Thanksgiving

Wait. We cannot break bread with you.

You have taken the land which is rightfully ours. Years from now, my people will be forced to live in mobile homes, on reservations. Your people will wear cardigans, and drink highballs. We will sell our bracelets by the road sides, and you will play golf, and eat hot hors d'oeuvres.
My people will have pain and degradation. Your people will have stick shifts.

The gods of my tribe have spoken. They have said "do not trust the pilgrims. Especially Sarah Miller".

And for all these reasons, I have decided to scalp you. And burn your village to the ground.