My kindergarten Thanksgiving.
It was 1985. My teacher, Miss Alexander said all the boys had to be Indians but gave the girls the option to be Pilgrims or Indians. Pilgrims wore funny looking bonnets. Indians had war paint on their faces and wore fringe and feathers. It was a no brainer. Call me Chief Valerie.
I sat at the table, using my safety first pink scissors, cutting the edge of the paper sack to replicate fringe. I was excited to put the feather in my hair and represent my kindergarten tribe during this Thanksgiving. When I heard giggles and pots banging together, I gazed over near the play carpet where we often had free time. The Pilgrim girls were done with their outfits and bonnets and could play with the kitchen set.
Oh, the devastation!!!!
It must have been an eternity that I was staring at the Pilgrim girls in their happy frolic, because Miss Alexander charges across the room, grabs my arm and leans in my ear to yell at me in a loud whisper, “get back to work!!!”
She hurt my arm. I hung my head, cutting my paper sack with my safety scissors with tears rolling down my cheeks.
I was a sad little Indian.