lost, starvin’, and scared. The People fed them, taught them how to plant corn, how to stay warm, how to read the ground like a map. There was a shared meal, yes, but that ain’t the story you’ve been told. Salali said, ‘One good supper don’t make up for a lifetime of takin’.’
‘Cause after the feast came the cuttin’ up of land like pie, treaties written in daylight and broken by dark, children hauled off to schools that stole their language, families marched off their own land so far their tears froze on their cheeks. And listen now—this ain’t ancient history. Some of them wounds are younger than the oldest soul sittin’ at this table. I asked Salali how a woman like me, white as washed flour, was supposed to hold that truth without drownin’ in guilt. She said, ‘Guilt don’t help nobody, honey. But a person who refuses to tell the truth is dangerous.’ Then she looked me dead-on and said, ‘You wanna honor the day? Tell the whole story.’
So I am. Here’s what honoring looks like: Remember the first keepers of this land—not in guilt but in respect. Hold the sorrow that still belongs to their families. It ain’t about blame; it’s about witness. Teach your young ones the truth so they don’t grow crooked like some folks did. Quit lookin’ at skin like it’s a mark of worth. We all rot the same in the ground. We all rise the same in spirit. And let me tell you one more thing Salali said, with a smile that cut like a blade: ‘A hateful heart makes cloudy moonshine.’ And by God, she was right. If a man’s prejudiced, you can taste it in the jar—bitter, murky, like somethin’ ain’t been washed right.
So today, before we pass this food, I’m askin’ you to do what she asked of me: ‘Feast if you want. But don’t forget who fed the first feast and who paid the price afterward.’ Alright. That’s it. Now pass the green beans—and for heaven’s sake, don’t boil ’em to death. Truth deserves seasoning.”