Being an honest, yet enthusiastic American requires the ability to consistently integrate the pretty, mythic narratives that our nation holds dear with the always more complicated and often very ugly truth of our American story. Like my experience of George Washington’s birthday, some American Indians refer to the Thanksgiving I celebrate as a National Day of Mourning. And with good reason.

Far away from the fables we learned as schoolchildren, the truth is that Pilgrim “settlers” came onto a land that had already been “settled”: corn planted, fields cleared, seeds stored, winter provisions gathered. The Pilgrims were beneficiaries of a disease epidemic, likely smallpox, that had killed as many as 95% of the Indian population by the time they arrived. Squanto decided to join with the newcomers because his tribe had been decimated by illness. It didn’t end well for our first host.

Still I love Thanksgiving. I love celebrating the idea of mutually beneficial cooperation. I love celebrating the understanding that when we all pull together, we can succeed in transformation, often against all odds. And I love Thanksgiving for the good will in the air, seeing people taking the time to serve those less fortunate and the smells of traditional Thanksgiving feasts.

My emotions are mixed. I celebrate today. I acknowledge the Pilgrim tenacity and perseverance. But I also remember, honor and mourn the Indians who died as America was forged.